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Authors: Kate Saunders

Bachelor Boys (32 page)

BOOK: Bachelor Boys
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She made a real German Stollen cake, I remembered. Fritz had loved it.
Phoebe used to say, “This is how you catch a man—you bake him something stodgy and sweet, and he'll never leave your side again.”
Thanks, I told her shade, I'll take the hint. I decided to bake Fritz the best damn Stollen this side of the Black Forest. My spirits were lifting. What was I thinking? Why was I assuming Ruth would be doing the cooking? Ruth was a very indifferent cook. I was a good one—I'd been taught by Phoebe.
I was going to take charge of the cooking. I was going to spend hours of scented serenity in Ruth's cramped kitchen, mixing cakes while listening to Radio Four. Something shifted in my mind, and I was suddenly looking forward to it. Phoebe had left me her box of cookery books. I hadn't been able to bear looking at these precious volumes, which were penciled all over with her notes and amendments. Now I needed them. If I planned to take Phoebe's place on Christmas Day, I needed all the help she could give me.
I filled two large baskets with every imaginable delicacy.
I halted, on my way to the till, to pick up a large bag of gold and silver chocolate coins.
“Oh. Cassie,” said someone beside me. “Hi.”
It was Peason, magnificent in scarlet sheepskin.
I wasn't pleased to see her, but thinking of intensive cooking had left me with a genial glow. “Felicity. Hi. How are you?”
“Pretty exhausted, actually.” She didn't look exhausted. She was
carrying one bottle of Cointreau. “Don't you find this time of year incredibly stressful? Or perhaps it's just me.” She glanced down at my heaped baskets. “God, you've bought tons.”
“I'll be cooking for four people.”
“Cooking!” Peason shuddered. Then she made a sour face. “Oh, of course. You'll be going down to bumfuck-on-sea for Fritz's panto.”
I couldn't resist. “Yes, won't it be fun? When are you coming to see it?”
Peason said, “Look, I might as well tell you. I'm not going out with that shit any more.”
Oh, joy and rapture and merry Christmas to everyone—I nearly keeled over with the sudden injection of hope.
I said, “I'm sorry,” over the Hallelujah Chorus inside my head. Fritz was single again, and I was still in with a chance.
“He just turned out to be totally selfish and unreasonable.” Peason pouted, which really beautiful people can do without seeming halfwitted. “It was the house that did it in the end.”
Again, why should I resist? “Would that be because he refused to let you move in with him?”
A cloud of suspicion crossed her eyes, then passed. She didn't really care what I thought. “Oh, he told you. Well, don't you think he was being rather stupid? I gave him a chance to stay in his gorgeous house.”
“And you gave yourself a chance to get a gorgeous house at half-price,” I said.
“Precisely. You'd think he'd be grateful. But he actually wants to move out. He actually wants to buy himself a flat in some appalling part of town. Fine—but he can't expect me to go there with him.”
She paid for her Cointreau, then stood watching as I unloaded my baskets.
“I simply don't understand him,” she said. “I know people thought we made a fantastic team. I wanted us to be a power couple with a house in Hampstead. It would have been brilliant for his career.” She sighed. “But he doesn't seem to want a career.”
She hung around while I signed away a huge sum on my whited sepulcher of a credit card, and watched, with faint interest, while I stuffed four bags with my purchases. With two bags in each hand, I staggered toward the doors. Peason strolled elegantly beside me, cradling her Cointreau.
“Anyway,” she said, “he was getting dull. You should go for him.”
Cheeky cow. I refused to answer.
“He doesn't fancy you,” she went on, “but there's things you could do about that. He's not in a position to be fussy if he insists on moving to Crouch End.”
The security guards had changed shifts. This new man at the door was tall, black and extremely handsome. He was sitting on a camp stool, reading a yellow paperback—good grief, Flaubert in French. It could only be Claudette's brother, the most ornamental security guard in London, and the most useless (you remember—the one who was chucked out of Cambridge for sleeping all day).
I let my bags drop to the floor. “Pierre!”
He looked up. “Cassie—Cassie Shaw!” He jumped to his feet to embrace me, mainly triumphant that he had remembered my name. “Happy Christmas—how are you?”
