A Surrey State of Affairs (20 page)

I think the weekend has achieved its aim. I am better equipped to cope with little Erica’s—the granddaughter of Harriet and Edward—christening next weekend. If Bridget can be happy with no children, two bonsai trees, and a career, I too can be happy with my lot.

As if to reinforce the point, Jeffrey greeted me at the station with a lovely bouquet. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He doesn’t normally buy me flowers except when he’s trying to make up for something, like the time he spilled his Bloody Mary on my Burberry trench coat. As far as I’m aware, none of my clothes has been inadvertently soiled recently. But spring is in the air,
I suppose. And underneath that slightly stern exterior, he does have a kind, even a passionate, heart.

  
TUESDAY, APRIL 15

Once again, a visit from a troubled-looking Reginald. I could tell something was amiss from the way he kept hooking and unhooking his thumbs through the belt loops on his chinos even as he stood on the doorstep. When he came in and sat down, the wisps of hair he pulls back across his flaking scalp flopped down over his eyes. He peered out through the graying strands like one of the rare breeds of long-haired sheep they have at the county fair. “Reginald, dear, whatever is the matter?” I asked.

“Two things,” he said, patting his hair mournfully back into position.

“David has decided he’s a Scientologist. And St. Mary’s is being investigated by the Health and Safety Executive.”

I didn’t know what to say, or which piece of news was worse. I once watched a
Panorama
documentary on Scientology, which seemed to show that it was a mad cult filled with mad Americans wearing sunglasses who went even madder if anyone called it a mad cult. My only uncertainty is whether health and safety inspectors are as deranged as Scientologists. Reports in the newspaper would suggest that they are.

I comforted Reginald that it was doubtlessly just a phase that David would grow out of, and that I would help him complete the necessary “risk assessment” form for bell ringing.

  
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 16

Bell ringing last night. Miss Hughes’s skirt has shrunk another three inches, revealing knees as thick and fleshy as a joint of ham. It was too much for Gerald, who bolted out of the belfry
before the last note had sounded. I stayed late, however, to help Reginald with the form. Under the section “What are the hazards?” we wrote:

Ringers may hold on to rope for too long, be hoisted off the ground, fall, and die.

Ringers may be deafened by cacophony.

Ringers may be trampled by Gerald.

Ringers may choke on biscuits at break time.

Ringers may be thumped by Miss Hughes’s handbag for failing to keep time.

I thought we should whittle it down a little, but Reginald was adamant that honesty was the best policy. Underneath the section “What are you doing to minimize risk?” we wrote:

Praying.

Underneath the section “What more could be done to manage risk?” we wrote:

Ringers to use common sense and, perhaps, ear muffs.

I hope that will do.

  
THURSDAY, APRIL 17

Dear readers, I have done something rash.

Tanya came around for lunch today, but she hardly touched my homemade onion quiche with green salad, merely pushing forkfuls of food back and forth across the plate and sighing. I thought that perhaps I had oversalted the pastry, but it turned out there was an even worse explanation. She and Mark are going to lose the house. Pushing her lengthening mousy hair behind her ears, she explained that they were mortgaged to the hilt; Mark’s bonuses had gone to pay for the wedding, the Porsche, the all-inclusive holidays to Sandals in Jamaica and luxury chalet trips in Méribel, the tailored suits and Jimmy Choo shoes. He had blown his redundancy payout on online gambling. Given the
recent fall in house prices, they were in serious negative equity; repossession loomed. I stifled a small gasp of horror. Tanya’s parents live in a flat in Billericay, Mark’s in a flat in Spain. Neither is a suitable abode for a mother-to-be. I hadn’t realized their situation was so dire.

I wanted to rail against Mark for his selfish irresponsibility, but something about the flat, resigned look in Tanya’s eyes told me not to. She said that Mark had lost a stone from worry, while she could not stop comfort eating and had gained one, which she claimed was far too much weight at this stage of her pregnancy. She was distraught. Tears fell from her eyes, but this time there was no mascara to wash away. Readers, there was only one thing I could do. I invited her and Mark to stay for as long as it takes them to find their feet.

I hope Jeffrey doesn’t mind.

  
FRIDAY, APRIL 18

I am still waiting for the right moment to tell Jeffrey about Tanya. He was in a bad mood when he got in last night—something to do with the share price of an Icelandic bank—so I didn’t feel it was wise to raise the subject. Perhaps the christening of our little grandniece will cheer him up. I bought her a silver piggy bank; growing up in the North, I’m sure she’ll learn to hoard her pennies. We leave for York as soon as he’s back from work tonight, with Rupert in tow. Harriet just called to check that we were all set, with a gleeful flutter in her voice.

I will not be jealous.

I will not be jealous.

I will not be jealous.

I will not be jealous.

I will not be jealous.

I will not.

  
SATURDAY, APRIL 19

I am jealous. There is no point in lying to you. I am horribly jealous, from the top of my head, where this morning’s blow-dry has now gone askew, down to my cream heels, dip-dyed in mud. This is a terrible thing to say, but at one point I wanted to slap Harriet’s pink, glowing face. It was a perfect day, warm spring sunshine, branches of cherry blossom waving in front of the pretty church where the ceremony took place. Afterward there were glasses of champagne in a marquee nearby, Harriet flitting to and fro with a camera, little Erica a perfect plump-cheeked bundle in a little lacy white dress, kicking her feet in her little white booties. Harriet picked her up and carried her about like a trophy. By the end of the afternoon my cheeks were starting to hurt from the enforced smiling, so I made my excuses and came back to the hotel, leaving Jeffrey discussing golf swings with Edward.

As I sit here, squinting at the computer in the dim-lit hotel lobby, my only comfort is this. I watched Rupert closely as he chatted to the guests, who included a large group of young women in pretty dresses. He was quite at ease in their company, laughing and chatting. I couldn’t tell from my vantage point if he was flirting, but he clearly wasn’t intimidated by female company. Perhaps he is overcoming his shyness. Perhaps it will not be so long until I too have a wedding, then a christening, to organize.

  
SUNDAY, APRIL 20

What a to-do. I knew I should have told Jeffrey about Mark and Tanya sooner, but I was waiting for the right moment. Family get-togethers always seem to put him in a bad mood, so the weekend was not opportune. And how was I to know it would happen like that?

But I’m getting ahead of myself. We finally got home last night after a five-hour drive from the North via Milton Keynes, during which Jeffrey showed off his manly, indomitable spirit by driving consistently at three miles per hour over the speed limit. Once home, no sooner had Natalia helped us with our bags and put the kettle on than the doorbell rang. We were both puzzled. Could it be Reginald, with another health and safety form to fill out? It was not.

When I opened the door I was confronted by the sight of Tanya and Mark—still wearing his stockbroker braces—surrounded by boxes, with a hunted look in their eyes. There was a screech of tires as their taxi rushed away down the road. I thought better of asking what had happened to their Porsche. Trying not to panic, I welcomed them in and asked Natalia to help with their things while I rushed over to Jeffrey, who was striding down the hall to see what the fuss was about. I quickly whispered to him the gist of the situation, and he turned portcolored. Luckily, however, he is well bred to the point that it is usually impossible to tell what he’s thinking.

Once they were settled in the guest room, I whipped up a few omelets for dinner, which we ate in silence. I would have asked Natalia to cook, but she kept staring mutinously at the new arrivals and saying “I not understanding.” Neither did Jeffrey. Neither, really, did I.