Olivia’s Luck (2000) (18 page)

“Oh. Well, smart-casual, I suppose. The blazer perhaps – ”

“No, no, not the blazer,” I said quickly. “What about a T-shirt and some chinos?” I suggested, catching sight of Lance through the window, looking good in something similar, sawing boards on a work bench in the garden. But what would Malcolm look like in a T-shirt? No, ghastly, like Tony Blackburn probably, I dithered.

“A suit,” I said firmly. “Have you got a nice suit?”

“On a Sunday?” He sounded bewildered. “Just for coffee?”

“Yes, you’re right, you’re right, too over the top. Just a shirt and trousers will be fine.”

“Right,” he said faintly. “See you then, then.”

“Excellent, Malcolm, see you then.” I replaced the receiver. I hoped to God he wouldn’t overdo the aftershave – he looked the type who might – but I was sure I could kill it with something stronger, outblast him with Chanel, perhaps. But otherwise – perfect. I nibbled my thumbnail nervously. So. Three days’ time. And meanwhile all I had to do at the appointed hour was look totally alluring, very much in love, and as if I was having the time of my life.

The following day I raced into London and took Knights-bridge by storm. I flew around Harvey Nichols as if my life depended on it, charging in and out of changing rooms, sending curtains swishing back and forth on their rails, wriggling into far tighter and sexier outfits than I would normally entertain, finally rejecting them all, and instinctively settling on a very elegant cream linen dress with capped sleeves and a pair of kitten-heeled, navy mules. If I say so myself, with my short dark hair and my eyes – which as my face got thinner, were getting huger and hungrier by the minute – the whole effect was very fey. Very
Roman Holiday
.

That was Friday, but the complicated bit of the plan revolved around Saturday. It dawned and, as I sat at the scullery table in my old jeans, cradling my tea, ignoring my breakfast, and drumming my fingers on the old Formica, I grew thoughtful. The thing was, I didn’t particularly want Claudia around, (a) to see Malcolm and double up with mirth, (b) to witness any potential shit hitting the fan depending on whether Johnny, (i) hit the roof, (ii) hit the road, or (iii) hit Malcolm. So. I drummed some more. She was due to go to her best friend, Lucy’s house for the day, and had originally been asked for the night, too, but I’d refused on the grounds that Johnny would be coming to collect her on Sunday morning. However, a quick call to Lucy’s mother could change all that…

I was just replacing the receiver, when Claudia sat down for her cereal. She was showered and dressed and ready to go, and hurriedly shook out a bowl of Frosties, sloshing milk on top. I hovered next to her.

“Still going to Lucy’s?”

“Mm-hm.” She nodded, mouth full. “Can you drop me there in about ten minutes? I want to get there really early. We’re going to make a ouija board.”

“Sure. Is anyone else going?”

“Lottie and Saskia.
They’re
both staying the night.” She glared at me as she munched away.

“Are they? Well, darling, I’ve been thinking – seeing as it’s become a bit of a party, why don’t you stay too? You could see Daddy next Sunday. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

She nearly dropped her spoon. “Really? Oh, cool, Mum! Oh, that is totally cool! They’re going to see a film on Sunday morning, and have lunch in Café Rouge. Can I do that too?”

“Of course.”

“‘Of
course
?’ Good grief, what’s happened to you? This is brilliant! I’ll just go and pack a bag.” She jumped up.

“I’ve done it, darling. There.” I pointed to her rucksack at the bottom of the stairs. She stared.

“Oh! Great. Did you put my inhaler in?”

“I did.”

“But – hadn’t we better ring Lucy’s mum?”

“I’ve done that too,” I smiled.

“Oh, Mum, you are awesome this morning!” She ran to pick up her bag, then stopped. Turned. “Oh – but what about Daddy? Will he mind?” She looked anxious suddenly.

“Of course not, my darling, and I’ll explain that it was a very special sleepover, planned ages ago. He’ll be fine!”

“OK,” she said doubtfully. “And give him lots of love. Oh – I know, why don’t I ring him and tell him? Would he like that?”

“No, no,” I said quickly, “I’ll do that. I’ve got to ring him anyway about something else. You just get your jacket and we’ll be on our way.”

“Thanks, Mum. Hey,” she turned and looked at me suspiciously as we got to the front door, “you’re not by any chance seeing anyone tonight, are you?”

I flushed. “Of course not. Why?”

