Marrying Up (5 page)

‘We used to call her that at school,’ Alexa snapped. ‘She squinted. Probably still does.’

As Mum chuntered on, Alexa tuned out, then suddenly tuned back in again.

‘What did you say?’ she demanded.

‘I was just saying that Polly’s at Oxford,’ Mum repeated obligingly, frowning over ‘Cream, Crabs and Coastline: A Cornish
Cornucopia’.

Alexa stared, her mind’s eye filling with pictures of dreamy spires, of carefree, well-heeled young men in white tie drinking
champagne. Oxford! Old Boz Eyes had gone
there
? It was too bloody irritating to contemplate, except that, of course, it might be useful. A sly smile began to curve Alexa’s
thin lips.

Mum, most unexpectedly and possibly unprecedentedly, was right. It might be worth seeing Polly. One never knew who she knew.

Lots of people she had cultivated had relatives at Oxford; there could be a way back in.

The Shropshire Arms had changed, Alexa thought, opening the door on what had been a room full of sticky carpets and fruit
machines to find newly exposed flagstones and artfully mismatching wooden tables with vases of fresh flowers.

And Polly Stevenson had changed even more. That could not
possibly
be her. Panic and shock coursed through Alexa as the pretty, slender woman with shining brown hair waved from a corner table.
Was it actually at her though? Alexa looked behind her to check, but there was nothing to see but the chic striped bucket
chairs and exposed brickwork of the bijou new dining area.

Was this really Boz Eyes? But there was no sign of a squint; the eyes examining her as she approached were big, dark, thick-lashed
and absolutely regular. Cheekbones had come from somewhere. And had she had a lip job?

‘Allison?’

‘
Alexa
,’ Alexa corrected stiffly.

‘Oh yes.’ Alexa noted, annoyed, that Polly seemed amused, for some reason. ‘You’ve changed your name.’

‘As have you,’ Alexa shot back.

‘How do you mean?’ Polly’s eyes widened in surprise.

‘Well, whatever happened to Boz Eyes?’ Alexa asked brightly, throwing her jacket on the back of the chair, pulling it out
and sitting down.

She saw Polly flinch. ‘The squint’s gone. A while ago.’

Still touchy about it, Alexa thought, half triumphant, but half cautious too. She might need this woman. She had better be
careful.

‘You look the same, though,’ Polly added, to Alexa’s silent fury. The remark was not, however, payback for the squint remark,
or even intentionally provocative. The snapping snake eyes and black hair
were
the same, as were the thin lips and skinny frame. And even as a schoolgirl, she had given this same impression of both hiding
something and knowing something the rest of the world didn’t.

‘I
can’t
look the same,’ Alexa said indignantly.

Polly regarded her, head on one side again. Certainly, Alexa was more dressed up than before – the studded leather miniskirt
and high-heeled sparkling sandals looked more nightclub than country pub, even if this one had been given an aristocratic
makeover. She felt underdressed in comparison, in the same old white jeans that were her faithful standbys for any night out,
teamed with the usual black top. There had been no time for make-up, not that she bothered with it much these days.

‘Maybe your hair’s a bit longer,’ she conceded. ‘Why
have
you changed your name by the way?’

Alexa smiled enigmatically and swung her hair about. The gesture concealed inner panic; Polly might know some useful people.
The story must be got right. ‘It’s not really changed,’ she said quickly. ‘Alexa was my middle name anyway. And my mother’s
maiden name was MacDonald.’

Polly stared. ‘
Really?
’

‘Mmm hmmm,’ Alexa confirmed smilingly. Now that danger was over, she could continue gathering clues from Polly’s appearance.
Thick hair, thin figure, she noted; the physical ideal of the upwardly mobile. And that white jeans/strappy black top look
was totally Kate Middleton, absolute Liz Hurley. Especially with that long, shiny dark brown hair tumbling about those tanned
shoulders.

That
really was a serious yacht tan. A real villa bronzing. Who did she know? Alexa opened her mouth to ask.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Polly asked suddenly. She felt rather unnerved by the other girl’s stare.

‘Oh . . . yeah . . . Champagne, don’t you think?’ It seemed years since Alexa last tasted what she had previously enjoyed
several times a day.

It was Polly’s turn to stare; the Shropshire Arms had only ever served beer and lager before. But perhaps the Duchess had
made over the wine list too.

‘Anything wrong?’ said Polly, having arrived back at the table with a champagne flute and a glass of rosé for herself.

