A Rural Affair (16 page)

‘Popular fiction,’ she sniffed, as the book made its way round to her. She regarded it distastefully. ‘I thought we were going
to do something a bit more thought-provoking?’

‘It’s only popular because it’s good,’ Jennie pointed out. ‘If it didn’t work, no one would buy it.’

‘The Beatles were popular,’ Angie reminded her. ‘And they were completely brilliant.’

‘Yes, but they were easy listening,’ insisted Sue. ‘Just as this is easy reading.’

We all fell silent; slightly shamed.

‘Does it have to be difficult to be good?’ I asked, miles away, actually. I’d been wondering if Luke had a ghastly mother
and sister; I couldn’t cope with that again. In-laws were so important.

‘No, it has to be difficult to be exclusive,’ said Peggy with a small smile. There was another silence.

‘So.’ Angus stood up, rubbing his hands. ‘That’s all settled, then. Splendid. I’ll pop into town and get another eight books
and post them all through your letter boxes tomorrow. Now, Peggy, what about opening that other bottle of wine? It’s like
the Gobi Desert in here!’

Everyone got to their feet. Angie and I passed around smoked-salmon nibbles and the wine flowed, the noise level growing as
people chatted, relieved the rather formal part of the evening was over. Indeed, before long, a veritable drinks party had
ensued and even Sue looked slightly mollified, especially since Simon was chatting politely to her; but then
Sue’s family – aside from the Jardines – were the grandees of the village, Sue’s father being a local judge, and Simon did
need an awful lot of pukka support to ensure selection.

‘But will you live in the village?’ Sue was asking him earnestly.

‘My family lives in Wessington.’

‘Yes, I know, but will you buy here yourself?’

‘Oh, I’d love to, and fully intend to do that, just as soon as I can,’ he assured her.

‘And just as soon as he’s elected, he’ll treat it as a holiday cottage,’ Luke told me quietly. ‘Where do you live, Poppy?’

‘Just across the road.’ I pointed through the bay window. The drizzle had abated and the dark night had gathered softly outside
the glass. I was feeling rather warm and happy now. The wine was flowing through my veins and I was amongst friends; some
old, some new, hopefully, I thought, looking into Luke’s greeny-blue eyes, liking the way they matched his jumper. But I wasn’t
too far from home: not too unsafe.

‘Pretty,’ he said, presumably referring to my cottage, but very definitely looking at me. ‘Will you stay there, d’you think?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said, surprised. ‘At least, I think so. It’s the children’s home and we love it.’ It hadn’t crossed my mind to
move. It had always been the only thing about my marriage I’d loved. My dear little house, having my friends close by, Jennie
next door. It was my compensation for Phil. But Phil wasn’t here any more and now it occurred to me that I didn’t have to
cushion myself against him. It also occurred to me that with the money I was about to inherit, I could easily sell and buy
somewhere bigger, even prettier. Would I want that?

‘I just wondered if you’d want a new start,’ Luke said carefully. Kindly, though. Not artfully or nosily, I decided.

‘I might,’ I agreed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But a new start doesn’t necessarily involve moving house, does it?’

‘No,’ he concurred. ‘It doesn’t. It can mean all sorts of things.’

‘And it’s not as if I need to move. Not as if, geographically, I’m surrounded by too many fond memories and need to get away,’
I said, thinking as I spoke. ‘I’m sure many widows have that problem.’

He regarded me carefully. ‘I like that about you, Poppy.’

‘What?’

‘The way you tell it like it is. No flannel.’

I thought about this. ‘I think that’s new,’ I told him. ‘I think I’ve spent the last six or seven years not telling it how
it is. Particularly to myself. Living a bit of a lie to accommodate others.’

‘You mean, to accommodate your husband?’

‘Yes, Phil, but ultimately the children. Mostly the children. Who wants to rock a boat that’s holding what we love most?’

‘So … d’you think you’d have ever left him? If he hadn’t – you know …’

‘Died?’ I sighed. ‘Who knows? I’d certainly fantasized about it. Fifty ways to leave your lover and all that. But I’d never
actually considered doing it.’ I shrugged. ‘The two are very different things.’ I smiled. ‘And I’ve always been a bit of a
wimp. What about you, Luke? What are your family commitments?’

‘Oh, I’ve just got a mum and a sister.’

My smile froze.

‘Not that I live with them, or anything. I’ve got a flat in town.’

‘Good, good,’ I said, horribly unsettled. ‘And are you … close to them? Ring them twice a week? Sometimes more? Bring them
with you to choose soft furnishings, sofas?’

