Elegance and Innocence (34 page)

I’m blushing again. ‘But Flora, when did he get back? And what could he possibly want with an old fart like me?’

‘He got back yesterday, with what looks like four months of dirty laundry, and I don’t even want to
think
about what he wants to do with you!’

My heart’s racing. ‘But I’m
nine years
older than he is!’

‘He likes older women, Louise.’

‘Gee, thanks.’ I’ve never had the dubious pleasure of thinking of myself as an older woman before. I’m not sure I like it.

‘Well,’ she says, mopping up a warm puddle of spilt tea, ‘if you don’t like him, fair enough. But honestly, I haven’t seen him this excited since Lara.’

‘Lara?’ An unexpected wave of jealousy overtakes me. ‘Who’s Lara?’

She smiles slyly. ‘Just some cello player who broke his heart last spring.’

‘Oh,’ I imagine a beautiful, talented, Jacqueline du Pré lookalike.

‘Bit of cow, if you ask me.’ She squeezes her rag out into the sink.

I look across the room. Eddie’s pulling a chair up to an old upright piano in the corner. Then the sound of ragtime
jazz fills the hall, as infectious and buoyant as Eddie himself.

When the ten o’clock shift arrives, Reg holds up a hand to silence the room. ‘Hey! Quiet, everyone! Thank you! It’s around this time that we take a minute and vote on the best costume!’

There’s a generous cheer.

‘Now everyone line up and when I put my hand over your head, we’ll let the audience decide!’

The volunteers form a misshapen, unruly line and Reg works his way down. Eddie plays snatches of appropriate carols for each contestant and when Reg gets to Flora and me, he plays ‘There Must Be an Angel’ by the Eurythmics.

In the end it’s Reg himself who wins; with his flowing red velvet robe and booming laugh he’s the perfect Ghost of Christmas Present. But we give him a good run for his money.

‘Well, I guess that’s it,’ Flora sighs, as we emerge from the basement of St Martin’s. ‘We’re officially good people now.’

‘What do you say I buy you two lovely ladies a drink?’ Eddie wraps an arm around each of our necks.

‘Like this?’ I say. ‘It may be Christmas Eve but not even an angel is going to get served looking like this!’

‘But you forget, I
am
the Baby Jesus. I have connections! Taxi!’ He hails a cab. ‘To the Ritz, my good man!’

‘No, Eddie! We can’t! Not the Ritz!’ I protest. ‘Not like
this
!’

Flora giggles. ‘Chill out, Louise. It’ll be fun!’

‘No, no. Not for me. I think I’ll just bug out and go home. To tell the truth, I’m pretty tired.’

‘I’ll take off my swaddling clothes if you come.’ Eddie pulls me towards the open cab door. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ll take off all my clothes if you come!’

Suddenly I’m nervous, out of my depth. What does this handsome, talented, young man want with me anyway? Why is he so keen? I have the sudden compulsion to run away and escape before I can destroy whatever mistaken, wonderful delusions he still harbours about my character.

‘Look! There’s a night bus! If I run I might catch it! Good night and Merry Christmas!’ I give them each a swift peck on the cheek and begin running across Trafalgar Square, my plastic wings flapping in the wind.

‘Wait a minute!’ Eddie runs after me, which isn’t easy wrapped in a large woolly blanket. He catches my hand. ‘I’m having a get-together next weekend on my boat. Will you come?’

‘Your
boat
?’ I don’t know what to say.

The bus lumbers forward, groaning under the weight of a particularly festive top deck.

He holds my hand tighter. ‘Please come, Louise, and don’t run off now; we can drive you home if you like.’

My stomach contracts with fear. I like him. I like him more than I should. That’s the trouble.

The bus grinds to a halt and starts to fill up. ‘No, please
don’t worry … it’s just here!’ I look into his eyes. ‘Happy Christmas, Eddie, you make a wonderful Baby Jesus … you make a wonderful … anything!’

‘Does that mean you’ll come?’ he persists.

The conductor rings the bell and the bus heaves away from the kerb. I pull my hand out of his and race to jump aboard. ‘I’ll see … I’ll speak to Flora and let you know! Happy Christmas!’ I shout.

And as the bus lurches forward down Whitehall, I turn back to see him standing forlornly in the middle of Trafalgar Square, the tea towel still on his head.

