Scarlet Feather (46 page)

‘He admires me, and I’m nearer his age than the teeny-tots are. It’s just a party, Tom. I tell you again, I wouldn’t have minded if you had to go to a party with that woman.’

‘Not if my life depended on it, let alone just a career.’

‘I’m sorry about the Italian place,’ she said.

What he said and did now was very important. It would affect his whole life. He must be very, very careful. He stood in the little sitting room where Marcella still sat at the table. The picture imprinted itself on his mind. The table had a pink crushed velvet cloth which Cathy had given them last Christmas. There was a shallow white fruit bowl with peaches and black grapes. The evening sunlight came in and touched the edges of Marcella’s hair, giving it that strange halo effect. As if she were some kind of saint. She wore a floppy black cotton sweater and blue jeans; she looked about eighteen. Her enormous eyes searched his face for the response he was going to give.

‘So, Tom?’ she asked.

‘So, Marcella?’ he said.

‘So what are you going to say to me?’ she asked.

‘As you said, it’s your decision, your choice, your career. Nothing I say will change that.’ He spoke gently and held her hand.

‘But?’ she continued for him.

‘But it would break my heart for you to leap to his command as a party girl, and it would lose dignity and respect for both of us, and despite what you say you
don’t
need to do this. And under normal circumstances you wouldn’t consider it, but these are not normal times, you’re so nervous about tomorrow night.’

He looked at her waiting for her to throw herself into his arms and thank him for his insight and understanding. There was a long, long silence. ‘So, then, my love, you’ll come to our party with all your friends who will drink to your success?’

‘Thank you for everything, for not losing your temper and getting those wild ideas that I’d tell you a lie.’

‘No, no, I know you wouldn’t,’ he soothed. But she still hadn’t said yes or no. He
must
let her work it out for herself. She didn’t want to go ahead with this party, and he had spoken as honestly as he could without getting up and smashing his fist through the door, which was what he felt like doing. She came round to his side of the table, put her arms around him and drew him towards the sofa. And they sat there in the summer sunset, with her head on his shoulder and holding his hand, for a long, long time.

A lot of the rented equipment had arrived, and was being installed at the premises. Men were backing in and out with the crates that held cookers and deep-fryers. The sheer volume of noise was frightening. Thinking about how much they were going to have to earn to pay for it all made Tom and Cathy feel weak. June and Cathy were supervising it while getting the finger food ready for the fashion show.

‘Most of them won’t eat at all, wannabe models like stick insects,’ June complained.

‘No, you’re totally wrong, apparently people who are far too old and fat for the garments make up the main part of the audience. My mother-in-law will be there, for one.’

‘And won’t Hannah’s eyes fall out of her head when she sees some of the items on display? Right, that’s the second last tray -one more and I’ll go out and start loading the van.’

‘Okay, I’ll get started on Mad Minnie,’ June said cheerfully.

‘Shush, June, one of these fine days she’ll come in and hear you saying that,’ Cathy warned.

Minnie was a woman whose husband thought she could cook, so every Friday she arrived for one fresh dish and five frozen suppers for two. Cathy had long ago offered to teach her to make the simple dishes she wanted, but no, she wanted them made for her in her own dishes. So every time they were making Beef Carbonnade or Chicken Proversale, they remembered to spoon two extra portions into Minnie’s red or green containers.

‘What a desperate life they must lead the two of them, never having anyone in or ever going out,’ Cathy said sympathetically.

‘Does she think there are six days in the week?’ June wondered.

‘No, they have fish and chips once a week, her husband’s little treat to thank her for all this baking.’

‘He must be as thick as a plank,’ June said. ‘She’s better off not telling him anything, the less you tell men the better, I always say.’

‘But what kind of communication is that, lying to him over something as basic as the fact she’s not making his dinner?’ Cathy asked.

‘Believe me, I’ve been over the hoops longer than you two,’ June said. ‘Say nothing, do what you like, that’s my motto.’

Tom carried the trays out grimly. There was some truth in what she’d said, he thought. Suppose Marcella had said that there was a training course or a business meeting in the hotel or something. Of course he’d have believed her, and he’d never have known the horror of last night and the lingering possibility that she might still choose Mr Newton’s party rather than the one he had so lovingly organised himself. When he came back, Cathy was looking with some dislike at the food in front of her.

