Authors: Kate Saunders
Bachelor Boys (14 page)
To finish the concert, Neil sang “Aye Waukin'-O.” He throttled back his voice to almost a murmur. A single tear fell from Phoebe's eye and slid down the ladder of lines on her cheek. At the end of the song, she wiped it away and smiled at Fritz. “I used to sing that to you when you were teething.”
Fritz reached across the table and picked up his mother's hand with great gentleness, as if holding a butterfly. For a long moment they smiled into each other's eyes, and Fritz gave her a look that made me catch my breath. How would it feel, I wondered, to be on the receiving end of such fathomless love?
W
e had a terrible time keeping Phoebe away from the dinner party. “I know I can't actually be there, but I don't see what's wrong with me simply staying upstairs,” she said wistfully. “It's not as if I'll interfere.”
e had a terrible time keeping Phoebe away from the dinner party. “I know I can't actually be there, but I don't see what's wrong with me simply staying upstairs,” she said wistfully. “It's not as if I'll interfere.”
“Phoebe, you're dying to interfere. Why don't you just admit it?”
“All right, all right.” Phoebe's voice was airy and unrepentant. “I admit that I probably wouldn't be able to resist dropping hints about marriage. But what if I promised not to say a single word?”
She had taken to calling me at work, hoping I would be easier to get round than the boys. But I was under strict instructions from Fritz not to relent.
“Don't be silly,” I said.
“Well then, what if I made everyone tea and coffee?”
“They're trying to come across as debonair young bachelors. You don't see James Bond's mum suddenly popping in with a tray of tea and biscuits.”
“Poor Mrs. Bond died in a freak mountaineering accident,” Phoebe said, as if she were a friend of the family. “But if she'd lived, I bet she'd have taken a good look at the sort of girls her son was seeing.”
I refused to be led up one of her conversational garden paths. “Phoebe, listen to me. If you hang about at that dinner, Hazel and Elspeth will run a mile from the boys.”
“I don't see why. You could all come upstairs for a drink first. I could
make some of those little cheese canapés.” Her voice was as soft as ever, but I could hear the undertow of obstinacy.
make some of those little cheese canapés.” Her voice was as soft as ever, but I could hear the undertow of obstinacy.
“Fritz says you're not allowed to cook.”
“Oh darling, canapes aren't proper cooking. You just fold a little grated cheese into the pastry, andâ”
“Phoebe, stop it.” This was the very day before the dinner party, and I had to be firm. “There mustn't be the smallest whiff of apron-string. Fritz got you a lovely invitation from the Cohens, so don't disappoint them.”
When I put the phone down, Betsy said, “You're quite right, she'll be better off out of it. That way she won't be too horrified if it all goes pear-shaped.”
“Rubbish, it'll be fine.” I was determined to be cheerful. Matthew had spent three whole evenings with me that week, and was staying for another weekend (despite the unlovely appearance of my newly plastered ceiling). I would be attending the dinner party as one half of an established couple. This went a long way toward covering my doubts. “That flat is so clean, it squeaks. The boys aren't even wearing shoes until Sunday morning. Nothing's going to go remotely pear-shaped. Unless the ceiling crashes down on us.”
Betsy laughed, saying lightning never struck twice, and wasn't it time for a nice cup of tea? She was also very cheerful today. The reason was that Jonah had got himself a job. Yes, that shy denizen of the attic had emerged into the sunlight, to work as a park-keeper on Hampstead Heath. The way his mother was acting, you'd think he'd been made head of ICI. Despite her concern for the momentous dinner, Betsy couldn't keep off the subject.
“Jonah's job will probably only last till the end of the summer.” She handed me a slice of the chocolate cake she had made to celebrate (Betsy reacted to any kind of upheaval by staying up late and making cakes). “But he gets his own hutâone of the nice ones beside the pound.”
“That'll look good on his CV,” I said, with my mouth full. “Job With Own Hut.”
“I gave him an electric kettle, as a hut-warming present.” Betsy sat down, absently adding a few stitches to the tiny scarlet hat she was knitting.