She grinned. “Just wondered. You seem awfully keen to get me out of the house, that’s all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I spluttered as I ushered her through the door. “The very idea! Now get in that car, young lady, before I change my mind!”

Sunday dawned even brighter and sunnier than the previous few days. Ninety-four degrees was predicted in old money; twenty-seven in new. Either way, the heat was on. As I came in from the garden and went up to the bathroom to have a shower, I paused at my bedroom to gaze out at my handiwork. I smiled. Under the cedar tree, down by the stream, I’d put a small round table, covered it with a red gingham cloth, and placed two French cafe chairs either side. A posy of white roses was set just so already, but in an hour or two, when Malcolm got here, I’d add a basket of warm croissants, a jug of orange juice, fresh coffee, and a pot of raspberry jam. There Malcolm and I would be, talking intimately and laughing softly, so that when Johnny arrived for Claudia, rang the bell, got no answer because, of course, I could pretend I hadn’t heard it from the garden, and walked round the back, he’d be presented with an arresting tableau: his wife and a strange man, sharing not just a tender moment, but what could only be construed as a very late breakfast. A breakfast after the night before. A lovers’ breakfast. (At this point I’d reach out and clutch Malcolm’s hand, or something equally appropriate.)

Yes, OK, I couldn’t do the subtle lighting job on Malcolm that I’d previously envisaged, but I could at least put him in deep shade with an old Panama hat of Johnny’s – quite familiar, I thought, to lend him that – pulled down over his eyes. Right down.

I was just about to move away from the window and hop into the shower, fizzing with nerves and excitement now, when something stopped me. I stared. To my horror, I saw the caravan door open. Good grief, hadn’t they all gone home for the weekend? It was Sunday, after all. Did they have to live with me permanently? The door stayed open, but no one appeared. Oh terrific, I seethed furiously. All my sylvan scene needed was Mac, belching and scratching his balls, Alf, bending down for bricks and showing us half his backside, and Spiro, sobbing away in a corner somewhere – Jesus! I watched in fury as finally Lance came down the steps, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, his tool bag under his arm. Suddenly I remembered he’d said he was going to work this weekend because Mac wanted to get the Aga in next week and the cabinets had to go in first. Damn. I didn’t particularly want him ligging around, sniggering behind his hand at me and Malcolm, but at least, I reasoned, he was less obtrusive than the rest. And if he was ensconced in the new kitchen with his lathes and drills going, and Capital Radio blaring, he probably wouldn’t be any trouble. I followed his journey up the path, under the rose arbour, across to the terrace and – ah, that’s exactly where he was headed for. Good. He shut the kitchen door behind him, and, relieved, I hopped in the shower.

As I lifted my face up to the warm water I felt nervous, but strangely excited too. Gosh, perhaps Angie was right. This taking control lark was rather stimulating, and if Johnny took the bait, heavens knows what sort of passions and jealousies could be aroused. I wondered briefly if the posy of flowers was a bit too much…No. Why not? Flowers were always delightful, and what about a straw hat for me? Very Vita Sackville-West in her garden. Or was she a lezzie? She was certainly very Bloomsbury and blue-stockinged, but I couldn’t quite remember which way she’d leant…forget the hat. The garden was stunning enough anyway, just at its most magical at the moment, with the Alberic Barbier in full flower, the lavender borders brimming over and – Damn. I paused mid-scrub as the telephone rang from my bedroom. Swearing and dripping I grabbed a towel and ran to get it.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Olivia? It’s Malcolm.”

“Malcolm! Hi!” Gosh, I was almost delighted to hear from him, almost as if he really were my lover. I could quite get into this role-playing.

“Olivia, I’m awfully sorry, but something’s come up.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Well, I’m so sorry, but I’ve just realised I’m supposed to be somewhere else this morning. I do apologise, but I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to make it.”

I stared, horrified and dumbstruck, into the mouthpiece. What did he mean, he had to be somewhere else? Where else could a man possibly be on a Sunday morning, apart from church, the pub or a car-boot sale, for God’s sake? I sat down heavily on my bed, aghast.

“Malcolm, I don’t believe it. Where have you got to be?”

Silence.

“Malcolm?”

There was another pause, then I heard him clear his throat. “Olivia, am I right in thinking you’re separated?”

“Yes.”

“And you have a young daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Who, presumably, your husband has visiting rights to on a Sunday?”

I licked my lips. Couldn’t speak. My tongue seemed to be entwined with my tonsils.

