Bachelor Boys (10 page)

Read Bachelor Boys Online

Authors: Kate Saunders

BOOK: Bachelor Boys
6.6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
With a shaking hand, she reached for a glass of water and took a careful sip. “Darling, would you get me down some books? I need inspiration. And let's have a cup of tea.”
Phoebe kept a precious library of cookery books on a shelf in the kitchen. I handed her Elizabeth David, Jane Grigson and a venerable Marguerite Patten whose pages were spotted and stuck together. Purring with contentment, she flipped through these while I made a pot of Earl Grey. For the next half-hour, we drank tea and talked about food.
“You're much better than you think, you know,” Phoebe said. “You have the makings of a really fine cook—all you lack is the confidence.”
The last rays of the setting sun poured through the kitchen window. Phoebe shaded her face with a hand that was almost transparent.
I asked, “Shall I pull the blind down?”
“Oh, no, darling. Thank you. I like to feel it. Don't you love this glorious weather? One beautiful day after another!”
And I couldn't help thinking that these sunny days, and the flowers she loved, were coming back in their best clothes to delight her one more time.
No, I couldn't bear this—the sense of approaching grief that would swell my heart until it burst out of my chest. I focused determinedly on a wicker basket, resting on the floor beside the sofa. I saw that it was crammed with bottles and jars, each one neatly labeled in Phoebe's jagged handwriting.
She saw me looking at it. “That's for my cousin Molly,” she said. “She's coming for the weekend.”
“From Edinburgh?”
“Yes, isn't it nice of her? I can't wait to catch up.” Phoebe was animated. Catching up with the doings of other people was meat and drink to her. Her curiosity was as endless as her sympathy. “I packed the basket this morning, while I was feeling lively. I wanted to send her back with a few of the things she likes.”
I pulled the basket across the floor toward me, knowing she wanted it admired. “Don't tell me—marmalade.”
We both smiled. Phoebe's marmalade had a cult following.
“They all seem to like it,” she said.
“That's because it's the best marmalade in the world. I think Matthew fell in love with me on the strength of your marmalade.”
“Did he? You must take some home with you—they're at the bottom of the pantry. Perhaps I'll leave you the recipe in my will.”
“Thanks,” I said, deliberately echoing her lightness of tone.
“I'm giving Molly my recipe for damson chutney. She was always mad about it.” Phoebe smiled to herself, as if satisfied, and I suddenly saw what she was doing. Why hadn't I seen it before? Fritz and Ben often complained that their mother wouldn't stop exhausting herself by inviting legions of friends and relations to stay with her. But these were her good-byes. No one left her empty-handed—there was always some kind of gift or keepsake.
Again, you wonder why I didn't burst into tears. It was only possible to be brave because I was doing it for Phoebe. My job was to keep up the pretense that normal life went on. I knew that Phoebe noticed my efforts, and appreciated them. She wanted to be in the world, and of the world, for as long as possible.
But the sorrow lay on my heart like a slab of stone and I couldn't always work round it. I went home that night in a taxi, laden with three jars of marmalade, a cardboard box containing a large and rather tarnished silver candelabra, a damask tablecloth scented with lavender and a bunch of late tulips from the garden.
My poky, cluttered flat seemed particularly empty and forlorn. Matthew was out with his clients. Loneliness washed over me. I put my head down on the kitchen table, beside Phoebe's jars of marmalade, and cried.
M
atthew loved dinner parties, which made it all the more strange that he was so difficult about mine—and that was before I had mentioned that I was inviting the Darlings.
He put his reservations in the form of a polite cross-examination. “You think you should hold it here?”
“Well, yes. Where else would I hold it?”
We were in my flat. He had at last made it round for one of our intimate evenings. I had made a huge effort not to be slipshod, but I was on edge. Matthew only wanted to talk about the “impossible” hours he was working, and he appeared not to have brought a clean shirt.