I stumble up to the top deck and find a seat next to a man wearing a red paper Christmas cracker hat, who’s passed out and drooling with his head against the window. I yank the halo off my head and wriggle out of the wings. Everyone’s yelling, laughing, shouting into their mobiles.

We trundle past Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, and then the street where I lived for so many years with my ex-husband. I wonder what he’s doing and if the place still looks the same. Shall I get off at the next stop and see? What would he do now if I were to show up on his doorstep dressed in an old nightgown? Would he even recognize me? Or would I be as indistinguishable to him as he had been to me that night in the theatre?

The next stop comes and goes. But I don’t get off. Not even for a look. The bus crosses the bridge into Lambeth and the moment is gone.

When I get home, I run a bath and put on a CD of Ria’s, Chopin ballades that remind me of Eddie. I heat some soup on the stove and sit at the table, dipping water biscuits into my cream of tomato and staring at the lights on the Christmas tree.

It’s a silent night.

And I think about how I’d come all this way to be sitting here, eating soup alone on Christmas Eve and how I didn’t even want to get off the bus and about the people at St Martin’s and I wonder what Reg does when he isn’t being the Ghost of Christmas Present and if I’d recognize him if I passed him on the street and about Flora and Eddie and if they went to the Ritz and were they there right now and then I think about Oliver Wendt and how certain I’d been that he was the man for me and about the way he looked in the back of the cab when it drove away and about my job and how frightened I’d been and how wrong I was about everyone and then about Colin and Ria, at home, celebrating Christmas with their families and about our funny little home here in London.

And an unexpected wave of happiness washes over me.

It’s been worth it.

It’s all been worth it. To be sitting right here, right now. Alone.

And that night, I slept in heavenly peace.

Y
Yachting

The only thing that should float in the wind on board a yacht are the ship’s colours. A dress or skirt that does the same would be quite out of place. Consequently, a simple, even slightly masculine style of clothing is most advisable. Adventures on the high seas only happen rarely in one’s life, so seize the opportunity. Be quick to discard your evening gowns and high-heeled shoes but keep your sense of humour and enter into the spirit of things by remaining, above all, a good crew member and a good sport
.

Now is your chance to show everyone that you are not afraid to be seen without make-up, that you never leave a trail of disorder in your wake, that you have a wonderfully even disposition, and that your elegance is based on utter simplicity. If this is the case (and if you are not prone to seasickness and know how to swim), you will surely have the most wonderful time of your life
.

The next week, when I come into work, there’s a card waiting for me on my desk.

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO
E
DWARD
J
AMES
’
B
OAT
C
HRISTENING
P
ARTY

2
PM THIS SATURDAY AT THE
C
HELSEA
P
IER

R.S.V.P.
07771283112

Flora and Poppy giggle as I prop it up against the front of my computer.

‘Are you guys going to this shindig?’ I ask.

‘We weren’t invited,’ Poppy says. And they giggle again.

That night when I come home, I ring Ria, who’s still in Dorset.

‘What should I do?’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘I don’t know. It’s just … he’s so young. My God!
Twenty-four!
What’s he doing asking me out anyway?’

‘Do you really think that’s any of your business? After all, he’s an adult. You’ve got to trust that he knows his own mind. And why do you think age matters that much anyway? Look at Colin and Andy.’

I think a moment. ‘I guess I always imagined the man should be older … older and preferably not quite so attractive. If I’m honest, I want to be the young attractive one, the one in control. I mean, what future could it possibly
have and why would I even bother to get involved now if I knew there couldn’t be any future? Ria, when he’s thirty-four, I’m going to be
forty-three
! He’ll be young and lithe and I’ll be fumbling about for my HRT!’

‘Slow down, cowboy. You keep repeating all these numbers like they mean something. Let’s start at the beginning. Do you like him?’

I smile; I can’t even think about Eddie without smiling. ‘Oh, he’s brilliant! Really bright,
so
talented and the best thing about him is his incredible enthusiasm! Everything with him is an adventure. And the way he plays the piano, Ria – you’d love him!’

I hear her laughing on the other end of the line. ‘Listen to yourself, Louise! Why don’t you just focus on that for the time being and go along and see what happens?’