He sighed. “Olivia, when you’ve been single as long as I have, you get to know the ropes. A lot of the girls I know are gay divorcees, but some are not so happy about it, and the Sunday morning routine is an old one. I don’t particularly want my lights punched out by your estranged husband, if it’s all right by you.”

I was speechless. All my plans, my schemes, dripped off me, evaporated into the duvet. But a small part of me felt awful too. There’d been a sadness in his voice. A jaded resignation.

“Malcolm, I’m so sorry. I feel dreadful now, and I really did like you.” I crossed my fingers hard here. “I didn’t ask you over just to – well to – ”

“Use me?”

I gulped. Licked my lips. “Um, look. Maybe – maybe we could get together some other time?” I said generously.

“I don’t think so, do you?”

“Er, right. No, no, maybe not.”

“Goodbye, Olivia.”

“Goodbye.”

I replaced the receiver. Stared at it. Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger! Now what the hell was I supposed to do? God, Johnny would be here in – I glanced at the clock – an hour. I’d got the linen dress laid out on the bed, the croissants poised ready to be warmed in the oven, Claudia was away for the night – gosh, that had been difficult enough to arrange – I couldn’t waste all that effort! Couldn’t do it all over again next Sunday, could I?

I paced about the room wrapped in a towel, racking my brains madly. For an awful heady moment I wondered if I could borrow Roger. He was in Insurance or something, wasn’t he? Could I possibly ring and ask Nanette if he’d come over and take a look at my policy? No – no, he’d probably rape me in the undergrowth hooting “Lucky dog!” before hoovering up all my warm croissants and, anyway, I had a feeling Johnny had met him once so he’d know he belonged to Nanette. He’d also know he was a complete prat. No, that was no good. So what on earth was I going to do!

I wrung my hands wretchedly, gazing out of the window at my perfect table, my flowers, when suddenly, right underneath my window, from out of the kitchen door came Lance. I stared down at him. He was wearing old khaki shorts, a faded pink T-shirt, and was carrying a couple of skirting boards, destined, no doubt, for the workbench, which he’d set up outside the back door. I blinked. Of course! Why didn’t I think of it before? Lance! Hell, in anyone’s book he was completely bloody gorgeous, far more gorgeous than Malcolm – and certainly Roger. Yes, yes, Lance was perfect! But the only problem was, I thought, chewing my lip maniacally now, how to organise it? How on earth could I set it up without him suspecting anything, and without him – heaven forbid – thinking I fancied the pants off him? I chewed my lip even more furiously, paced about the room a bit more. I glanced nervously at the clock. Ten o’clock. I didn’t have much time. Suddenly I remembered something. Quick as a flash I got dressed in the cream dress, the navy shoes, the pearl earrings, brushed my hair, tucked it neatly behind my ears, added lipstick and mascara, and went downstairs.

Out in the garden Lance was planing away, his broad back bent low over the bench as he worked, his shoulders rippling under his T-shirt, the blond curls curling at the nape of his brown neck, just slightly damp with sweat as he – Blimey, I’d be sweating myself soon; I was rather warming to this idea.

“Hi!”

He turned. I gave a breezy smile. A dinky little wave.

“Oh, hi there.” He looked me up and down. “You going out?”

“Um, no, just sort of, felt like a change from jeans, really.”

“Oh, right. Very smart. Not much good for your usual grovelling about in the flowerbeds, though.” He turned and went back to his planing.

“No, I suppose not.” I walked round the bench so that I was facing him. “Um, Lance?”

“Yes?” He paused, looked up.

“I was having a look at that brochure of yours just now. You know, the one you showed Angie the other day, with all your tables and chairs and things in it?” I produced his portfolio from behind my back.

“Oh right,” he brightened.

“Yes, and I was just wondering, would you have time to make Claudia a bedside table? Nothing fancy – ” keep it cheap – “it’s just that – well, she’s got nowhere to put her books and things and I’m sure she’d love it.”

“Sure, I can do that. Which one caught your eye?” He moved across to take the book from my hand. I held it back.

“Well, I was wondering if we could discuss it later. You know, have a sort of meeting. At about eleven thirty?”

He shrugged. “OK, but I can talk you through it now if you want. I’m not that busy.”

“Er, no, that’s all right. I’ve got to – do the washing-up. But I thought, if we could catch up later, ooh, let’s see, say under the cedar tree? Over there where the table is?”