“I should probably give him an alarm clock, too. He's always been dreadful at getting up.”
“I should probably give him an alarm clock, too. He's always been dreadful at getting up.”
“He'll learn,” I said brutally. “Shades of the prison house begin to close about the growing Jonahâand not before time. Everyone else has to do it.”
“The girls never seemed to have any trouble,” Betsy mused. “I think women must have a natural talent for getting up early.”
There was no point in arguing with this, or even noticing it. I finished my cake and turned my attention back to trimming down a long and winding article about John Ruskin. I'd barely made a dent in it before my phone rang again.
It was Hazel. Her voice was grim. “I can't make it tomorrow. You'll have to send my apologies.”
“Oh no!” This was a terrible blow. I'd practically designed her wedding dress, and now she couldn't come.
“My dad's had a heart attack.”
“Oh God.” I immediately felt guiltyâgood grief, what kind of heartless person was I turning into? “Hazel, I'm so sorry.”
“Mum says he's all right,” Hazel said. “She says there can't be much wrong with himâhe's already complaining about the hospital food, apparently. But they want me to go up there right away.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I wish I could get out of itâwell, you know what I think of Dad. He's a manipulative old git, and I wouldn't put it past him to be doing this on purpose.”
Hazel knew she could say things like this to me. One of the first bonds between us had been the discovery that we both had fathers we disliked.
I did my best to be bracing. “You'll feel better once you've done it.”
“I suppose so. It's a bugger getting away from work. Sorry about your dinner party.”
It was awful to hear the anxiety and helplessness in Hazel's voice. She had dropped the broad accent and reverted to northern middle-class, a sure sign that she felt her family was catching up with her. She usually tried to hide any hint that she was the kind of Northern Babe who had once owned a pony.
“Don't be silly,” I said, as warmly as I could. “Forget the dinner. I hope your dad's all right. Call me any time if you need to talk.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. Really any time, day or night.”
When I hung up, Betsy was hovering sympathetically with another slice of cake. “Oh dear, poor Hazel. And poor youâwhat'll you do about tomorrow?”
There was only one thing to do. I flipped my diary to Annabel's work number (I didn't know it by heart because we had a pact never to phone each other at the office, for fear of never shutting up).
“Annabel Levett.”
She answered in her brisk and unrecognizable office voice, which threw me off balance for a moment. “Annabel? Sorry, but this is an emergencyâ” I gabbled out a begging invitation.
“You knew I'd be free.” She was reproachful.
“I hoped you would be. Please come.”
“I'm free in theory, but I've sort of decided not to go out any more until I've lost half a stone. I can't risk meeting men when I'm so fat.”
“Oh God! We've had this conversation a squillion times! You are not fat. And it'll be quite safe. The only men present will be Matthew, Fritz and Ben, and Ben's tenorâwho really is fat. And he has red hair. You won't want him to fancy you.”
“Well ⦔ Annabel's voice was more cheerful. “In that case, it sounds rather fun.”
“You're coming? Thanks so much. It's their basement, eight thirty Bless you.”
“It's years since we had one of our sessions with the Darlings.” She giggled suddenly. “Will you be serving Fritzy-Witzys?”
I laughed. A “Fritzy-Witzy” was a nasty cocktail of orange juice, tonic water and cough medicine, invented by Fritz when one of our basement sessions had run dry. “Certainly not. It'll be far too posh.”
“Tell them I'll lay in a case of Actifed Chesty anyway.”
Annabel rang off before I could explain that this was not a normal basement entertainment. We were not planning to eat takeway Chinese and get hammered, as in the olden days. Still, I knew I could trust her to
behave beautifully. I rang the boys to break the news about the change in the table plan.
behave beautifully. I rang the boys to break the news about the change in the table plan.
Ben answered, and was philosophical. “Never mind, it'll be lovely to see Annabel. She's one less girl I have to make an effort for.”
“I just hope nothing else goes wrong,” I said. “One of you had better be fixed by the end of the evening, or I'm turning in my Matchmaker's badge.”
