Simply Heaven (6 page)

And he comes and sits next to me as I start to cry.

By the time I’ve had a proper night’s – morning’s – sleep, the person I wake up to is no longer an evasive mystery man, but is, instead, my Rufus, only a Rufus with a more solid background. The day before yesterday, all I saw was the man: himself, no context, no surrounding colour, just Rufus drifting in a gentle space that allowed me to project anything I wanted on to it. And now – well, it’s still the same person, still the man I fell in love with, but now there’s a background coming into focus. I see the smug green of Merrie England, I see a cross-hatching of half-timbered magnificence, I see black swans on a moat and a hideous old crone in a headscarf bossing the servants. But most of all, eyelashes brushing the sun-freckles on his cheeks, I see Rufus once again. The other stuff I can deal with.

It’s just that I don’t realise that I’m going to have to deal with it quite so soon.

In fact, reality intrudes in the middle of the afternoon when, after the traditional honeymoon lie-in and a leisurely lunch of bread and tomatoes, we’re in the pool doing what honeymooners are wont to if they have a pool to themselves. Our bathers are on the floor and I’m up against the wall, arms braced over the edge to give us some traction, my legs round my husband’s elegant hips, soles of my feet pressed firmly on to his lean brown buttocks. And Rufus has a strong grip with one hand on the drain edge and a stronger one with his other on my shoulder as he grinds the old throbbing member into the flower of my being. Whatever. We’re both red in the face, and my hair is plastered over my cheeks and forehead, and we’re doing a lot of kissing because the pool is, after all, attached to a town house and we don’t want to upset the neighbours in this grimly, sentimentally, Catholic country by making a lot of noise. Well, not much, anyway. Pawl Borg next door didn’t seem to mind what he did with his Rotovator at six this morning, so I’m not so overbothered. So we’re panting, and splashing, and I’m just starting to get that first amazing wave of feeling that starts at the toes and works its way all the way up my body until it explodes out of the top of my head, and I’m going, you know, uh-uh-uh-uwooooah, like you do, and Rufus has a big, silly, pleased-with-himself grin on his face, and he’s going, ‘You like that? You like that?’ like you do, when a voice suddenly rings out from the interior of the house.

‘Huh-
lo
!’ it cries. A woman’s voice, plummy as a plum-duff, at the same time silver like a little tinkling bell and brassy like a hunting horn in the fog. I don’t know how it’s done. I think it’s genetic, actually. ‘Anybody home? Rufus? Darling? Where are you?’

Zzzzzip
. Rufus’s cock shrinks to vanishing point faster than Dennis Quaid in
Innerspace
. ‘Oh, shit,’ he says. Then: ‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.’

‘What is it?’

‘Oh shit,’ says Rufus again, ‘it’s my
mother
.’

He does a duck-flip and swims to the bottom of the pool, grabs his bathers and my bikini top and surfaces in a rush, shoves them into my hand. ‘Get these on, for God’s sake.’

I don’t need telling twice.

The voice approaches. ‘Huh-looooo! Is anyone at home? Rufus? Huh-looo! It’s Mah-meh!’

The crimson tinge to his face comes from fear and embarrassment, now, rather than passion. He looks absurd, struggling to get his feet through the legholes of his trunks, getting caught up in the net lining, spluttering and cursing. I, meanwhile, am hooking up my top and going: ‘Where are my bottoms? Rufus, where are my
bottoms
?’ Eventually, I spot them, right over on the far side of the pool where, I now vaguely remember, he threw them in one of those grandiose gestures you nearly always regret later. I’ve got no choice, really: Rufus is still tangled up and I can hear the click of heels on the lounge floor-tiles.

I dive beneath the surface, eyes stinging with salt and chlorine, and swim for the cossie, arse to the sun. And when I surface, I find myself face-to-face with my new mother-in-law.

The first thing I see is a pair of elegant ankles, clad, despite the heat, in low-density tan stockings and a pair of medium-heeled patent-leather Gucci pumps. Then I work my way up and see a tailored skirt in lightweight pink-and-green tweed, cut off just above the knee to show off the fact that the legs are exceptionally toned and slim on a woman in her mid-fifties, a matching jacket with a little, tasteful flourish of self-coloured satin edging on cuffs and collar, a cream silk blouse slightly opened at the neck to show a single strand of pearls and just the faintest hint of well-trained cleavage. There’s a tiny gold watch on the left wrist and, on the fingers, a plain gold band and a solitaire diamond the size of a milk tooth.

