Nearest Thing to Crazy (9 page)

‘I’m so lucky to have you,’ he called after me.

The cool wind had disappeared, leaving behind a beautiful calm day and I vowed to cast off my dismal mood and enjoy it.

‘Let’s eat outside,’ Dan said. I was pleased that he seemed so relaxed. ‘I’ll lay the table, if you like. Unless there’s anything else you’d like me to do?’

‘Let’s use the pretty cloth, the one we bought in the market at Carcassonne.’ I had a momentary flashback: Dan and I, with Laura skipping between us, walking through narrow mediaeval streets. We stopped outside a shop that caught our attention with its wares spreading out onto the gloomy cobblestones: baskets brimming with the ubiquitous dried lavender; pale golden candles ridged into honeycomb shapes; and cheery yellow and blue Provençal linen in untidy but tempting piles. I saw Dan standing inside the shop, grinning at me as I piled crisply starched goodies into his arms. Laura was busy squirreling shell-shaped soaps into a print-lined basket, holding each one up to her nose before laying them down carefully. Dan bought the basket for Laura too. It was one of those memories that compose an important mental photograph, and when I looked at it, it reminded me not just of the place, but of an especially happy time, when everything seemed so settled and sorted, and I wished I could feel like that now.

‘Then you’ll want the blue glass plates.’ Dan was already reaching up for them, taking them down from their home on the pine dresser.

‘I’ve put some fizz in the fridge.’ He seemed surprised and so I shrugged. ‘I thought as it’s such a beautiful day we’d make the most of it.’

‘Is that necessary? Don’t you think it’s a bit OTT?’
‘Surely you’d want to impress the lovely Ellie,’ I joked.

‘Why on earth would I want to impress her? What a daft thing to say.’

I’d been expecting him to laugh, to tease me in return. I put my hands up. ‘Whoa, steady on . . . I was joking . . .’ He nodded, but he still looked irritated and it seemed as though a cloud had threatened our perfect sky. Dan disappeared to I didn’t know where, until about half an hour later I heard Pink Floyd filtering through the sitting room doorway, and as I peeled and chopped, with the sun streaming in through the windows, I couldn’t resist singing along to the words I knew so well. Then I heard Dan ‘Er humming . . .’ in my ear and he startled me so much the carrot leaped out of my hand and onto the floor. He picked it up and placed it on to the chopping board in front of me.

‘Someone sounds happy,’ he said. I thought that was funny, bearing in mind the lyrics I was singing along to, ‘
Wish You Were
Here’, couldn’t really be described as happy, could they?

‘Sorry,’ I said. Dan hated people singing along; he said it ruined the music.

‘I love to hear you singing.’

‘Liar. I know you hate it.’

‘Not you. Only other people.’

‘Ha ha, don’t believe you, but thanks anyway. Listen, I’m sorry, sweetheart. You’re right. Let’s not have champagne . . .’
‘If you want it, we’ll have it,’ he said.

‘Maybe it might seem as if we’re trying too hard.’

He put his arms around me and pulled me in tight, squeezing all the breath out of me. I felt him kiss the top of my head and I wanted to freeze the moment into a concentrated nugget of happiness. He took hold of one of my arms and spun me around as though he was dancing with me, almost knocking me off balance.

‘Hey, steady,’ I laughed. ‘You’ll have me on the floor.’

‘Maybe I should do just that . . .’

He had that way of looking at me that could still make my stomach flip over, even after all this time, even after everything.

‘Come on, we’ve got stuff to do . . . ’

‘Killjoy!’

‘I’ve got to go and pick some chard and some beetroot . . . unless you want to . . . That’s if you’d recognize them . . .’

‘I think I’ll stick to polishing glasses and napkin folding and fantasizing about my wife.’

‘Yeah, right,’ I giggled and even felt my cheeks go pink. But as I collected a basket it occurred to me how much more freely he flirted with me outside of the bedroom when there was less chance of a follow-through. But that was just cynical and I wasn’t doing cynical today.

Ellie was fashionably late. She arrived looking flushed at around one-thirty. I’d begun to think, hope even, that she might have forgotten.
‘Sorry,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘Bloody Coco . . .’

I noticed that there was no dog, just a lead dangling limply from her right hand and a bottle of champagne clutched firmly in her left. I looked at Dan, wondering if he’d noticed the champagne and was sharing my own thoughts of ‘out to impress’. But he was too busy watching her.

‘I stupidly let her off the lead and she buggered off. There’s a bank full of rabbit holes and I think she might have gone down one .
. . Bloody dog! I’ve been calling for her for the last ten minutes. I didn’t know what to do and I thought you’d be wondering where I was.’ She looked all femininity and vulnerability. Standing, framed by the rose-covered arch, in her pale pink blouse and skinny white jeans tucked into cowboy boots, and all that thick glossy hair tumbling round her shoulders, she could have doubled for Shania Twain.

Dan just carried on looking at her while I said, ‘Oh no! Poor you. I’ll come and help.’

‘That’s so sweet . . . Would you mind if I just went back and had another yell? Sorry . . . I hope I’m not spoiling lunch.’

‘No. Absolutely not. Nothing that won’t keep. I’ll give you a hand.’

Dan spoke for the first time. ‘You’d better stay in charge of the oven, babe. I’ll go with Ellie. I’ll get a spade.’

‘Oh Lord, I don’t know . . . we’d never know which hole she’s gone down. What a complete nightmare . . . Oh . . . this is for you
. . .’ she must have remembered she was still holding the bottle.

‘How very kind. I’ll put it in the fridge – let’s hope we can celebrate Coco’s safe return.’

