Cuckoo (37 page)

Morning was a long time coming. It crept up on them sullenly, with rain. Charles' eyes groped open, and for one brief, unacknowledged second, she saw terror and embarrassment flick over them, like secret pictures on a broken screen. Then he quickly slipped away from her, and she heard him run the taps, full blast, upstairs; soaping her away in a penitential cleansing rite, washing off her body, her blood, in an anniversary bath.

She stumbled to her feet and retrieved the stained wad of Kleenex, stuffing it back between her legs. She had still not fetched her Tampax, nor even glimpsed the sofa. So, what had she returned for? To be fucked by Charles? She slumped back down again. True, it had been wonderful, burst through all the rules and leapt new barriers, but Charles had already locked away the night like a dangerous aphrodisiac, to be swallowed only in life-and-death emergencies, and with the key in his safe keeping.

The drawing-room looked alien, like somebody else's house. It seemed to have swelled and stiffened in her absence, all its contents rigid and exalted, lowering down at her, as if she were a scratch upon their stern perfection. She stared around the room – everything so permanent and solid – furniture which had survived the centuries and increased its value at the same time. Stiff-spined chairs glared back at her, brass-footed bureaux pursed their lips, gaunt-eyed ancestors shrugged and turned away. There was no sign of welcome, or even recognition, no joy in her return. The house was always tidy, but at least when she was there, she added little touches to soften it or brighten it, ephemeral, insubstantial things which perished in a day – a bowl of cherries, a vase of fragrant pinks … But flowers and fruit had all been swept away. Now there was only highly-polished emptiness.

The doorbell cut across the vacuum. She started. Ned? No, Ned never wished to set eyes on her again, not after the things he'd said last night. Postman, gasman, Harrods delivery van? She jumped up guiltily. You couldn't deal with Harrods, sprawled on the floor wearing nothing but a nappy. She pulled on an old raincoat hanging in the passage and sidled towards the door, trying to stop the Kleenex slipping. Mrs Eady was standing on the step, gawping in disbelief at her employer's bare feet and tangled hair.

‘Oh, so you're back,' she said accusingly. ‘Good holiday?'

‘Yes … thank you,' murmured Frances. ‘You don't usually come on Saturdays, do you, Mrs Eady?'

‘Not unless I'm asked,' snapped Mrs Eady. ‘And not even then, unless I'm a fool. Which I must be.'

She was laden with shopping. Frances glimpsed steaks, nectarines, double cream – a Charles-and-Frances shopping list. There were also new potatoes, parsley, peas. God, not peas! She turned away.

‘Brenda's coming later,' Mrs Eady announced, plonking her hat on the kitchen table and surrounding it with lemons.

‘I beg your pardon?' Had Charles shacked up with another girl already, summoned Mrs Eady to lay on a lover's feast?

‘My daughter – the one that cooks. And don't say you won't be needing her, now you're back. How am I supposed to tell her that, when she lives in Epping and isn't on the phone?'

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Eady. I don't quite understand. I've only just returned.'

‘You been out like that?' asked Mrs Eady, her pale eye fixed on Frances' unbuttoned raincoat which revealed a lot more than bare feet.

‘Well, no, but …'

‘Oh, I suppose your husband hasn't told you yet. Well, he's expecting company tonight and asked me to help him out. My daughter cooks, you see. Fancy stuff. She's got exams an' all. Dinner for three, he said.'

‘Three?' Had Charles invited Ned, arranged some terrible confrontation with him – dinner before their duel? Ridiculous. Couldn't she think of anything but Ned?

‘The foreign gentleman's bringing his wife with him. She phoned yesterday – I took the call myself. Couldn't hear a thing. Dreadful phones they got in Jersey.'

‘Oh, I see.' Jersey. Oppenheimer. The anniversary dinner with Mr and Mrs Millions. The man she had blamed for the illegitimate child she wasn't even carrying. No baby, no Ned, no future. But steak and double cream, courtesy of Brenda. Polite cocktail-party conversation, when their whole world was changed, their entire marriage hanging in the balance, calling out for re-negotiation. Charles divided into four, and she left with only a superficial quarter of him, a polished facade, when she needed him whole, real, and undistracted.