“And where would you put everyone?”
“The big table in here. It'll easily take six.”
“You don't think we'd be rather a tight fit?”
“No.”
I spoke confidently, to overcome my own doubts. True, my flat wasn't exactly the ideal setting for a romantic dinner party. I'd bought the place five years ago, with money grudgingly coughed up by my father. It was a small upper maisonette in Chalk Farm, filled with dilapidated cast-off furniture. I had applied one coat of paint upon moving in, and done nothing since. There were far too many books and not enough chairs.
But I knew I could easily bring it up to scratch. My books and papers could be moved to the tiny second bedroom. I could deploy lamps and cushions to mask any shabbiness. And Matthew had never minded my place before.
“I see,” he said. He sighed to himself. “It might be fun, I suppose. Who were you thinking of asking?”
“I thought Hazel Flynn.”
“Ah, yes.” Matthew had met Hazel, and liked her. “But not if she brings that ghastly man who plays his sax on the tube.”
“Actually, she's single at the moment,” I said artlessly.
“Thank God for that.”
“And I wondered about Elspeth Dunbar. I liked her so much when we met.”
“Elspeth?” For the first time, Matthew showed some animation. He even smiled. “That's a great idea. I'd love to socialize with her more, but it's difficult when she's on her own.”
“Ask her when she's free.”
“She's always free.” Matthew paused, and I could see that he was checking the idea for flaws. With professional contacts, every detail had to be perfect. “You'll need to find some men, though—we can't just fill the table up with girls. Do you happen to know two single men?”
This was my cue. “Fritz and Ben Darling.”
“Oh.”
“They're both single at the moment, and they both love being charming over a dinner table.”
“Do they?”
I was annoyed that I had stooped to lying, and so soon. “Look, they're both perfectly presentable. And if we're going to ask Elspeth and Hazel, we need two presentable bachelors. It's either the Darlings or Steve and Gavin.” Steve and Gavin were cousins of Matthew's, perennially single and both hideous.
Matthew chuckled savagely. “Point taken.”
“Come on,” I said, “I thought you'd be pleased. You said you wanted us to entertain more. As a couple.”
“Oh, yes.” He sighed again, and looked at me with sudden kindness. “You're awfully nice to do this, darling. I'm sorry I'm a bit distracted. Blame it on the job.”
I nestled into his shoulder. “Okay.”
“I might as well sleep in that bloody office.”
“Never mind,” I murmured. “Soon it'll be summer, and we'll be in glamorous Salzburg, wallowing in unlimited sex and Mozart.”
Matthew laughed too heartily at this, and his next utterance didn't quite answer me, as if the record had jumped forward. He didn't want to talk about our holiday.
“You're sweet to be so understanding, Cassie. Be patient with me. I'm having to put my entire outside life on hold.” He paused. “For instance, I won't be able to make it up to Cheadle next weekend.”
“We'll do it another time, when you're not so frantic.” I spoke lightly, hiding my dismay. Weeks ago—months ago—he'd decided to introduce me to his parents. I had assumed this visit would be the precursor of his formal proposal. But Matthew hadn't mentioned it for ages, and now he was telling me it was off. And I was suddenly sure that the proposal was never going to happen.
Matthew had stopped wanting to marry me. When had this happened? And why? I couldn't do anything about it now, but suddenly knew that the icy wind of change had blown a frost over all my dreams. I had been holding myself together with a vision of our sheltered future. I didn't realize, until now, how I'd been counting on it. The thought of facing life without this happy vision was frightening. My fear made me stubborn. I would ignore my instincts. I was going to cling to Matthew until he blew me off with dynamite.
Beside me on the sofa, Matthew withdrew his warm body. He stretched and yawned.
“I think I'd better get home,” he said. “I've got a conference call at practically dawn.”
I wasn't at all surprised that he was leaving. He hadn't brought a clean shirt. He'd never intended to stay.
“Of course, darling. You need a good night's sleep,” I said tenderly.
It's not only the guilty party who has to tell lies.
 