He frowned. ‘God, no. My sister, Nicky, is far too busy. She works for
Vogue
, and Mum wouldn’t know a soft furnishing if it hit her. She lives in a hotel in Monaco, mostly.’

‘Excellent!’ I breathed. I liked the sound of the Chambers women.

‘My dad encouraged Mum to live in style before he died. He had this theory that – blimey, what’s that?’

Sadly this fascinating insight into Luke’s exotic family – where did the organ fit in? – was cut short by a rap on the window.
We all swung about to behold Sylvia, Angus’s wife, glaring in furiously. Her spectacles were glinting ominously, her steel-grey
perm rigid. Angus went pale and instinctively hid his wine glass behind his back. She disappeared and then the doorbell rang,
long and shrill. We all stood about like naughty children as Peggy, who’d gone to get it, could be heard placating her at
the door.

‘Yes, I’m sorry, Sylvia, we
are
running a bit late.’

‘But you’re not even reading! Or even sitting in a circle! Just standing around gossiping like you’re at a cocktail party.
I rang the doorbell, twice!’

‘Ah yes, first meeting, though, you see. Just swapping ideas. Batting them about, to and fro. And we thought a relaxed environment
would be more conducive.’

‘Hello, darling, how lovely. Did bridge finish early?’ This, from Angus, in a strained voice as he hastened to greet her at
the door.

‘No, it did
not
finish early. Our rubber finished dead on eight as usual. It’s you that’s late, Angus. I thought you were going to put the
baked potatoes in for me!’

Other admonishments were lost in the stiff autumn breeze. As the front door closed behind them, Sylvia’s angry voice could
still be heard as she frogmarched Angus down the road, past the pond and across the street towards home. We caught her drift,
but not the finer nuances.

Peggy came back and immediately crossed to draw the curtains with a flourish. ‘Foolish of me not to have done
that
before,’ she remarked. Then she turned to face us, hands on hips. ‘Now. Who’s for a sticky?’

‘A what?’ Jennie frowned.

‘A sticky. You know, Calvados, Drambuie, that sort of thing. What about you, Pete?’

‘Er, well, I’m not convinced I’ve ever had anything like that before,’ Pete said, palpitating nervously. ‘This Muscadet’s
nice, though,’ he said, pronouncing the t.

‘Ah, but then you’ve never joined a book club before, have you?’ Peggy murmured, slipping down onto the sofa. She patted the
space beside her. ‘Come. Sit.’ He obeyed, as if in a trance. ‘So many firsts in one evening. Oh, sorry, Angie, were you sitting
here?’ She moved to accommodate her irate friend, who’d clearly been usurped, having nipped to the loo to refresh her lipstick.
Peggy perched on the sofa arm instead. Lit a cigarette.

‘Pete here was telling me earlier that he’s got a furnace in the back of his Land Rover.’

‘Well, of course he has; he’s a mobile farrier,’ Angie said testily.

‘Frightfully mobile, I should think.’ Peggy looked him up and down appreciatively.

‘Was Sylvia livid, Peggy?’ Angie asked nervously. Angie sat on the parish council with Sylvia; she was also very much on the
same dinner-party circuit.

‘A bit, but she’ll live.’ Peggy flicked ash in the fireplace. ‘Must get terribly hot in there,’ she murmured to Pete. ‘In
your Land Rover. Very cosy.’

‘Well, I’m not actually in it much, except for driving. And the furnace isn’t on then, of course.’ Pete was looking pretty
hot and flustered himself.

‘No, no, of course not. And what else d’you make, Pete? Apart from shoes? With your furnace? I say, aren’t your thighs enormous?
It’s a wonder you can squeeze them into that armchair. You were saying?’

‘Um, w-was I?’ Pete blotted his perspiring forehead with his cuff.

‘Yes, about what else it is you make. Aside from horses’ shoes.’

‘Oh … well, I do the odd bit of iron railings and the like. But it’s not on a regular basis. More one-off commissions, that
type of thing.’

‘Iron railings, do you really?’ Peggy’s eyes widened. ‘D’you know, I was just thinking the other day I was bored with the
white picket fence outside my house and could do with some darling little railings there instead.’ Her smoky-grey eyes gazed
innocently into his. ‘You couldn’t pop round next week and give me a quote, could you? Gone down the wrong way, Angie?’ She
turned to pat her friend on the back. Angie, who appeared to be having a coughing fit, shot her a blistering look and stormed
off to get a glass of water. Once she’d gone, Peggy laid a hand on my arm.