Mrs Eady had donned her overall and was already gouging eyes out of potatoes. Frances murmured her excuses and limped upstairs, slowed down by her bottleneck of Kleenex. Charles had locked the bathroom door. She knocked, but got no answer. He hated being disturbed halfway through his toilet, before he was public and immaculate.

‘Charles …'

‘Can't it wait?'

‘No.'

He was listening to ‘Record Review' on Radio Three, rival recordings of Bach's
St John Passion
. Reluctantly, he turned down the soprano. ‘What, darling?'

‘Charles, you've got to cancel the Oppenheimers.'

Silence.

‘Charles, did you hear?'

‘Yes, darling.'

So he was flinging in a few darlings, was he, to celebrate their anniversary.

‘Well, will you do it, or shall I?'

The taps were running now again, at top C, outsinging the soprano.

‘Just a minute, darling. I don't like discussing things through bathroom doors.'

Oh, a touch of humour now, to spice the darlings. Any tactics, so long as they prevented that crucial conversation, stopped them sitting down and facing each other alone across the table, with no guests and no disguises, not even any music.

She was still waiting for him when he emerged, all traces of the Persian rug purged away. She followed him into his dressing-room, switched off
St John
.

‘Listen, Charles, we've got to be alone today. Our whole marriage is at stake, our future. We can't just carry on as if nothing's happened.'

Charles frowned at her reflection in the mirror. ‘Of course not, darling. The Oppenheimers will be gone first thing tomorrow. We'll discuss it then – all day, if you like.'

‘No, Charles, now. This is real life, not a shareholders' meeting. We can't just postpone things, like ‘‘business carried over''. We've got to discuss it while it's actually happening. I've come back. That means something, doesn't it? If we don't talk now, I may not be here to talk to.'

Charles dropped his comb. She could see that he was nervous. ‘It'll be easier tomorrow, Frances, on our own. We can't really talk with Mrs Eady here.'

‘Well, get rid of her, then. We don't need her now the Oppenheimers aren't coming.'

‘They are coming, Frances.'

‘No.'

‘Look, darling, we've been over all this already. I told you at Croft's why I couldn't put them off, and now it's even more impossible, the very day they're travelling. Do be reasonable.'

‘It was entirely different then. I thought I was pregnant. Now I know I'm not.'

‘I should have thought that made it easier.'

‘Oh, really? And what do you know about …?'

‘Look, Frances, I'm sorry about the pregnancy.'

‘Of course you're not sorry.'

‘What I mean is, I'm sorry you're sorry.'

‘And who says I
am
sorry? Have you even bothered to …'

‘Frances, you're upset. Of course you are. I do understand. It's rotten luck we can't be on our own today. But, it is only a day. It's hardly fair to let your period disrupt everybody else's plans. The Eadys, the Oppenheimers – they've all got lives as well, you know. You can't just bulldoze everyone because it happens to be day one instead of day thirty-six.'

She winced. He was right. She was trampling over everyone again, being selfish, boorish, totally unreasonable. Ned had yelled at her last night, and now it was Charles' turn. Somehow, she couldn't stop herself, or didn't even want to. Some foiled, frustrated part of her wanted to shout and storm. It was almost desperation. She was like one of those roly-poly Russian dolls, which could only rock and wobble from side to side, since they had no legs or feet. If she couldn't stand on her own, at least she must keep bouncing back, bumping into everyone. Better than lying down and giving in, letting Brenda and the nectarines take over. She jumped up from the window-seat, and stood face to shoulder with Charles in front of the mirror.

‘Day one, is it? That's wonderful. Fancy you remembering! We really ought to celebrate. A Day One Party. Death of a Baby Party. Of course we'll have Oppenheimer. He'd love it. He loves celebrations – you told me so yourself. All this would never have happened without him, anyway. I'll ring him up this minute and ask him to come early, stay the whole week, if he wants, bring his wife, his sisters, his secretaries, his race-horse trainers – anyone he likes …'

She glimpsed two faces grimacing in the mirror; distant, contorted faces, nothing to do with her and Charles.

‘Frances, you're hysterical. You'd better go and lie down. This baby thing has obviously upset you.'

‘Oh, no, it hasn't. I'm thrilled about it! I told you, I want to have a party, a proper one. Not just two guests, two hundred. I refuse to spend my anniversary lying down.'

‘Frances, please. How can we have a party at this late stage? We haven't even planned it. I've only bought steak for three.'

