Every Woman for Herself (28 page)

‘I’d like to get carried away, too, but it’s late, and I’ve got to go and collect Caitlin’s things from Mother’s house before you do your nanny act at the Savoy.’

‘Oh God – is that where the reception is?’

‘It’s all arranged. Someone will show you where Kathleen and Caitlin are, there’ll be a couple of quick photos, and then you get back in the taxi and come here.’

‘And then we can all go home?’

‘Then we can all go home,’ he agreed, smiling. ‘But first, we’ve got to go to Mother’s.’

‘We?’

‘She just phoned up. She wants to meet you.’

I don’t know about
meet
me – it was more like I’d been granted a short, royal audience.

Mace’s mother was a tall, strong-boned woman with cropped white hair and the same slightly slanting dark blue eyes. She was wearing cord trousers tucked into short laced boots and a jumper that had seen better days.

‘Well,’ she said, surveying me doubtfully through the first of a series of rank cigarettes, ‘you’re a shrimp, aren’t you? Still, at least you’re not skinny – and they do say size isn’t everything!’

I looked helplessly at Mace; all he’d told me about his mother was that she’d always spent at least half the year travelling abroad, wherever the fancy took her, both before and after she was widowed. He hadn’t told me what she was like.

‘Go away, Mace,’ she ordered. ‘Put Caitlin’s stuff in the car, and I’ll send Charlotte down to you in ten minutes.’

‘So,’ she said, as soon as he’d gone, ‘Mace has told me all about you. Met your father – man’s a handsome fool.’

‘He’s not really my father,’ I confessed. ‘I’ve just told Mace that actually it was someone else.’

‘Oh?’ She lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of the first and blew smoke rings. I hoped they spelled out SOS and Mace would come back and rescue me. ‘Does everyone know?’

‘Only the family, and we’ve only just found out. My brother, Branwell, has the same father: Brendan Furness, the poet.’

‘Mmm. Know the family, and at least he’s dead, so no messy ends. So, has it broken you all up? Destroyed this strange Rhymer clan Mace’s been going on about, and Caitlin’s itching to get back to? Speak up!’

‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘No, if anything it’s made us closer. Stronger.’

‘Good, because it’s attractive to Mace, this family business,’ she said, striding about the room. ‘He never had one. I travelled, did my own thing – wasn’t fashionable, but hell, you only get one life! Hubert – Mace’s father – did his own thing too. Handsome, boring man – big mistake. I should never have married, though the money was useful. Mace had a nanny.’

That explained a lot.

‘He wants a family – that’s why he married that actress when she got pregnant – she trapped him nicely! But now he seems to want you, too.’ She looked at me again. ‘So, do you love him?’

‘What?’ I stammered. ‘Well, yes, but – I mean, I didn’t want to. I don’t want to get married again, either. And anyway,’ I added, becoming indignant, ‘you obviously didn’t want to do the homemaking wife bit so you should understand that neither do I. I’ve already had one go, and I didn’t like it. It wastes too much time and I’ve got other fish to fry.’

‘He’s got money,’ she said abruptly. ‘He’s got fame, he’s got looks. All he wants from you is for you to be yourself and let him love you. You go away and think about that. Maybe I haven’t been the perfect mother, but I’d like him to be happy now – and you seem to be what he wants.’ She turned away abruptly. ‘There, I’ve had my say.’

As I was leaving she added, over her shoulder: ‘By the way, Mace gave me a copy of
Skint Old Northern Woman
. Liked it.’

‘I’m so glad,’ I said coldly. ‘I like it too, and I think my readers might think it a bit of a cop-out if the editor suddenly married your son, don’t you?’

‘No,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Having met you, I think you’re dyed-in-the-wool skint old northern woman all the way through, and nothing’s going to change you.’

Kathleen looked vaguely at the mac, round glasses, and fringe of mousy hair sticking out from under the hat. ‘Charlie? You look different.’

Caitlin, after an amazed scrutiny, threw herself at me, giggling hysterically. She was clearly overtired, overexcited and overwrought, so I picked her up, meringue dress and all. Her little face pressed against mine felt worryingly hot.

‘Just a few quick snaps,’ murmured Kathleen, arranging us with a series of small tugs. ‘Now, if Caitlin leans forward towards me …’

As Mace predicted, Kathleen was centre-front to the camera lens, kissing her daughter in a fond farewell.

The photos should be deeply touching, though, because Caitlin’s raised, flushed face was running with tears – only I knew they were really overexcited tears of hilarity at Nanny’s appearance, not regret.