Next day, ignoring the birds of ill omen that were hovering over my romantic life, I invited Hazel to my dinner party. She e-mailed back within half an hour.
TWO single guys? What's wrong with them? Never mind, I'm coming anyway. XXX
Matthew e-mailed later, to tell me that Elspeth would be delighted to accept. My dinner party was on, which meant that I could proceed to the next stage—clothes. I took it for granted that neither Fritz nor Ben had the slightest notion of how much work needed to be done in this department.
Shay and Puffin were in the office that day. During the tea break, I asked them for sartorial advice. True, Shay mostly shambled about in various musty garments covered with stains, and Puffin tended to sport shapeless upper-class things made of cavalry twill, but I trusted them to know more about the philosophy of men's clothes than I did. (I'd meant to ask Matthew, but didn't have the nerve when I'd just puffed the Darlings as perfect dinner guests.)
Shay asked, “What do they normally wear?”
“Jeans, and variations thereon.” I was prompt. “T-shirts and sportswear. Fritz has some flashy shirts, and Ben has a rather seedy velvet jacket.”
“Flashy and seedy,” Shay mused. “Not good words, if you're trying to set them up with nice girls. Any suits?”
I had to think about this one. “I'm not sure. I seem to remember that they appeared in quite decent suits for their dad's funeral. But that was six years ago.”
There was a silence, as everyone in the office, including me, thought of how the boys would need new funeral suits only too soon.
“A suit without a tie's a good bet for an informal dinner,” Puffin offered. “How much money do they have?”
I didn't know. Later, when I was supposed to be adding a dash of sparkle to my piece about the magazine's founder (like trying to add blood to a turnip—the man and the article were both deadly), I rang Phoebe.
“Give me your bank details,” she said. “I'll pay some money into your account.”
“Mine? Why not theirs? Don't you trust them?”
“Oh, of course. But if I give the check to Fritz, it'll all be swallowed up by his overdraft. And you know Ben's talent for losing things—he's had so many passports, I'm sure the authorities must think he's an international
con artist. I'm afraid you'll have to go shopping with them and do the actual paying for things on your card.”
“Hmm. They're not going to like that.”
“I'll beg. That usually works as a last resort.”
She must have begged hard, because Fritz called that afternoon, to book me for shopping on Saturday.
“I'm rehearsing in the morning,” he told me, “but it's right in the West End. You and Ben can meet me afterward.”
“So this fringe thing of yours is really going ahead?”
“Certainly.”
“And what's the play?”
Fritz sighed heavily. “Not chosen yet. We're still at the stage of chucking beanbags at each other. I just hope to God it's something that makes me look good—I've already written a groveling note to that agent. She's a terrifying old lesbian, but maybe it's time I got an agent who doesn't fancy me.”
“She's only interested in your talent, then?”
I heard Fritz chuckle. “My last agent is her worst enemy. She'll do anything to put one over her.”
“Fair enough. See you on Saturday, then.”
“Okay—but I'm warning you now, Grimble, you'd better behave yourself.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Don't try to dress us up like Matthew. We're far too young and sexy.” I pondered this later. Naturally, I had been using Matthew as my model. But when it came to the point, I simply couldn't see Fritz or Ben in Matthew's boxy gray suits, cautious ties or tasteful chinos. Oh God, where did young, sexy men buy their clothes? I seemed to have lost the language of the young and sexy. Were my own understated clothes as dull as Matthew's? Why was I dressing as if middle-aged? Bloody hell, I was only thirty-one. Youth couldn't be over yet. I had decided that Matthew and I made the Darlings seem shallow and immature. I realized now that actually, Ben and Fritz made me and my boyfriend look like a pair of boring old gits.
Deep down, beneath all the accumulated layers of respectability and achievement, something inside me was protesting.
Ben had started working with his Welsh tenor, and was inclined to be superior about Fritz's unpaid fringe production.
“You know why this director wants Fritz so much?”
“I expect he fancies him,” I said resignedly.
“Oh—did he tell you that?”
“He didn't have to. In the professional theater, men get treated just like women do everywhere else. And if Fritz was a girl, he'd have blond hair and gigantic boobs.”
“Wow,” Ben said. “What would I have?”
We were making our way down the side street off Tottenham Court Road where Fritz was rehearsing. It was another radiant day—Phoebe's weather. I studied the flat, grimed façades of the houses anxiously. They all seemed to belong to wholesale dress companies.
“I think I'd be a brunette,” Ben said. “My boobs would probably be rather small, but I like to imagine they'd be firm. Pert.”
“Ben, what on earth are you talking about?”
“If I was a girl.”
“Oh.” I decided not to respond, to discourage him from going off on one of his riffs. “This seems to be it.”
There was a large, dingy hall down some steep, dingy steps. A notice stuck to the scuffed wooden swing door said, QUIET! REHEARSAL IN PROGRESS! Ben and I crept in respectfully. Somehow, the notice made us creep elaborately, as if we had been instructed to act it out.
But when we tiptoed into the hall, we found that the company had finished for the day. Ten or so people were bunched around a trestle table, all shouting at once. Propped against the wall behind them was a blackboard, upon which was written, EMOTE/REPRESS. A skinny young man, in sweatpants and a singlet, was handing out cups of Starbucks coffee.
Everyone wore sweatpants and singlets, as if heaving coals or training for a marathon. Ten resounding RADA-trained voices bounced off the bare walls. The noise was extraordinary. Nobody turned round, or even noticed us.
Fritz stood a little apart from the others, staring moodily at the blackboard. He was the only person not talking.
“Cassie? Oh my God, it is! Cassie Shaw!”
I turned to see an absolutely stunning woman coming toward me. She had masses of gleaming black hair, legs up to her chin and magnificent, gravity-defying breasts.
“Oh shit,” I whispered. “Felicity Peason.”
I had not laid eyes on this goddess since we were at school. Peason was our Class Bitch (every class has one, it's almost an official position). Beautiful, cruel, power-mad Felicity Peason had blighted my school career for a decade. Annabel and I had hated her with a passion. Only recently, we'd wondered if we could ever hate anyone that much again.
Poor Annabel suffered more than I did. Being tall and soft and dreamy made her particularly teasable, and Peason's bitching had given her intense pain. When we were eight, Annabel and I heard that if you buried a person's name, that person died. So (kindly helped by Jimmy) we buried Peason's name in the tomato patch—not really believing it would work, but enjoying the thrill of revenge. Despite the inevitable disappointment of finding her alive and well the next day, Annabel said it had felt nearly as good as committing a genuine murder.

Other books

The Pentrals by Mack, Crystal
Kill Zone by Loren D. Estleman
Other People's Baggage by Kendel Lynn, Diane Vallere, Gigi Pandian
Love Unmatched by Leigh, Anne
Extinct by Ike Hamill
Something Is Out There by Richard Bausch
Taming Mariella by Girard, Dara
Hillerman, Tony by The Fly on the Wall (v4) [html]