I hang up, still agitated, and decide to get a second opinion. Col is lying on the couch, flipping through a body building magazine called
Pump
. (At least, I hope it’s a body building magazine.) I fling myself into an armchair.

‘Col, what would you do if you were me?’

‘Fuck him, of course. He sounds gorgeous!’

‘Col! No, really! What would you do?’

He looks at me in all seriousness. ‘Fuck him. Why do you think I’m joking?’

God, gay men. Or rather, men. Period.

‘But what if I get involved and then he dumps me for a younger woman?’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘And …?’

‘Damn it, Col! I’d be
devastated
!’

‘But that’s not a reason to duck out of life, sweetie. So, you’d be hurt. Big deal. That’s the chance we all take. What’s the point in being alive at all if you’re so afraid of pain that you can’t appreciate the rare gems when they do come along?’ He closes the magazine for a moment. ‘We all want to protect ourselves but the bottom line is: we can’t. It’s as simple as that. You can either enjoy this wonderful, exciting young man for who and what he is or you can hide away, waiting for some dull, average, shmuck to emerge that will make you feel safe.’ He starts to laugh. ‘Remember Oliver Wendt?’

‘You are so cruel! And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel safe … is there?’

‘My darling, there’s
nothing
safe about love!’

‘Well, I don’t know about love.’ I blush. ‘It’s a bit early for that.’

He smiles. ‘Yes, well, whatever. Take it from me, Ouise, if you don’t take a chance, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.’

I spend the rest of the week in a daze, staring at the invitation, wondering how I should respond.

A boat christening party. I don’t like boats. And I’ve always dreaded the sea. I hate the thought of being stranded with nothing but water around me and losing sight of the shore.

Besides, what does a girl wear on a boat in the dead of winter?

‘It’ll be cold,’ Ria warns. ‘I’d go for something warm, like a big fisherman’s type jumper and a navy peacoat.’

‘This is not a look I’m loving,’ I grimace. ‘You’ll be telling me I need a skipper’s hat any minute now.’

‘Well, no … but a cute little woolly hat and maybe a thick pair of wool trousers wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘How am I supposed to seduce anyone looking like an extra from
Peter Grimes
?’

She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Out on the water, it’s going to be freezing. I’d forego trying to seduce anyone and settle for being a good sport.’

Being a good sport. There’s that phrase again, first from Madame Dariaux and now from Ria. It echoes round my head. A good sport knows their place, accepts things at face value, loses gracefully, keeps trying, doesn’t sulk or take their toys and run home. A good sport is not the same as a winner.

Do I have the courage to be a good sport in love? Or is it best just not to play at all?

On Thursday, I finally ring the number on the card.

‘Hello, Eddie?’

‘Hello, Louise.’

‘It’s Louise.’

‘I know,’ he says.

‘I just thought I’d ring to say I’d very much like to come
to your party.’ My hands are shaking. Does my voice sound all right?

‘Brilliant!’ I can hear the smile on his face. ‘Oh, you’ve made my day! Do you want me to pick you up or anything?’

‘Oh no!’ Keep cool, I tell myself. ‘You’re the host, after all, and there’ll be masses to do. I’ll meet you on the pier like everyone else. But how will I know which boat is yours?’

‘Oh, you’ll know,’ he laughs. ‘It’s not terribly big, it’s red and it’s called the
Hammerklavier
.’

I hang up. Red’s an awfully strange colour for a yacht.

It’s Saturday; I’m bundled into a pair of black trousers and a thick cream jumper I borrowed from Colin. Incredibly chunky but also extremely warm. My hair’s tied back into a long pony tail; make-up’s minimal, in case the wind makes my eyes water. Hardly my idea of a woman embarking on a first date. I look completely nondescript and anonymous. I panic and am about to exit in a pair of black, kitten heel ankle boots when Ria stops me at the door.

‘You can’t wear heels on the deck of a boat,’ she explains. ‘They’ll ruin it.’

She sends me back to my room like an errant child. I emerge in a pair of old trainers, put on my woolly cap and coat, and she sends me off again looking more like the Michelin Man than a chic guest at a yacht party.

It’s a stunning clear day, bright with a high wind. I stop
by Woolworth’s and buy a copy of
Titanic
and then pick up a bottle of vintage champagne. At ten past two, I’m wandering around Chelsea Pier searching for a red yacht, hoping I’m not going to be the oldest person there.