‘I suppose I’m used to better vintages.’ Alexa put the flute down with a twist of her lips. She smiled patronisingly at Polly.
‘I expect we both are.’

‘Not me.’ Polly shook her head. ‘After a long day’s exploring ancient cultures, I usually relax with a beer.’ Or several,
in the case of most of her colleagues. Archaeologists, on the whole, had less delicate tastes than champagne.

Alexa smiled. It was the Oxford point of entry she had been looking for. ‘I’m fascinated by ancient cultures, too,’ she drawled.

‘
Are
you?’ She wouldn’t have guessed it by looking, Polly thought; although there was a definite touch of the site bunny about
that miniskirt.

‘Mmm, do you know Jamie Athelhampton? His family’s the oldest in England.’

‘
Who?
’

‘You
are
at Oxford, aren’t you?’ Alexa asked suspiciously. If Mum had got that wrong this was an entire evening wasted.

As, to her relief, Polly nodded, she added, forcefully: ‘Then
surely
you know Piggy Athelhampton. Owns half of Dorset. Everyone knows Piggy.’

‘
I
don’t know Piggy,’ Polly said. ‘Does he do archaeology?’

‘
Archaeology?
’ Alexa, taking a sip of champagne, almost choked in surprise. ‘Why would he do
that
? Why would
anybody
?’

‘It’s what I do,’ Polly said mildly, sipping her rosé.

Alexa’s mouth dropped open. To go to Oxford and do
archaeology
? Was Polly mad? ‘But isn’t archaeology all boiler suits, huge boots and hard hats?’

‘To an extent.’

‘Wandering around in muddy holes with beardy men and snaggle-toothed women with glasses?’ Alexa had once seen
Time Team
, but only by accident. She had assumed it to be a programme about top-of-the-range watches.

It was an uncharitable way of describing some of her colleagues, Polly thought. But that there was a grain of truth could
not be denied. She shrugged and took another sip.

Alexa was now frantically trying to connect the new idea of Polly being an archaeologist with the established one of her as
a member of Oxford high society. ‘You specialise in castles?’ she blurted desperately. ‘Stately homes?’

‘Roman toilets, actually.’ Polly took another sip of wine.

Toilets?
Alexa almost fell off the wooden cottage chair recently stripped and polished at the Duchess’s behest. Polly studied in a
place where the streets were paved with peers. And had emerged with a passion for ancient privies.

‘So what about you?’ Polly asked calmly. ‘What are you studying?’

‘I’m, um . . .’ Alexa racked her brains. She had no intention of admitting to Polly Stevenson that she had failed her exams,
was living with her parents and had no prospects of any sort. ‘Actually, I’m taking a break from studying at the moment.’

‘Really?’ Polly’s archaeological instincts sensed something being concealed. ‘What are you doing with your break?’

Alexa’s eyes dilated in panic. She had imagined herself doing this evening’s cross-examining, not the other way round. Suddenly,
out of the blue,
Socialite
magazine shot into her mind. ‘I’m going to London,’ she said, in a rush. ‘I’ve got a job on . . . on . . . a glossy magazine.’

‘Which one?’ Polly asked immediately.

‘
Socialite
,’ Alexa shot back boldly.

Polly shook her head. ‘I don’t know it,’ she said, finishing her wine with a smile.

Polly had found it oddly hard to explain what had happened to Mrs Pankhurst. ‘You took a lift from a stranger?’ Dad had deduced,
disapprovingly. ‘Then you forgot to take the bike out?’ he had probed, incredulously. ‘But where is it now? Where is he? Who
was he?’ Questions that were hard to avoid as she now depended on Dad to take her to Oakeshott every morning.

Mum, meanwhile, was teasing her about being distracted. She seemed convinced Polly had ‘met someone’ the night of the glorious
reunion with Allison Donald. ‘Do you good to have a boyfriend’ she teased.

‘So long as he’s not like the last one,’ Dad had rejoined, with feeling.

‘Have you got a boyfriend, miss?’

Kyle’s voice broke loudly into her thoughts. Polly looked up from where she was squatting in a corner of the trench, photographing
the foundations from a previously uncaptured angle. ‘That’s a rather impertinent question, Kyle,’ she said, trying to smile.

‘Is it?’ The boy looked genuinely surprised. ‘But Mrs Butcher told us in assembly the other day that there was no such thing
as impertinent questions, only impertinent answers. She said someone called Oscar Wilde had said that.’