‘Yes,’ she smiled, bravely. Poor thing, she looked like she could burst into tears at any moment. Her hand hovered over Dan’s arm, like she was an invalid, or something. Clutching Ellie’s cold champagne to my chest I watched them as they set off towards the footpath that linked our two properties and, as their voices faded into indistinct murmurs, I turned to go back into the house and felt as though the cold from the icy bottle had seeped right through me. The house, in contrast to the bright sunlight of the garden, seemed dark and gloomy, and I really needed a drink. I was tempted to open the champagne but then thought how bad it might look if something dreadful had happened to the bloody terrier, like I was celebrating. And I did mind about it, really I did. It would be an awful death, stuck in the dank darkness, buried alive, cold and starving slowly, wondering when your beloved was going to come and rescue you. Perhaps the air would run out so that the poor little thing would suffocate.

My eyes kept being drawn to the face of the kitchen clock as the minutes ticked by. The lamb was resting, the gravy made and the vegetables decanted into dishes and placed in the warming oven. I reached for the bottle of red wine sitting on the worktop next to the Aga. It was the bottle Dan had opened to go with the meat, and I had been allowed to steal a little for the gravy. I filled my glass and drank it far too quickly, and then re-filled it. Steady, I told myself. At this rate I’d have polished off the entire bottle before they got back. I poured myself a glass of water and drank it in two long draughts. Half an hour had passed since they’d set off. I played with the idea of perhaps going to search for them. I could insist that they come back to eat, like some sensible person always did in the best dramas.
‘Come back,’ I could hear myself say. ‘You must eat. You’ll need your strength . . .’ I could transform myself into the caring, concerned nurturer that they would both appreciate and feel gratitude towards, instead of the staff relegated to the kitchen while the stuff of real life got lived somewhere else. I would take Ellie’s arm, offer her a clean handkerchief and a strong shoulder. I’d lead her into the kitchen, pour her a drink and give her hand a squeeze. We would be like sisters sharing in her misfortune, while Dan fluttered about on the periphery, making him superfluous rather than me.

Forty-five minutes had passed by the time they returned. I was standing near the window and I saw them coming through the little gate that bordered our front garden. Ellie’s head was downcast, and her feet seemed to drag. There was no dog. I went to the front door, opened it, and stepped back to let them in. I couldn’t help thinking it was all rather ridiculous, acting as though there had been a significant crisis, almost like a death in the family, when all that had happened was that the bloody terrier had done what terriers do best and gone hunting. I felt wrong-footed, and unable to say what I wanted to say, so I said lamely, ‘No luck?’

Ellie shook her head. ‘God, I’m so sorry. Lunch and everything,
keeping you waiting. Is everything ruined? And you were so kind to ask me.’

‘We heard what we thought was a very faint whining noise. I dug there, but nothing . . .’

‘How frustrating,’ I said.

‘Obviously she had to be there, near where we were. But we just couldn’t find her. She must be stuck, stupid little dog.’

‘I’m sure she’ll come back. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hasn’t turned up by the time we’ve finished lunch. She’ll follow your scent won’t she?’

‘Oh, yes, I suppose she might.’

‘I think you need a drink – a glass of champagne. Dan? Why don’t you open Ellie’s bottle? I hope you’re hungry, that you can manage something?’

‘A little.’ She smiled bravely. ‘At least there aren’t any major roads nearby, and my house is so close . . .’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank God for that.’

‘She’ll turn up when she’s hungry,’ Dan said as he handed her a drink. They stood watching me get everything from the Aga. Dan was standing near to her as if he needed to be close in case she tumbled. He was wearing his most pathetic, doe-eyed expression of concern, as if he was almost sick with worry.

‘Oh my God,’ she said, when she saw the joint, and the roast potatoes and parsnips, ‘a proper Sunday roast. How amazing . . . Now I feel even worse about Coco. I stupidly thought as it’s so warm today we’d be having something cold . . . Oh God, I’m
so
sorry . . . look how hard you’ve worked . . .’

‘I suppose cold would have been more appropriate on a day like today,’ Dan said, disloyally.

God! He loved his meat and two veg, did Dan.

Ellie saw me frown at him. ‘Heavens, no,’ she said. ‘Honestly, this is so nice. Such a change from all those fancy Mediterranean dishes everyone’s into. Good to see there are still some corners of the earth that Ottolenghi hasn’t penetrated yet.’

I bit my tongue to stop myself from asking ‘Otto what?’

When we were all three of us seated in the sunshine with my unsuitable roast and all the trimmings piled high on our plates; when the salt and pepper, mint sauce and gravy had been passed, I said, ‘I can’t believe I haven’t asked you what your book’s about,’ but Ellie didn’t appear to hear me. She just carried on eating as though I hadn’t said anything. So I asked again.

‘Your novel, Ellie. What’s it about?’

‘Sorry?’ she said.

‘She obviously doesn’t want to say,’ Dan said.

I blushed. Honestly. I felt my cheeks go pink and I heard myself mutter ‘sorry’.

I racked my brains for some other topic of conversation to cover the awkwardness. ‘So . . . how long have you had Coco?’

Dan glared at me, and raised his eyebrows and mouthed ‘well done’. I mean, for God’s sake. It was only a bloody dog. I began to feel humiliated by them both, so I poured more wine into my glass and gave it one more try.

‘How did you start out, writing, that is?’

‘I used to be a journalist, on
Mode.
’

‘Oh? I didn’t realize you were in fashion. How glamorous.’ The connection made sense. I had watched her daintily attacking the overcooked piece of leather that had started off life so promisingly as tender pink lamb, pushing her food around the plate and guessing that, judging by her skinny frame, she probably had the sort of food issues that came with the job. I could imagine her sitting, beautifully groomed, at one of those catwalk shows, poised in the front row with her spiral-bound notebook and leather-clad photographer.