‘What’s this?’ she asked June.

‘God, imagine you asking me. They’re poussins, baby chickens, I’m just doing them for Minnie, are you losing your marbles or something?’

‘You take them over there to the other side, will you? I don’t really like looking at them, they make me feel sick, they’re sort of, I don’t know, human-looking.’

‘Sure.’ June was cheerful as she prattled on. ‘You know, I think we should try and get some kind of Christmas menu ready way in advance, a pack of things for eejits to have in the house like canapes, and teeny mince pies

‘Like we could deliver them in the van?’ Cathy sounded eager.

‘I’d love that, going round to these houses saying Merry Christmas, like Santa Claus. But will you still be working at Christmas?’ June asked casually.

‘What do you mean?’ Cathy looked alarmed.

‘I mean, when will you be taking leave, and everything? We’d need to know, wouldn’t we, Tom?’

‘Of course we would,’ Tom said, understanding nothing.

‘And by the way, were you ever going to tell us about this baby? I mean, were we meant to wait until you asked us to boil some water and time the contractions?’

At Haywards things looked very busy. Tom’s stomach felt sick about almost everything, and tonight the opinion that people had of Scarlet Feather’s catering was way the lowest worry on the list. He helped Con, June and Cathy set up the press reception and then slipped away and left a small bunch of roses in a vase in the dressing room. He put a card saying, ‘Beautiful, lovely Marcella. Good luck on your first night and always.’ His hand trembled a little as he left it there. The girls were on stage for a photo call; they would come up and mingle with the press later. Tom hung around the dressing room. He knew in his heart that the whole thing had been brought on by nerves, and that she wasn’t going to mention the matter again except with embarrassment. He just wished he could get that strange, dead, mantra tone she spoke with out of his mind. She had sounded like someone sleepwalking. Someone slightly out of control.

The press reception went very well, three journalists took the Scarlet Feather card as well as the Feather Fashions press release. The brothers were photographed together, arm in arm.

Cathy had been shocked by this morning’s revelation. She had spun them a good story; the whole thing was something she hadn’t realised at all herself. She had only just been to the doctor and confirmed it, and she had not been able to tell Neil before he disappeared to Africa.
Now
could they understand the need for discretion. Or a total news blackout. They had realised the urgency and backed off admirably.

‘Well, we always wanted another pair of hands around the place. As long as the baby starts work at six months, we’ll not mention the matter again,’ Tom agreed.

‘Sure,’ June had said. ‘Let’s keep it really quiet, let’s just tell Maud and Simon, is that okay?’

Cathy knew that she could rely on them, and that she could
just
get through today, the press reception looked as if it was motoring fine, then there was this show which was obviously cracking poor Tom up, then there would be the finger food afterwards, stack the dishes in Haywards’ kitchen and then, as if the day had not been long enough, she would have to go to the Italian restaurant to the party. Lucky old Neil with his bureaucratic red tape and his composite resolutions at a conference under African skies. He had nothing to worry about. He didn’t begin to know what problems were!

Tom could hardly remember the show. He remembered a few gasps here and there and a lot of applause. He saw Joe look across at him and put his thumb up in the air a couple of times when Marcella was on stage; he forced a smile onto his face. It only took him seconds to see where Paul Newton was sitting, prime viewing area, without his cigar but sucking a pencil instead. He felt such a loathing for the man that he almost fell over. Please may Marcella stumble, he thought, or may she miss her cue, do it all wrong. Then immediately he felt guilty: what a terrible thing to call down bad spirits on someone’s first night, especially the night of someone he loved. And then there was the applause, and the buyers from different parts of the country lining up for more details and information about stock in front of Joe and his friends, Brendan and Harry, and a watchful eye on it all being kept by Mr Newton himself. Tom worked like an automaton, passing filo-wrapped prawns here and Thai fish cakes there. ‘Delighted you like them, we have a little recipe sheet there near the door if you’re interested.’ It had been one of his own ideas, give them a list of how to make half a dozen simple hors d’oeuvres that anyone could make really, and also add the names of about twelve more that were complicated but part of the repertoire. Phone, fax and e-mail of Scarlet Feather and you had a wonderful advertisement – they were all tucking them into handbags. He moved feverishly around the room, and felt a woman’s hand on his arm. It was the woman from the magazine that had done their photo shoot, the hard-faced journalist fifteen years older than him, the one Marcella said fancied him.