‘Who needs steak? Or grouse, or nectarines, or all those other fancy foods your fancy friends were weaned on? Let them eat bread and cheese for a change. It'll do them good! We'll have a bread and cheese party in our dressing-gowns. Wouldn't that be fun, Charles?' The smaller face was jeering in the mirror. It couldn't be hers – she didn't mock and snarl like that, or wear dirty, faded raincoats beneath lank, unwashed hair. She turned her back on the reflection and strode towards the bedroom. ‘You shift the furniture – we'll need a hell of a lot of room. I'm going to phone every friend we've got!'

She pounced on the prim grey phone by Charles' bed. ‘Viv? Hello, darling. It's our wedding anniversary. Yes, a hundred happy years together. We thought we'd have a party. Can you come? No, tonight …'

The tall, contorted man in the mirror had followed her, and was trying to drag the receiver from her hand. She hung on grimly. ‘Sorry, Viv. A bit of interference on the line. No, don't bring anything – we're going to keep it simple. Just yourself. Oh, and a few records for dancing. Charles has only got Bach fugues, and we want to let our hair down. Right? See you later, then.'

Frances slammed the phone down, then picked it up immediately, began to dial again. She was squatting on the floor, the blood-stained mac trailing out behind her. ‘Laura? Frances here …'

Charles reached across and cut her off.

‘What's the matter, darling? Surely you want Clive and Laura to come to our little party?'

‘Frances, I absolutely forbid you to phone Laura. You don't know what you're doing. You're not well.'

‘I'm perfectly well. Never felt better in my life. And Laura would love the Oppenheimers. You know how she worships money.'

‘Frances, you are not to phone her. She's … got a bug.'

‘A bug? Poor Laura!
She's
ill,
I
‘m ill – there must be an epidemic. All the more reason to phone her, so we can swap symptoms.'

‘Frances, listen, Laura's not available. She's going to the Mirabelle.'

‘The Mirabelle, with a bug? That's not very kind of her. She'll give it to all the waiters. How do you know, anyway? You haven't seen her, have you? Oh, hello, Laura. It's Frances. You shouldn't spread your germs about, you know. What? No, Charles told me you were unwell. Have you been in touch with him? Oh, I see, you thought
he
was sickening. No, he's not, we're both fine. In fact, we're planning a party. Tonight. Yes, it is rather sudden. Yes, a little celebration – how did you guess? Just a minute, Laura. I can't hear. Charles keeps interrupting. (Be quiet, Charles! Yes, I know they've booked a table at the Mirabelle, but Laura's going to cancel it. She says our party sounds too intriguing to miss. Isn't that nice?) Laura? Hello? Are you still there? Listen – Charles is thrilled you're coming. We both are. No, don't dress up, any old thing will do. See you at eight o'clock, then.'

Eleven o'clock. Blasting trumpets and wailing synthesizers terrorizing the quaking porcelain; guttering candles weeping scarlet wax; hot, half-naked bodies, playing blind man's buff with the furniture; wine in slow, red rivers, bleeding down a stricken sideboard; peanuts pulverized into priceless Persian rugs.

Charles stood at the door of the drawing-room and watched the party engulf his house. A celebration, that's what it was called – girls whose names he hardly knew, wounding his parquet with their cruel stiletto heels; neighbours he hated, guzzling his
grand cru
wines; blue-jeaned Mafia stubbing out their fag-ends on his gasping Sheraton. Frances had scraped the barrel for her guests. At such short notice, she hadn't had much choice. Their overweight, under-dressed butcher was entangled on the sofa with Brenda Eady's pink angora breasts. And Mrs Oppenheimer, standing, nervous and neglected, by the window, nibbling on a twiglet, awaiting, no doubt, the caviare and canapés, hot crab vol-au-vents, lobster mousseline – all traditional fare at Parry Jones parties. Frances had kicked tradition in the teeth, sent Charles out to Sainsbury's for simple bread and cheese, hacked it into chunks, and flung it on the kitchen table with a jar of Branston pickle. Nobody had touched it. Even the steaks and nectarines were still in their cellophane coffins in the fridge. He had tried to compensate with his best malt whisky and the choicest offerings from the Wine Society, but all it had done was embolden their autistic solicitor to blow up Mr Men balloons and burst them with a lighted cigarette, and remove the last of Brenda Eady's inhibitions, along with her fish-net stockings.