Just Friends (43 page)

Jack scanned the crowd again, looking for Freya. She had stayed behind after the ceremony to pose for photographs, and he hadn’t seen her since. There had been no chance to talk, though he sensed an unspoken communication between them as they sat shoulder to shoulder in enforced silence, listening to the words of the service: “for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish . . .” Cheap sentiment, he had told himself. But he was glad that he hadn’t deserted her.

Meanwhile, he did his duty. He talked to the vicar. He chatted to Annabelle. He complimented Polly and Lulu on their dresses—pink, tight to the knee, then fanning out into a kind of frill; truthfully they looked like a pair of cooked prawns. When Vicky waved him over, he allowed himself to be introduced to her mother, a plump woman with a smiling mouth and a sharp, inquisitive gaze, standing foursquare on thick ankles.

“So, you’re the new boyfriend?” Her eyes raked over him, as if she was judging “best dog” at the local show. She gave a tiny sigh. “
Dear
Freya . . . I remember when she first came down here, trailing about the place like a little lost waif. ‘Boarding school,’ I said to Annabelle; ‘it’s the only answer. Girls her own age, plenty of fresh air, and lots of stodge to build her up.’ Mind you, she still looks half starved. I expect it’s living in New York. One reads about these single girls, all desperate to be married, heading for middle age and still trying to look like teenage models, wearing themselves to the bone with their ‘careers.’ One is so thankful that one’s own daughter—”

“Desperate to be married?” Jack, who had been growing steadily angrier at this trickle of poison, threw back his head and gave a rich, dismissive laugh. “My dear Mrs. Carp, Freya wouldn’t even
think
of tying herself down to some boring husband. She’s having much too good a time. Even if someone persuaded her to get married, I can’t imagine her giving up her job. She’s too good at it. Did you hear how she sold a piece by one of her artists to Tom Cruise?”

Hilda Carp’s eyes widened. “The actor?”

“Or was it Dustin Hoffman? Serious collectors watch her like a hawk, you know.”

“Really?” Jack could see her swelling with the freight of this ingot of gossip.

At that moment Jack caught sight of Freya emerging from the house and stepping across the lawn like a racehorse. She was looking sensational in some dress thing that was cut low at the top and high at the bottom: his favorite kind. Her hat was wonderfully ridiculous, in a defiant,
so-whaddya-looking-at-buddy?
way that seemed to him pure essence of Freya. He liked the way it emphasized her elegant neck and cast intriguing shadows on her face. He raised his hand to attract her attention and caught her smile of relief, quickly replaced by wariness when she saw who he was talking to. His protective instincts rose.

“Sweetheart, where have you been?” he called out, as she approached.

“There’s been a flap about the cake. I was helping Annabelle.”

“That’s nice of you.” He put his arm around her waist and gave her an approving squeeze. He felt her resistance and tightened his grip. It gave him an ignoble thrill to know that, having brought him here for precisely such playacting, she could hardly rebuff his intimacies in public. Besides, she smelled delicious.

“Excuse us, will you, Mrs. Carp?” he said. “I have got to get some champagne into this woman.”

“Oh—yes—I quite understand.” Vicky’s mother moved respectfully out of their way, as if yielding to royalty. “You look lovely, Freya,” she called after them in an ingratiating voice.

“What on earth have you been saying to the old cat?” Freya demanded, once they were out of earshot. “She’s practically purring.”

“Just telling her how wonderful you are.”

“Oh.”

“That all you can say?”

He felt her rib cage rise and fall under his hand. “Thank you, Jack. You are marvelous. How’s that?”

“It’s a start.” He let go of her for a moment to swipe a glass of champagne off a passing tray, then handed it to her with a smile and clinked his glass to hers.

Freya took a long, slow sip, eyeing him beneath her hat brim. “No need to overact,” she told him. But she was smiling.

Freya put down her dessert spoon with a contented sigh. The lunch had been delicious, the wine plentiful, the company amusing. She felt soothed by the hum of conversation, and pleasantly lethargic in the warm air trapped inside the marquee. Jack was on cracking form—funny, attentive, equally adept at debating American politics with Toby or encouraging one of Tash’s friends in her ambition to write a novel. It was relaxing to listen to the familiar cadences of his voice and feel the presence of his arm resting casually across the back of her chair.

She had misjudged him by thinking he would let her down. His disappearance had been perfectly understandable: his masculine pride was hurt, and it had taken him time to recover. She remembered what her father had said this morning about forgiveness and compassion, and decided to be especially nice to him. Jack had recently suffered two major blows: first the loss of financial support from his father, then the cancellation of his book contract. Then he had made a pass at her—probably out of some psychological need to assert himself—and she had rejected him. Quite rightly, of course, but that wasn’t the point. What was the point? . . . For a moment Freya pictured his face in the moonlight when he had kissed her—when she had kissed him. She straightened in her chair and crossed her legs. A woman could hardly be held responsible for the way her body behaved, especially under the influence of alcohol. Probably she had still been suffering from some kind of purely physical frustration after her disappointment with Brett—was it really only a week ago? The point was . . . Freya’s eyes rested on Jack’s profile as he talked about agents and publishers and advances. The haircut had been a very good idea. It emphasized the rounded shape of his head and his strong masculine features. He really looked quite—
The point was,
she reminded herself, that she and Jack were friends again. Yes, that was it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a peremptory clinking of cutlery on glass, a signal for silence. This was a moment she had been dreading. She moved her chair to face the wedding table and watched her father rise to his feet, swallowing her jealousy as she prepared to listen to him praise the bride.