Polly raised her eyebrows. Mrs Butcher’s mission to raise her
pupils’ sights was as unceasing as it was impressive. ‘And anyway, miss,’ the irrepressible Kyle continued, ‘we were wondering.
About your boyfriend. I said I thought you must have one, being so pretty and everything.’

The other children, who were listening avidly, began to giggle.

Kyle pressed on. ‘Poppy thought you hadn’t, didn’t you, Poppy?’ He looked accusingly at his schoolmate. ‘She said she thought
you needed a nice man, didn’t you, Pops?’

‘I did
not
,’ riposted Poppy, obviously untruthfully.

The class looked nervously at Polly.

‘I’m grateful for your concern,’ she said, good-humouredly. ‘Now just get back to work, the lot of you.’

The site settled down, interrupted only by the occasional interested passer-by. Polly had by now delegated the quips and question-fielding
to Kyle, who revelled in the responsibility. ‘No, we’re not digging for gold, we’re digging for two-thousand-year-old toilets!’
she heard him state now. ‘But if you want modern ones, there’s some by the entrance.’

When Polly, frowning into her viewfinder, heard a flutter of talk from the children, she assumed it was yet another ambling
elderly couple and did not look up.

‘She’s over there, mate,’ she heard Kyle say.

Polly raised her head from her camera to find herself looking at a pair of legs in jeans; up, up, up and eventually meeting
Max’s dark blue eyes. Time stood still. The noise of the children faded far into the distance.

Napoleon, meanwhile, dived into the trench and began to lick her knuckles with a rough, warm tongue. Then he rolled over on
to his back and lay pleadingly waving his great paws.

The children roared. The Labrador wriggled in ecstasy, thumping his tail appreciatively on the ground.

‘I think he wants to be forgiven,’ Max said gently, jolting Polly out of her trance. She blushed.

‘Forgiven for what?’ Kyle was demanding.

Napoleon gave Polly another grateful lick. She poked him. ‘You’re forgiven, you old ham.’

‘Isn’t he just.’ Max was shaking his head, smiling. ‘I’ve brought your bike back, by the way.’

‘The porter at the garden gate’s got it. I didn’t want to leave it in the bike racks in case someone stole it.’

Polly glanced at him; was he teasing her? Who in their right mind, after all, would steal Mrs Pankhurst? ‘Thank you,’ she
muttered, as crowds of butterflies wheeled round her stomach.

‘I mended the puncture,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’

‘And I cleaned it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So you have to come out for a drink with me now, don’t you?’

Polly sensed the children listening. Self-consciousness rushed in on her like a tidal wave.

‘You don’t have to,’ she said, more grumpily than she’d intended.

‘Oh
miss
!’ she heard Poppy say under her breath. Kyle, meanwhile, clutched his hands to his head as if his favourite team had missed
a goal.

‘I know,’ Max said easily, skating over her mood as if it was ice. ‘But I’d like to. I’ll come and pick you up, shall I? I
know where you live, as they say.’

Alexa had spent the morning in her bedroom reading
Socialite
magazine. The idea of working there, which had suggested itself so unexpectedly in the pub, had gathered momentum overnight.

It had, Alexa was sure, come straight from the desperate depths of her unconscious. But as a solution to her problems, it
could scarcely be bettered. An upmarket glossy magazine, the sort that covered the grandest weddings and parties and employed
scions of the nobility in exchange for access to their address books was
exactly where she needed to be in order to gatecrash her way back into society. Why had she not thought of it before?

And yet two considerable obstacles stood between Alexa and the realisation of this ambition. Getting the job in the first
place would be difficult. Positions on glossy magazines were highly sought after. Applying in the normal way would be pointless.
She would be in competition with the best-connected people in the country.

The second problem was accommodation in London. Many of her university friends had homes in the capital. But thanks to the
disaster that had been Reinhardt, Alexa was no longer in touch with any of them. She had burnt all her bridges, and with them
all possibilities of free accommodation.

‘Dinner!’ yelled Mum from the bottom of the stairs.
Lunch
, Alexa corrected silently as she reluctantly sloped downstairs.

Dad, already tucking into pork pie and beans at the kitchen table, eyed her as she drifted through the door. No one at home
ever waited for everyone to sit down, Alexa thought disdainfully. Still less stand behind their chairs until all diners were
present.