A Surrey State of Affairs (35 page)

Rupert paid a visit today.

“So, you know your birthday dinner?” he began. “It’s just a small thing, isn’t it, family only? Low-key?”

I reassured him that it was, deciding to see where he was going
before I mentioned Mark and Tanya. Then he said the words that I have been waiting a good six years to hear.

“Is it okay if I bring someone?”

Of course it was. Absolutely. Oh, yes. Feel free. Was it a friend that he wanted to bring along, I asked searchingly.

“A partner,” he said, after a pause. “Called Alex.”

Not just a friend, or a girlfriend, but a partner! It has such a formal ring to it that I wonder if a ring of a different sort might soon be in the reckoning. John Lewis currently stocks some very elegant hats. I think puce would be a suitable color.

I told Jeffrey, clutching my hands together with glee and staring deep into his eyes to see his own surprise and joy register. He said, “Mmm,” then went upstairs.

Still no word from Natalia, nor sign of a replacement, but frankly I am too excited about Rupert’s news to care about the cobweb I spotted just above Jeffrey’s paper shredder.

  
MONDAY, AUGUST 4

I wonder if Alex is short for Alexandra, which is a lovely, regal-sounding name. Alexandra Harding rolls off the tongue rather nicely. Or could it be Alexis? I think that’s Greek. I hope she shaves her armpits, at the very least for her wedding day.

  
TUESDAY, AUGUST 5

Just back from bell ringing. When I got to church, I found Reginald limbering up outside, swiveling his arms like a windmill, stretching out his legs by placing first one foot and then the other on top of a gravestone. He is taking the contest rather seriously.

During the break, after Reginald had delivered another rousing speech on change we could believe in, I invited everyone along to
my birthday dinner on Friday. I couldn’t help myself. The prospect of finally seeing my son’s new girlfriend was too much to resist. Gerald took me to one side and asked if I was sure he was invited, if it might not be a little awkward after last time, but I reassured him that he was more than welcome. Three days to go!

  
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 6

What, I wonder, should one wear when one is meeting one’s son’s girlfriend for the first time? I would like to appear elegant yet approachable, attractive but not fussy, sophisticated but not pretentious, chic but not French—ideally, a cross between Helen Mirren and Jodie Foster, with just a hint of Catherine-Zeta Jones. I will try the John Lewis in Kingston upon Thames.

6 P.M.

I’m back, and I think I have the perfect outfit: a navy silk dress with cream polka dots, from Joseph. It fits snugly around the cleavage, with just the right degree of décolletage (about a twentieth of Tanya’s), then skims flatteringly down to the hemline, which is just below the knee. With low heels and a cream cardigan it will be perfectly smart, but not too formal. I do hope it will make Jeffrey say “phwoar,” just once. I walked in front of the sofa to ask Sophie what she thought, and she said, “Yeah,” then I turned the television off and asked her again. She stared at me for a few seconds and then said it made me look like Samantha Cameron, which I took as a compliment.

  
THURSDAY, AUGUST 7

One day to go! I got my hair done—a trim and recolor—then went to Church Flowers, where I invited everyone along. I just called the restaurant and luckily they were able to extend the booking—luckily it’s the holiday season and they’re quiet.

I wonder if she’s blond or brunette. Plump or skinny. I wonder how old she is. I do hope she’ll be wearing a dress too. I’ve told Sophie to be nice and friendly to Alex when she meets her—who knows, one day they might be sisters—but she just laughed and went to her room. She had better buck up tomorrow.

  
FRIDAY, AUGUST 8

Fifty-four today. Jeffrey left early this morning without so much as mentioning my birthday. I do not know what, if anything, he is playing at. It is not as if I were holding out for a breakfast tray bearing smoked salmon, freshly squeezed orange juice, and an orchid in a miniature vase: a simple acknowledgment would have sufficed. He can hardly have forgotten, given the number of times I have reiterated the arrangements for dinner tonight.

I suppose I must draw consolation, of sorts, from the other members of my household. Ivan surprised me with a mink muffler: an extravagant gift, though one of limited use during the average Surrey summer. Still, I found myself mollified to the extent of ignoring the empty pickle jars he left strewn in the conservatory this morning. Sophie gave me a set of shot glasses. Heaven only knows why.

A satisfying bundle of cards arrived on the doormat, including one from Rupert. It was a typically tasteful design, a sketch of irises—my favorite flower—on thick cream card, though the message inside was more emotive than usual: “Happy birthday, Mum, and remember I will always be your loving son, Rupert.” Perhaps it is Alex’s feminine influence exerting itself!

3 P.M.

Good Lord. Once more, I must ask myself: what is Jeffrey playing at?

A few moments ago, there was a knock at the door. By the time I opened it, I could hear the scrunch of a large vehicle easing off the driveway, and there on the porch stood a cage, entwined with ribbons, containing a large and scrofulous mynah bird.

There was a gift tag attached. It read: “An old bird for an old bird. Love, Jeffrey.”

To think that only hours ago I was yearning for some signal that he had remembered my birthday.

I carted the creature into the conservatory. Its rheumy eyes, wizened talons, and hunched, malevolent demeanor remind me of Miss Hughes. Darcy is puffing up his feathers and fluttering his wings in an unnecessary display of superiority.

  
SATURDAY, AUGUST 9

I feel sick. And not just from the brine pickle juice that Ivan insisted I drink as a time-honored Russian hangover remedy.

No, it is the events that prompted me to turn to Jeffrey’s brandy last night that account for my current nausea, palpitations, inner darkness, and distress.

I can’t bring myself to tell you what happened. I just can’t.

For all my faults, I do not think I am a bad person, or a negligent mother. What did I do? What didn’t I do?

If only I had let Jeffrey buy him that model battleship.

  
SUNDAY, AUGUST 10

This is not an easy blog to write. It has taken eighteen hours of lying in a darkened room, twelve vials of Bach Rescue Remedy, and three hours of counting the feathers on Darcy’s left wing to feel composed enough to start.

Little did I know when I began my little online diary on a frosty New Year’s Day that I would eventually be using it to
announce that my son, my very own Rupert, was—enough. I’m getting ahead of myself.

Friday evening began well. I put on my new dress and took more than usual care with my hair and makeup, borrowing a raspberry-colored “lip stain” from Sophie. Ivan wolf-whistled as I came downstairs, even if Jeffrey was too busy tying his tie in the hall mirror to notice my appearance.

Jeffrey, Ivan, Sophie, and I arrived at the restaurant in good time. The bell-ringing contingent was already there. Gerald presented me with a lovely bunch of delicate yellow roses; Miss Hughes, a tin of lemon sours. Edward and Harriet gave me a pretty set of gardening tools with an old-fashioned floral pattern on the handles. Pru from Church Flowers gave me a hardcover edition of the new Queen Victoria biography, no doubt a token of her appreciation for the fact that I set Ruth up with David, thus ridding her house of patchouli oil.