I had to tilt my head up to look at him. Claudette took after Mrs. Nboki, a plump little hamster of a Frenchwoman. Pierre was a clone of Dr. Nboki, their princely Nigerian father, who used to appear at school events fabulously attired in gold-embroidered robes.
“I thought you were working in a nightclub,” I said.
“I was, but it was getting too heavy,” Pierre said. “I have a peaceable nature and I don't like aggression. You don't get nearly so much trouble in a Hampstead food shop. And the hours are better.” He glanced aside at Peason.
She said, “Hello, do I know you?” She was smiling all over her face—all over her entire body, in fact. Her lustrous eyes gaped an invitation.
Who could have ignored that shrieking signal? Certainly not Pierre Nboki, once the Errol Flynn of University College School.
He switched on his famously seductive smile. “I'm Pierre. I think you might know my sister, Claudette.”
“My God,” Peason murmured. “
You're
Claudette's brother?” She matched his smile. The two smiles locked and fused, generating a sexual charge you could almost see. “You don't look anything like her.”
I had a life to get on with. I had to drive down to the coast. I wished Pierre and Peason good-bye and merry Christmas, and left the two beauties standing together in the doorway, entirely absorbed in one another's
infatuated gazes. Yes, I had done it again. It looked as if the Little Matchmaker Girl had made another match (I was right; Pierre took up residence in St. John's Wood shortly afterward).
What, I wondered, was I doing for other people that I couldn't do for myself?
I
n the last gray rags of twilight, Ruth's town was desolate. The only sounds were the sawing of the wind and the constant boom of the waves. The only splashes of color were the posters for
Aladdin
at the Theatre Royal, showing Len Batty in a red wig and striped stockings, his garishly painted face frozen in a rictus of jollity. I wondered how this place could possibly muster the audiences for a pantomime when it didn't seem to have a population.
Driving along the deserted esplanade, where small tufts of seaweed smacked into the windscreen and tangled in the wipers, I fought off depression. It was Christmas, and I was not going home to Phoebe. The entire thing still seemed pointless without her.
I'll admit, I was surprised to feel the sadness lifting when I pulled up outside Ruth's flint cottage. There was a wreath of holly on the door, tied to the knocker with a scarlet ribbon. The door opened and Ruth came out to meet me.
I sprang out of the car—mainly because it was so good to have someone to spring out at—and we hugged, with more warmth than usual. Ruth, looking at me keenly, asked me how I was.
“I'm fine,” I said. “When I'm down, I remind myself how much worse it must be for Fritz.”
Ruth let out one of her dry cackles. “Oh, I shouldn't worry about him. He's a whirlwind of energy. Made me stop work to help with the decorations.”
She shut the front door, muting the roar of the waves, and I thought
the little firelit sitting room looked charming. Ruth had added more cushions since my last visit, and there was another of George's paintings—a sunny watercolor of a famous local lighthouse. A Christmas tree twinkled in one corner. There were sprigs of holly in the picture frames. Phoebe had always done this, and I thought I recognized the hand of Fritz. Ruth had no idea about things like Christmas decorations.
George emerged from the kitchen, wearing a striped apron and a yachting cap and clutching a spatula. I kissed him, and he said he was glad I was here, because I could give him some advice about cooking.
Ruth said, “She's only just arrived. Don't put her straight to work.”
I followed George into the narrow kitchen. A pallid, deformed and generally inadequate chicken sat in the middle of a large roasting pan. George had been about to shove this into the oven without seasoning, herbs or even a decent burial. Of course I had to intervene. Suddenly, my blood was up. I took the roasting pan into custody and asked George to bring in my boxes and bags of food.
I spent a peaceful couple of hours cooking the chicken, eking it out with roast potatoes and spicy Spanish sausages. Ruth came in. She poured us both glasses of red wine and leaned against the counter, watching me.
“You remind me of Phoebe,” she said.
“Do I? How?”
“You associate kitchens with relaxation.”
“As opposed to what?”
“Drudgery. Resentment.”
“Oh.” I wished Ruth would get some idea of small talk. I said, “I suppose I must have picked up at least a few of Phoebe's habits.”
“Of course you have. And her system of values.”
“I've never found a better system.”