‘Can we go now, Charlie?’ she demanded after a few minutes of this. ‘Mummy, is that it?’

‘Yes, darling,’ Kathleen said. ‘The whole wedding was a
Hello!
exclusive. Now, give Mummy a kiss goodbye – I’ll have to get back to the party.’

‘No,’ Caitlin said firmly. ‘There’s been too much kissing already.’ And she turned her head away.

‘She’s tired, Mrs – Mrs Steigland,’ I said, just remembering in time who she’d married. ‘It’s been an exciting day for her. Shall I take her away, now? In fact,’ I said, looking cautiously down at Caitlin’s suddenly sober, and slightly awry expression, ‘I think she’s going to be sick!’

Kathleen took a step back: ‘Oh, darling – I told you not to eat two lots of crème brûlée! Yes, do take her away, Nanny, and – er, Mummy will phone, darling …’

Fortunately there were no photographers to see when Caitlin threw up behind a convenient pillar outside, only a disgusted doorman and two arriving guests, and although the taxi driver was reluctant to let us get into his cab, I assured him that should Caitlin feel that she had to chunder again, she could do it into my handbag.

Well, maybe it wasn’t strictly speaking
my
handbag, but the staid clasp-top leather job Mace had borrowed with the nanny outfit.

Fortunately this extreme measure didn’t prove necessary, Caitlin having recovered her colour, but not her bounce, by the time we got to Mace’s house. He carried her in, half-asleep, and put her straight on the sofa for a little nap.

She looked like a rather flushed and dishevelled cherub.

‘She’ll probably feel better by the time we’re ready to go,’ Mace said.

‘I think she felt better as soon as she’d thrown up,’ I said.

‘Too much excitement for one day, but at least she doesn’t get car sick, and she looks tired enough to sleep most of the way there.’

I yawned, and itched under the wig. No wonder Walter never wears his! ‘I’ll go and change out of this awful outfit.’

‘Do you want any help?’ he offered, a gleam in his eyes. ‘Only you look pretty grim in that uniform, and I’d enjoy helping you remove it.’

‘No, thank you,’ I said primly. ‘Caitlin might wake up.’

I sincerely hoped he didn’t have a nanny fixation, after practically being brought up by one, because I had no intention of ever donning that get-up again.

Back in the Parsonage kitchen with Anne and Em, Flossie on my knee, I described my adventures.

Well,
some
of them – the ones that didn’t need an X certificate.

It was late, and Mace had dropped me at my door and gone straight on down to the cottage, with Caitlin fast asleep in the back of the car in her child seat, tucked up in a bunny rug. She was still wearing the crumpled meringue dress, but at least she hadn’t been sick again.

The house was quiet; Chris was staying down at the Vicarage, Father and Jess had gone out, and the twins were in bed. Bran was quietly sitting at the far end of the kitchen table, doing a big jigsaw puzzle of an Alpine scene.

It had been an action-packed trip in more ways than one, and I felt exhausted and sort of stunned by the experience. Jet-lagged. It was good to sit there with a mug of cocoa in my hands and a plate of Em’s macaroons in front of me, fondling Flossie’s silky ears.

‘So how’s Mace, Chaz?’ Anne asked. ‘Is he absolutely shattered too?’

‘He’s not the man I took him for if he isn’t,’ Em remarked.

‘Mace behaved like a perfect gentleman,’ I said evasively, not mentioning that unfortunately
my
behaviour hadn’t reached the same standard.

‘Bad luck, Chaz,’ Anne said sympathetically. ‘Maybe the potion’s worn off then?’

‘No it hasn’t. He still wants to marry me, though I don’t know why. I mean, things are all right as they are, aren’t they?’

‘Apart from the fact that you may not have a home of your own much longer,’ Em said. ‘Jessica and Father must have seen every house for sale in Upvale.’

‘Have they? But I’m sure he can’t be serious – he wouldn’t really sell the Parsonage?’

‘Jessica’s been working her wiles on him. He’s started to say how cosy it would be with just the two of them, and the girls, presumably, in a little home of their own.’

‘That doesn’t sound like Father. And it can’t be that small, either, because of all the books, and a study so he can work.’

‘And a big bedroom, with lots of effing wardrobes,’ Anne added.

‘Let’s not think about it until after Christmas,’ Em said. ‘We’ll make this the best Rhymer family Christmas ever, and Chris and I are getting married the day after tomorrow.’

‘Oh, Em! Is it all arranged?’