It takes me a while to force my eyes up to look at the face. I’m at something of a disadvantage and I have to get myself organised and decent before I can look up.

And when I do, it’s a surprise. Lady Mary Callington-Warbeck-Wattestone, far from being the battle-axe I’ve had in my mind’s eye ever since Rita Zammit and Marija Boffa exchanged knowing looks across the dinner table at Giannini, is the quintessential English rose. She has that slightly papery peaches-and-cream complexion you can only get from living in a permanently damp climate, blue, blue eyes like a china doll, surrounded by a slash of the long black eyelashes she’s obviously passed on to her son. It’s a well-preserved face, the face of a woman who’s watched her weight throughout her life, who’s never gone through any sag-inducing expansions or reductions but has stayed the same, maintaining her looks with cold cream and a solemn refusal to allow her emotions to register in her expression. She has well-defined eyebrows, mid-brown, a pinky mouth that curls up slightly at the edges, neat little ears touched with a pair of screw-in gold-and-pearl studs, and a girlish bob in Light Ash Blonde. I guess I’d been imagining that reinforced-concrete look affected by someone like Margaret Thatcher. I’m taken aback.

‘Mummy!’ Rufus says, splashing on to his back into the middle of the pool, now that he’s finally found his way into his trunks. ‘We were just …’

She keeps her eyes averted from my indecency. ‘Having a lovely swim,’ she says, fanning herself with a hand, ‘So I see. Very wise. Gosh, it’s still so
hot
, darling, isn’t it? I feel grimy after the helicopter. I do wish they’d sort out some better way of getting into the terminal than walking past the petrol pumps.’

There’s not a fleck of grime on her whole person. She may as well have just walked out of a beauty salon.

‘You look lovely,’ says Rufus, hauling himself up the ladder in the corner of the deep end, ‘and what a lovely surprise to see you! What are you doing here?’

Lady Mary squeaks like a flirty kitten, waves him away as he approaches and pokes a cheek as far from her body as possible to receive a kiss. ‘Don’t you
dare
touch me, you foul creature!’ she cries. ‘You’re
dripping
! No! You
bad
child!’

The son bends to plant the salutation. ‘Why didn’t you call?’ he asks. ‘I would have come and got you from Luqa. And how did you get here from the heliport? There are
never
taxis.’

‘Well, if you would
ever
pick up the phone,’ she replies, with an edge of reproach, ‘I could have done that. But who cares, darling? It’s hardly beyond me to find my way half a mile from the heliport. Marija Boffa got her brother to collect me.’

‘Marija Boffa?’

‘Yes. Yes, feckless offspring.’

I’ve never heard anyone talk like they’re in a Mitford novel before.

‘After,’ continues the mother, ‘she rang me yesterday with some absurd story about you getting married and not telling a soul about it!’

‘Bloody
hell
.’ Rufus folds his arms across his stomach and looks down as he traces a pattern with his toe on the flagstones. ‘What did she do that for? I wanted to tell you myself.’

‘And when was
that
going to be? Next year? After the hunt ball? On my deathbed?’

This is said with nothing but an edge of light teasing. It’s a verbal nudge in the ribs. She’s talking as though everything in life, including this, is some great big Girl Scout lark. It’s weird. I know my parents won’t react like this. That’s another reason I’ve put off calling them.

‘So is it true, then, perfidious creature? Have you run off and got married like a thief in the night?’

I’m in my bikini now, but I feel seriously awkward. I don’t really know what to do. Do I get out of the pool and approach, dripping, without permission, or do I wait and look rude, splashing about in the shallow end like I don’t give a damn? Eventually, I decide to make for the ladder, which is closer to where they’re standing than the shallow-end steps. As I’m on it, belly sticking out with the strain of pulling myself out of the water, Rufus, typical bloody bloke, no sense of appropriate timing, turns, waves a hand towards me, and says: ‘Ma, I want you to meet Melody Katsouris. My wife. Melody, this is my mother, Mary.’

Painfully aware of my half-naked state, of the fact that my hair’s a mess, that my bikini has seen better days and that there’s probably a tuft of hair escaping from the bottoms, I cross the courtyard, holding out a hand to the aged relly. ‘How’s it going, Lady Mary?’ I say, ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

To my surprise, I find myself being bussed warmly on both cheeks, though a firm grip on each arm keeps my dripping body away from the immaculate ensemble. Then she steps back and examines me, thoughtfully, as you might a new artwork. And then a smile reblossoms on her lips.