‘Oh, hallo, I didn’t see you at the press reception,’ he said.

‘You were looking out?’ she asked.

He fled. And saw Marcella smiling and waving her glass across the room. Would this evening never end? Gradually the crowd thinned.

‘Don’t fill their glasses any more, Con, they’ll never go home,’ he pleaded.

‘Suits me, Mr F,’ Con said, and began clearing up the empties.

‘June, can you sort of amalgamate whatever food is left; the word’s out we’re finishing up now.’

‘Most of this won’t survive, Cathy, we can’t recycle it.’

‘I don’t care if we plaster the walls of the ladies’ cloakroom with it, we’re not giving them any more,’ Cathy said, with an insincere smile as she saw her mother-in-law approaching.

‘What a delicious spread, you really
have
come on in such leaps and bounds.’

‘Well, thank you so very much,’ Cathy said, resisting with difficulty the urge to knock Hannah senseless on the floor at Haywards, ensuring that she and Tom never worked again.

‘And a lot of my friends said so too, they said it was the only thing that made the evening worthwhile.’

‘You didn’t like the show?’ Her face was bland and innocent.

‘Dear me no, tacky and tawdry, not Haywards at all. I must have a word with that nice Shona Burke.’

‘Neil will be back on Sunday,’ Cathy said, intent on changing the conversation. ‘Apparently it’s very interesting out there.’

‘Such a pity you two don’t ever manage to be in the same place at the same time at all.’ Hannah Mitchell used to sing a very different tune. Times had changed.

The dirty dishes had been stacked in the Haywards’ dishwashing machine, and trays of glasses rinsed for Tom to cope with next day. Con and June had seen to this as well as emptying ashtrays and taking every last sign of litter away from the salon. Tom was rounding the little group up for the restaurant. Joe had said that Marcella was terrific, star of the show and he would love to come to Tom’s supper, but he simply had to stay with his colleagues.

After ages they were ready, the restaurant was only minutes away. Tom begged Cathy to take the others with her, to order the house Frascati and get it all started. They were flashing the lights on and off in Haywards, a definite sign that it was time to go. Security men and caretakers were going around checking the big solid ash-filled containers where cigarettes might not have been fully extinguished. Tom knew a lot of them by name from his early-morning bread-making visits.

‘I’m just running up to the dressing rooms, Sean,’ he said to one of them. ‘Got to pick up Marcella.’

‘Nobody there, Tom, lights all out, they’re all gone,’ said the man.

‘No, Marcella went back to change. She must be there.’

‘Honestly, not a soul,’ the man said.

His job depended on it, Tom knew he was right. He went downstairs, mystified. She must be going straight to the restaurant, but why hadn’t she said? And here was Shona.

‘Come on with me; they must be all there in the restaurant already.’

‘I was just looking for Marcella,’ he said.

‘Oh, she left half an hour ago. She left with Joe, and his pals Brendan and Harry and that Mr Newton. They all have to go to some do back in the hotel.’

He felt as if he were going to pass out. ‘Sorry, they went where?’ he said eventually.

Shona looked at him with concern.’I said to her that I thought we were all going to the Italian to celebrate her night, and she said that you
knew
she had to go to this meeting. You did, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, deep down I did,’ said Tom Feather.

Tom let himself into the flat with a heavy heart. How had he managed to keep cheerful all night, talking about everything under the sun except the fact that Marcella hadn’t come to her own party? The others were supportive, too supportive. They had taken in the situation immediately. It was
Hamlet
without the prince; the beautiful model hadn’t thought they were good enough to come and have dinner with afterwards, she had gone with the important people. They had all tried to behave as if it was an acceptable thing to do. Of course she had to, very difficult to get away, part of the job. He had wanted to cry so much that he was astounded he hadn’t actually broken down. But no, they all went on, fussing about which pasta to choose. And he urged them to stay longer to have wine, he didn’t want to go back to that empty flat and wonder when she would be home. He couldn’t remember what he had eaten or how much he had paid. The evening was bitter in his mouth and heart.