“Oh,” Ruth said, “don't misunderstand me. I'm not criticizing. Phoebe was, in the most unambiguous sense, what is called ‘good.' She brought you up when I couldn't.”
We were embarrassed. I busied myself basting the chicken. Ruth was not worried by silence, and sat like a slab, eyes hooded in thought.
At last, in what was for her a lighter voice, she observed, “You're making a lot of food.”
“No I'm not.” The moment of near-closeness was over, and I relaxed. “There's four of us, don't forget.”
Fritz was not expected back until after midnight (George told me this; he was fascinated by the goings-on at the theater, and knew Fritz's callsheet by heart). Fritz erupted among us, however, just as I was carving the chicken. His face was covered with a waxy layer of yellowish-brown foundation. His eyes were outlined in black and turned up at the corners. He had an hour's dinner break, and had run through the town in his makeup to see me.
I was ridiculously happy to see him. He ate a huge supper with great speed, bombarding me with questions about Ben and Annabel, and entrancing George with a vivid account of a disastrous technical rehearsal.
He glanced at the clock. “Cass, are you tired?”
“No.”
“Do you fancy taking a walk with me, back to the theater?”
“She'll be blown away,” George said, “little thing like her.”
As if to illustrate this, the wind keened around the house. But I wanted to talk to Fritz. I put on my thickest coat, and we went out into the cold salt air. I clutched his arm, trotting to keep up with his long strides. We had to shout at each other to be heard above the wind and the waves.
Fritz said, “You were right.”
“What?”
“You were RIGHT. About Peason.”
“I know I was right,” I shouted. “How incredible that you should see it too.”
“Don't rub it in.”
“Sorry”
“She was after a cut-price house. She wouldn't follow me to the ends of the earth.”
“Did you ask?”
He laughed briefly. “She wasn't even ashamed—didn't see any reason why she should be. Ruth says brazen lack of conscience can be a sign of bipolar disorder in its manic phase.”
I tried, and failed, to imagine Fritz discussing his love life with Ruth.
“You don't seem very grief-stricken about it,” I said. “I knew, anyway. I ran into her this morning.”
“It's over, Grimble.”
“Sorry?”
“It's OVER. Me and Peason.”
“Hurrah!”
“I knew you'd be pleased.”
We had been making our way, heads bowed, along the esplanade. We turned into one of the narrow lanes that led up to the high street. The wind was immediately quieter. Fritz halted.
“Seriously, I think I went crazy. You're worth ten of her, if you want to know.” He took something out of his pocket. “Better-looking, too. And I wanted to give you something. It's not a Christmas present.”
He gave me a little box. I recognized it, and cried out with delight when I opened it. Inside was the forget-me-not ring. The tiny sapphire petals glinted in the orange light of the street lamp above us.
“It's really from Phoebe,” Fritz said. “I thought you should have it. After all, we were engaged—only for a couple of hours, but you deserve to get something out of it. You made her so ridiculously happy.”
“Thank you. It's wonderful. Thank you.”
“Put it on.”
I pulled off my gloves. I plucked the ring from its setting of bald velvet. For a fraction of a second, I hesitated over which finger to put it on. It couldn't be my left hand, or he'd think I expected a wedding. I slid it on to the fourth finger of my right hand. It fitted perfectly. It looked exquisite. I loved it.
And there we were—in a side street outside a shuttered tattoo parlor, both a little lower than the angels. I didn't care that it wasn't a proper engagement, or even a declaration of love. I didn't care that I was gazing sentimentally into the painted face of Wishee-Washee. I was happy because I saw and sensed his tenderness. I was wrapped in warmth, light as a summer's day.
“You're cold,” he said. “Come into the theater.”
“No, I said I'd go straight back.”
“Just for a minute. I'd like you to meet Len.”
I was suddenly shy. “Oh no, not now.”
Fritz laughed and grabbed the hand with the ring. “Come on, you can't miss this. Len's the best thing about this wretched job.”
He hurried me to the high street. The front of the Theater Royal—emblazoned with more posters of Len Batty—was dark, but light spilled into a shadowy alley that ran down one side. The stage door stood open. Two women were smoking outside. Both were plastered in makeup, and when you got close they looked about sixteen. They giggled when they saw me.