He looked very handsome, tall and straight in a dove-gray tailcoat teamed with a wildly unauthentic pink tie. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, surveying his guests with a benign smile. “I am a lucky man.” There was a warm ripple of appreciation. “I have had the joy of watching Natasha grow up from a beguiling three-year-old into the beautiful and charming young woman you see today. I remember . . .”

Freya twisted her hands in her lap and stared at the coconut matting. It was a good speech—affectionate and urbane, with an edge of that self-deprecating humor she loved. He was welcoming to Roland. He praised Annabelle. He paid tribute to Tash’s real father, who had died so young and whose relatives he was delighted to welcome today. He was graceful and courteous. Freya could not help feeling proud.

“. . . and another way in which I am lucky is that I do, of course, have
two
daughters.”

Freya looked up, startled.

“I am particularly pleased that my daughter Freya is able to be with us today, along with her friend Jack. For those of you who don’t know, Freya leads a very successful and fulfilled life in New York—in fact, I am relying on her to keep me in my old age. She is the best of companions as well as a beautiful young woman—thanks to her mother, I may say. I love her, and I am proud of her. This event would not be complete without her presence. Thank you for coming, darling.”

Freya bent her head to hide her face. Her heart was full. He had not forgotten her. He was still her daddy.

His speech came to an end; now Roland stood up to embark on his long list of thank-yous. As Freya’s father sat down, he misjudged the position of his chair and stumbled slightly. It was nothing—nobody else seemed to notice—but Freya saw with a kind of panic that he was indeed getting old. One day, not too far from now, she would lose him forever. Instinctively she turned to Jack and found that he was watching her. He smiled reassuringly, as though he could read her mind.

The audience was laughing now. Roland had sat down. Heavens, it was good old Sponge! She must pay attention. “Marriage is a field of battle,” he was saying, “not a bed of roses.”

How strange. That was just what her father had been trying to tell her this morning, about his marriage to her mother. Perhaps she’d been pursuing quite the wrong idea of relationships all these years, expecting them to meet some ideal of perfection and destroying them when they didn’t. Now she thought about it, a bed of roses sounded rather insipid. For a moment she glimpsed an alternative view of men and women as sparring partners, continually testing each other’s strengths and discovering their own weaknesses—combative but not destructive, giving as good as they got, knocking each other into shape. It sounded a lot less boring than lying around on smelly old flowers. It sounded exciting—an adventure.

“. . . to Roland and Tash!” Damn, she had missed Sponge’s speech, though his huge grin indicated that it had been a hit. Freya raised her glass in a toast and took a sip of champagne, enjoying the fizz on her tongue. Impulsively she turned to Jack and clinked glasses with him. “Thanks for coming, Jack. It’s made all the difference.” Her words surprised them both.

The mood relaxed. Cigarettes were lit. The chatter resumed. Everyone started to get up from their tables and spill out into the fresh air. Freya was about to do the same when Hilda Carp’s voice swooped close to her ear. “Freya,
dearest.
Could you spare a mo? I have a favor to ask. The thing is: Do you think you could possibly get me Tom Cruise’s autograph?”

“We could could show him our old haunts in Brooklyn—take him to Ambrosio’s to say hi,” Jack said persuasively.

“I don’t know . . .”

“And that Japanese place with the live shrimp.”

“Mmm . . .”

“What about a football game?”

“The thing is, I don’t have a place for him to stay.”

“He won’t care where he stays. It’s you he wants to see. He’s your father. He loves you.”

Freya bent her head. “I know.”

“So, do it! In fact, why not go the whole hog and get yourself a decent, permanent apartment. Then you can throw a party for him.”

“A party?” This was a daunting idea.

“Sure. I’d help you.”

“Would you really?”

Jack and Freya were sitting together in a saggy old swing-seat half-hidden in a cave of yew, lazily watching the guests crisscross the lawn. The cake had been cut. Roland and Tash had gone upstairs to change. The sunshine still held, bestowing a mellow glow on the proceedings. After the speeches Freya had mentioned to Jack that she was thinking of inviting her father to New York for a visit, and was surprised by his immediate enthusiasm. Freya still wasn’t sure, but it was fun to be planning treats for him with Jack.

“What a happy day!” The vicar’s wife had paused on the path in front of them and was beaming into their hideaway.

“Yes, it’s been great.” Freya smiled.

“Don’t they make a lovely couple?”

“Yes,” she repeated tranquilly.

“Who knows, perhaps it will be your turn next?” She gazed beadily at Jack.

“Who knows?” Freya could hear the amusement in Jack’s voice. “I love old ladies,” he said, when she was out of earshot. “They’re so subtle.”

Freya lay back in the seat with a sigh. “Today,” she announced, “I love everybody.”

“I say, Jack, do you know anything about cars?” It was Sponge, holding the hand of a pretty girl in blue and looking anxious. He and Jamie were titivating the going-away car with the usual “Just Married” paraphernalia. It was a flash new Japanese sports car that had been the Swindon-Smythes’ wedding present to their son. Jamie had somehow engaged the steering lock and no one knew how to free it. Jack said he’d see what he could do, and Freya waved him off.

She sat alone, idly swinging, and rested her head on the faded cushions. She closed her eyes. It was nearly over. She had survived. In fact, she had positively enjoyed herself. Having someone to accompany her had made all the difference. She wondered if she and Jack would be able to sneak off this evening for a walk to the pub and a quiet supper together. She pictured them in a wooden booth, hemmed in by a fug of beer and chips, or perhaps sitting outside with a candle twinkling between them in the darkness and the
swish-swoosh
of the sea. They could pick over the wedding and share their thoughts in the comfortable, argumentative way they had always done. Freya felt a spurt of happy excitement. Afterwards, they could walk back in the moonlight and—