‘Three ceremonies in one day – register office, church porch blessing and then a little rite up on the moors with Xanthe, Freya and Lilith. Chris says he wants to be sure he’s covered all the angles.’

‘I think that should do it. Is it just family?’

‘Mace and Caitlin can come if they like, and I don’t mind the twins. That Jessica will come whether I want her or not. Then Chris is moving in here with me while we look for a place of our own – but not an effing Mango Home.’

‘Oh, Em, if only you and Anne hadn’t put all that money into
Skint Old Northern Woman
, you’d have much more to spend on a cottage now!’

‘It’s taking off. Going to be a cult thing, I think,’ Anne said thoughtfully. ‘Get our investment back.’

‘Yes, and it could give Chris a job too, in case he’s at a loose end now he’s retired. And then Charlie can concentrate on writing the articles for the next one, and her painting – and Mace.’

‘It will certainly be good to get back to my painting again: I’ve got an idea, a new theme.’ It was the combination of Mace, and the lush greenery in that outrageous conservatory … ‘I met Mace’s mother. She’s mad.’

‘Well, we can’t effing talk,’ Em said. ‘What was Mace’s house like?’

‘You’d like it, Em. Parts of it are just like the Parsonage, only comfortable, and the conservatory has a little domed glass roof, and a fountain. Oh, and the garden is long and surrounded by trees and bushes, you could be in the country!’

‘So you quite liked it then?’ Anne said drily. ‘What about London?’

‘Mace’s part is more like a village, with a little shopping street, and a park. We didn’t go anywhere else except the theatre – someone took our photo coming out – and he introduced me to lots of people. Some of them looked a bit familiar, so I expect they were actors and stuff,’ I said vaguely. ‘They were all quite friendly and sort of ordinary, except for a couple of women who snubbed me, so it was all right. If they don’t delete me from that picture of Mace, though, you’ll probably be able to see right through my nightie.’

‘If so, let’s hope it says who you are,’ Em commented. ‘It’ll give the magazine a bit more coverage.’

‘If you can see through Charlie’s dress, she’ll probably get lots of effing coverage,’ Anne said. ‘What’s in the carrier bag, Charlie? Prezzies?’

‘One present – for Walter.’

I fished out the bobbed nanny wig, looking like a flaccid ferret, and the polystyrene head. ‘Mace got the wig to go with the nanny disguise, in case anyone recognised me – the article on the magazine’s about to come out. He didn’t want it back, so I thought I’d gift-wrap it for Walter for Christmas. What do you think?’

I arranged the wig on the head, and they studied the effect.

‘It’s quite Good King Wenceslas, isn’t it?’ Em said. ‘He’ll love it. I tell you what, I’ll make a wreath of gilded artificial ivy and berries to go round it. That will finish it off.’

Bran, who’d been slapping jigsaw pieces into place with great speed, now looked up and said: ‘Finished.’

‘So it is,’ Em said. She looked at her watch: ‘One hour and twenty minutes, Bran. I think that’s a record. Are you going to turn it over and do the other side?’

‘No. Might go up to the pub.’

‘Well, Ran and Jess are there, and Walter.’

Bran went off to find his coat, and once he was out of earshot I said, ‘Mace managed to find a copy of that book Bran wanted – I don’t know how. It’s in America, but it’s coming Federal Express, or something.’

‘Well, bugger me!’ Anne said.

Skint Old Bookworm, No. 3

If the bestseller charts and the literary prizes were judged on the actual numbers of books sold by the authors, Mills & Boon writers would probably occupy most of the top places. However, these can safely be left out of the equation, since they are only writing for women, a mere half of the world’s population.

Em had a white wedding. It snowed.

Fortunately it was just a light sprinkling, enough to make everything look pretty, but not stop Chris’s friend, another motorbiking vicar, from getting here to officiate.

Em looked lovely in the tawny velvet gown, with a dark cloak for warmth, loaned for the occasion by Freya – very
Wuthering Heights
, although actually Em is more Heathcliff than Chris is.

Love kept her warm; the rest of us dressed like Nanook of the North or Hell’s Vicars – or teddy bears, in Caitlin’s case.

We drove in a small procession from venue to venue, ending with the bumpy track up to the standing stones, then we all retired back to the Parsonage, where Gloria and Walter laid out a buffet prepared by Em, and had a party.

I think I made rather an impression with the visiting vicar, using my newly acquired flirting skills, until he noticed Mace glowering at him and sheered off; but it was quite encouraging, what with that and the two men in London, because at least
they
hadn’t had any love philtre and yet still obviously fancied me.