“Evening, ladies,” Fritz said. To me he whispered, “Dancers, poor little things,” as if this explained everything.
Inside the dirty warmth of the stage door, all was noise and confusion—the inner workings of a theater are baffling to an outsider. I heard disembodied shouts, loud hammering, and the same ten bars of “Search for the Hero Inside Yourself,” played over and over on a loudspeaker. More dancers, caked in paint and wearing silver bikinis, were sharing a grease-spotted paper of chips beside a grimy institutional radiator.
It was fascinating to see the nuts and bolts behind the glitter. Fritz knew I would be fascinated. Keeping a tight hold of my hand (we were nearly severed by two stagehands carrying a gaudy painted flat of a Chinese house), he led me through a maze of fire buckets and dangling ropes until we suddenly emerged into a blaze of light. We were in the wings, looking out at the glare of the stage.
Len Batty sat on a low chair nearby. His famous basset-hound face was made up with lipstick and rouge. His thinning hair was covered with a wig-stocking, which made him look as if the top of his head had been sawed off. He wore a yellow bathrobe over a corset and comic bloomers, and he was eating a cheese roll.
“Ay-up, Fred,” said the famous voice. “Where did you get to at dinner, then?”
“I went back to my digs,” Fritz said. “I brought Cassie back.”
Len Batty looked at me, chewing imperturbably. It was a strange feeling, rather like being inspected by a fictional character. “So you're Cassie,” he said. “Young Fred here never stops talking about you.”
Fritz grinned. “He refuses to call me Fritz.”
“My dog's called Fritz, that's why,” Len Batty said. “It's no name for a human.” Under the paint, his face was tired. “By the way,” he said to Fritz, “I got us more time for that change. The horse is set to do a tap dance.”
Before I could interpret this, a man's voice shouted, “Okay, people—taking the song from the top—”
The milling about intensified. Len Batty finished his roll with a sigh. “No rest for the wicked. Nice to meet you, Cassie.”
Fritz dropped a kiss on my cheek and returned to his dressing room. I ran back to Ruth's through the shuttered town, and found Ruth and George settled comfortably over the fire. In my new, happier mood, I wanted to laugh—they looked such dear old souls. Who would have imagined Ruth turning into such a thing?
George closed his book (O'Brien,
The Wine-Dark Sea),
and stood up, waving me into his chair. “Come and get warm—would you like a hot toddy?”
“I recommend it,” Ruth said, glancing over the top of the
New Statesman.
“It's mostly whiskey.”
“I'd love one,” I told him.
George beamed. “Good-oh.” He went off to the kitchen, his slippers flapping against the floor tiles. I took the slippers as an emblem of his establishment here.
Reading my mind, Ruth said, “George is living here now.”
“I think that's excellent,” I said. “I hope it means you're going to marry him.”
She shut the magazine and gave me one of her rare, rusty smiles. “I don't know about that. Neither of us is going anywhere. Seriously, you like him, don't you?”
I was touched that she minded what I thought. “I like him very much,” I said. “He's lovely. I just wish I could find someone half as lovely for myself.”
Ruth smiled, eyeing me curiously. “That's a very pretty ring.”
My face was hot. “Fritz gave it to me. It was Phoebe's.”
“But it's on your right hand.”
“Yes. It's not that sort of ring.”
She was still looking at me, with an unaccustomed softness in her face—though this might have been the effect of the firelight. She said,
“You're very pretty at the moment. I think it must mean that you'll be happy again sooner than you think.”
“You're happy, aren't you?” I said. “I've never seen you so happy.”
Ruth's eyes widened at the boldness of this, the intimacy. But she was pleased. “I am happy, actually. George has a very restful presence, and a capacity for cheerfulness that I find quite amazing. This is why I was keen to introduce him to Phoebe. I wanted to show George that I recognized his species.”
I would never have thought of comparing George and Phoebe, but now saw that there was a kind of similarity between them. They shared an outlook; they struck the same chords and created the same trustful atmospheres. George was pom-pomming to himself in the kitchen. Like Phoebe's, his singing was a constant and reassuring lullaby.
BOOK: Bachelor Boys
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