‘Well, my
deah
!’ she cries, releasing me. ‘You’re a picture! I can see why my son’s been swept away! And
Aw-stralian
, to boot! I
love
Awstralians. A breath of fresh air! I always say that, don’t I darling?’ She looks up at her son for confirmation, bats – I swear; I’m not imagining it – her eyelashes at him.

‘You sure do,’ says Rufus, looking pleased. She turns back to me. ‘Well,
wel
come, Melody! Welcome to my family! I just
know
we’re going to be the
best
of friends. And for heaven’s sake, please don’t call me Lady Mary! You’re my daughter-in-law now, even if it
is
all rather sudden! I’m Mary. Just Mary.’

‘OK,’ I say, gratified, ‘Mary.’

‘Now – oh, gosh!’ she says, and her hands fly to her face. ‘I don’t know what to say! I really don’t! I have a daughter-in-law! My son – my
darling
son – has a wife!’

I apologise for the shock.

‘No!’ she says. ‘No! No! No! I’m made up,
ruhr
-leh I am! But what
naughty, naughty
children you are! I would have
killed
to be there. I
s’mp
-leh can’t
bear
it! Rufus, I’ve
ruhr
-leh got to register a protest! How could you marry this
chah
-ming gel and keep it a secret? I’m so sorry, my dear! My son behaves as though his family are the most
dreadful
embarrassment to him, when really all we are is simply country bumpkins! Can’t think why you’ve taken him on, but I can only be grateful that someone has at last!’

I think I’ve got my mother-in-law’s measure. She’s the sort of woman whose every phrase, if it’s not an interrogative, ends with an exclamation mark! She’s one of those people who has been raised to inject positive sounds into every remark as though they will magically transform the situation to their liking. You went to the shops? How extraordinary! I went to the shops too! I’m surprised we didn’t bump into each other! Cup of tea!
Mah
-vlous! Do you know? Talking like this makes me sound really,
really
witless!

I’m feeling increasingly vulnerable in front of this chic woman. I’ve left a sarong on the painted metal table in the corner of the courtyard, decide that it would be better to risk insult by breaking away to cover myself up than it would be to stand here dripping like a model on a peanut display card.

I can feel both of their eyes on my back as I cross the flags. And just for a moment, I feel as though the Death Star is beaming a destructaray directly at planet Melody. But when I wrap up, turn and look at them again, all I see is beaming smiles. Funny. I guess I’m a bit paranoid, what with the abnormality of the circs.

‘Do come here,’ she says, ‘and let me have a look at you.’

I smile and try to stand there looking relaxed.

‘But, my dear,’ she repeats, ‘she’s
chah
-ming! Nothing like I would have expected, but utterly
chah
-ming!’

‘Thank you,’ says Rufus complacently, as if I’m some personal possession picked out from the shelves of a design shop. ‘Can I get you something to drink, Mummy? You must be dry as a bone.’

An exaggerated, languorous sigh. ‘Why, darling, I thought you’d never ask!’ she proclaims to the world. ‘Is it unconscionably early for a G and T?’

He is already heading for the kitchen door, laughing over his shoulder. ‘You must have been in transit for a good seven hours already, haven’t you? That makes it well past yardarm, in my book. Darling, do you want anything?’

‘Yeah, I’ll just have a glass of water, thanks,’ I say, then, too late, realise that I am no longer a guest in this house, that I should be doing the hospitality thing myself. Especially if I’m not going to come a gutser in front of the new family. I scuttle over to the foot of the steps, say: ‘Honey, I’ll give you a hand.’

‘No, no,’ says Rufus, ‘go and sit down. It’ll only take me a minute.’

‘Well, then,’ I say in a loud voice, ‘you sit down. I’ll sort it out.’

The minute we’re inside the door, he wraps me in a big warm hug and plants a kiss on my forehead. ‘I told you!’ he whispers. ‘I told you it would be all right! She loves you!’

‘She’s great,’ I reply, because, you know, I think she probably is. It’ll take me a while to get used to the way she expresses herself, and maybe I think she’s a little – well, silly – but she’s nothing like the gorgon that had been materialising in my mind. ‘I’m so relieved!’

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he asks. ‘Didn’t I? Oh, Melody, I love you
so much
!’