Â
Matthew was trying very hard, but he couldn't hide the fact that he was miserable. I had never seen him so spiritless and gloomy. He met my bright remarks with shrugs and sighs, until I asked him point-blank what the matter was.
He was startled that I had noticed anything was wrong. “Sorry, Cassie. I've been having a hellish time lately.”
“At work?”
“Of course at work. Where else?”
“Can't you leave it behind sometimes?”
“Sorry,” he said again. He made a visible effort to pull himself together. “You look lovely, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
He had spent the previous night and most of that day catching up with work. He had come round to my house straight from the office. We were to drive up to Hampstead in my car. I was wearing a superb black dress from Emporio Armani (no, I couldn't afford it) and lethal new shoes that made me walk as if I'd just had a visit from the footbinder. The dress was a deliberate attempt to look a little less boring. When I held my stomach in and made my mirror face, I was positively gorgeousâbut I was aware that I had contravened several of Matthew's rules regarding tartiness. Why hadn't he noticed that I was way over my lipstick allowance? He hadn't even disputed my hemline, or the amount of exposed bosom. And he had always taken meticulous interest in my appearance.
“You need to relax,” I told him, as I hobbled down the stairs. “You don't have to carry your work around with you all the time.”
“It's very tense at the moment,” Matthew said. “Frankly, I'm wishing you hadn't asked Elspeth Dunbar this evening.”
“Why?”
“I need her on my sideâshe could seriously scupper my chances of a partnership.”
“Darling, everything will be fine. She can't possibly have a bad time.”
“Well, I hope not.” He was morose. “She's so straitlaced. She's got this lifeboat collecting box on her desk, and if you swear in front of her, she makes you put money in it.”
I wished he'd told me that before I invited the womanâFritz and Ben, even on their best behavior, blithely peppered their speech with rude words. I decided to warn them, before they ended up bankrolling the first-ever north London lifeboat.
“Don't worry,” I said robustly. “She must let her hair down sometimes.”
We climbed into my car. I slipped off my killer shoes (the relief!) and pushed my feet into the old trainers I kept for driving. Matthew sat rigidly beside me, cradling two expensive bottles of wine in his arms.
My car wouldn't start. I did all the things you do (checking batteries and petrol, fiddling with the choke), while Matthew sat like a disapproving Easter Island statue.
“I knew I should have brought my car,” he said.
“And a very merry Christmas to you too,” I muttered crossly.
“What?”
I could not allow myself to be irritated with Matthew, or where would it all end? “Nothing,” I hissed, through clenched teeth. “We'd better call a cab.”
It was Saturday, and there was not a cab to be had in under an hourâI tried six numbers, and got the same answer every time. Matthew remained eerily silent.
“We might as well take the tube,” I said eventually. “It's only two stops.”
Matthew sighed heavily. He got out of my car. In barbed silence, we trudged toward Chalk Farm station. Only when we were sitting in the carriage did I realize that I was still wearing my old trainers.
Hell and damnation. My wondrous shoes were in the car. The trainers were absurd with my skinny calves. I looked as if I had been drawn by Dr. Seuss.
We arrived at the basement nearly an hour late. Fritz opened the door, holding a glass of champagne. “Here she is, late for her own party.” He leaned forward to drop a kiss on my cheek. “Love the shoes, Grimble. Did you jog here?”
I was confused, and a little alarmed. Fritz looked almost criminally handsome. His gleaming hair had been cut. He had shaved. The new Paul Smith suit was frighteningly trendy, and with a checked pattern loud as a foghorn. It wasn't what I would have chosen for him, but that was the whole point. He was being himself. He was elegant and flamboyant and incredibly sexy.
The basement flat had undergone a similar transformation. I even thought Phoebe might have overdone it slightlyâ1 recognized a lamp and two Persian rugs from the poor short-sighted woman's bedroom. The dining table was set with Phoebe's creamy damask cloth. Fritz had rejected the candelabra, and the brown stain was covered instead with a glass vase of lilies. In the kitchen section of the room, Neil bobbed between various seething pans. He blushed and smiled at me through wreaths of fragrant steam.
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