‘I say,’ she murmured, nodding towards the other side of the room, ‘Jennie’s having a nice time, isn’t she?’

I turned to see Jennie, at the far end of the room by the French windows, talking to Simon. He was standing with one hand
resting on a beam above her head, leaning in
towards her as they chatted. Jennie’s cheeks were flushed, and as she threw her head back and laughed at something he said,
it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen her look like that for a long time. Hadn’t seen her look so pretty. It also occurred
to me that I’d been incredibly dim.

‘She’s infuriating!’ Angie stormed the next morning when she and I popped round to Jennie’s for a cup of coffee and a post-match
analysis. ‘She’s like some ghastly
Carry On
character: how hot is your furnace, Pete? Do you ever take your shirt off, Pete?’ she mimicked. ‘I mean, honestly.’ She sank
down in a heap at Jennie’s kitchen table. ‘I thought: any minute now she’ll be feeling his biceps!’

Jennie and I exchanged a guilty glance. After Angie had left early – in a bit of a huff, it has to be said – there had been
a bit of bicep comparing. Quite a few people had rolled up their sleeves in a bid to compete with Pete’s monumental brawn.
But, in our defence, we had all been terribly drunk, what with Peggy’s Calvados slipping down a treat and not having had any
supper apart from a few meagre bits of smoked salmon. It had all got faintly giggly. Possibly out of hand. Angie had missed
quite a party.

‘Peggy just gets a bit overexcited,’ I assured her, trying not to recall the arm-wrestling match between Peggy and Saintly
Sue, with Pete as referee, the rest of us cheering them on. Sue had turned out to have quite a wild side. Blonde hair askew,
pale blue eyes on fire, a button of her already overstretched shirt popping undone, she’d slammed Peggy’s arm down on the
table then punched the air, roaring, ‘Yes!’ Her halo definitely hitting the deck. Luke, hooting with laughter, had swept her
into his arms where she’d clung like a slug, planting a smacker on his lips. As I say, we were all very tight.

‘Yes, but if anyone’s allowed to flirt with Pete, it’s me; he’s my farrier,’ Angie said petulantly. ‘She’s supposed to fancy
Angus.’

‘Peggy flirts with everyone,’ I soothed, recalling how strangely watchful Peggy had been as Angie had flounced out. ‘Good,’
she’d observed to me quietly, taking a thoughtful drag of her cigarette. ‘Important to save Angie from herself sometimes,
don’t you think? Nice to see her having a bit of fun, but we don’t want her making a complete fool of herself.’ I’d blinked
in surprise. A bit of me had even wondered if Peggy had a master plan going here; if this seemingly frivolous book club she’d
organized for her friends had a deeper design. One which made us turn around and take a close look at ourselves, at our motives.
Before I had time to reply, though, Peggy had disappeared down to the other end of the room, where she was busy organizing
a team game which involved popping a coin down a shirt and jigging about until it appeared from trouser leg or skirt, then
passing it on. Simon’s coin
would
keep getting stuck on the way so Peggy was instructing him in the fine art of helping it along. The porcelain expert’s face
had been one of pure delight, and as Peggy threw her head back and roared, I’d thought: no, no master plan. Unless it just
involved getting her friends laughing again.

‘Simon was nice, wasn’t he?’ mused Jennie, cradling her mug and gazing out of the window, a distant smile on her face. ‘Remember
him hopping around on the sofa, trying to dislodge the coin?’

‘What coin?’ said Angie grumpily.

‘He really loosened up,’ Jennie went on distractedly. ‘His family home is in the next village, that’s why he’s standing for
candidacy round here. He stayed there last night. He loves this part of the world. “My little corner of England” he calls
it.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘In fact he said he might not wait to buy a cottage, might rent and commute into town.’

‘Why isn’t he married?’ demanded Angie. ‘He must be over thirty. He’s not gay, is he?’

‘There’s someone he never got over, apparently. He’d known her for ages, first girlfriend and all that, and they were going
to get married a few years back; they were engaged and everything, but she kept postponing the wedding. It turned out she’d
fallen for someone else. He told me all about it. I really liked that about him,’ Jennie observed. ‘His lack of guile. The
way he didn’t try to build himself up. Some people wouldn’t have mentioned they’d been ditched but he’s not like that. He’s
a really nice man, actually.’

We digested this quietly. ‘Bit smooth for me,’ Angie sniffed eventually, disingenuously too, I thought. She’d done quite a
lot of hair-flicking when she’d talked to Simon. She made a pious face and helped herself to the percolator.