Society Girls

  It's almost as though the last seven days have never happened as I am immediately plunged into a spooky déjà-vu of last week. Over breakfast, as my mother feeds Norman sardines, she announces that we are all seeing Charlotte tonight.

  “It completely slipped my mind to tell you, Clemmie, with Emma arriving and everything. She has invited all the family down for supper at her house to thank us for all the times she has eaten here.”

  I am about to announce that she can have my share of the hospitality absolutely gratis when my mother sees my imminent protest and preempts me by saying, “And don't think that you can get out of it, Clemmie, because I have already accepted for all of us.”

  “But what about Emma?” I protest, trying to adopt the role of concerned hostess. “Remember, she should have been getting married today so she might need some cheering up.”

  “Sam called this morning and said that Holly and Emma are invited too.”

  “They could go in my place?” I suggest hopefully. “I mean, I don't want to upset her seating arrangements.”

  “No, Clemmie,” says my mother firmly. “Absolutely not. I think Sam would be most upset if he thought for a second that you didn't like her.” I don't think that Sam would care less either way. “Besides, Charlotte took the afternoon off yesterday to cook for us all.”

  “What about Barney?” I demand. “Is he coming too?”

  “Of course he is.” Bollocks. I was hoping Barney might be a very neat get-out clause.

  I look despondently over at my father, who glances up from his newspaper and gives me a sympathetic smile. “I hope she has cooked something decent,” I say gloomily.

  “Let's put it this way,” he says. “It'll be better than anything you would have got here, whatever it is.”

  The day passes quickly and none too pleasantly when I have to ask Mr. Trevesky if I can have a few more days off to deal with a family trauma (which is the politest way I can think of to describe Holly). I am told that it is the last holiday I can take for a while; in fact, ever. I am so thankful to be left with a job of any kind that I gratefully agree.

  My poor feet and back are aching so much from my now unaccustomed labor that I simply have to have a bath instead of my customary shower when I get home. Besides which, even though my hair was tied back in a ponytail, I managed to dip it into a jug of white sauce which didn't make me, Mr. Trevesky or the customer very happy at all, and now all the ends keep clogging together. I pour a little bath oil into the hot, swirling water in an attempt to cover up the awful cooking smells that seem to be permanently stuck up my nose today.

  My bath isn't as satisfying as I would have liked because the bath oil turns out to be very sticky and leaves a very peculiar rim of oil around the bath. Feeling fairly disgruntled, I get out and start drying my hair, but there is still an unpleasant smell hanging around.

  I wander downstairs in my dressing gown, still toweling off my hair.

  “Bloody hell, Clemmie, what have you been doing at that café of yours?” asks my father. “You smell like Norman.”

  I freeze in my steps. My mother waltzes past en route to the sitting room. “Clemmie, dear, if you're thinking of having a bath then do remember to wash it out first because Norman has been floating about in it for most of the afternoon.”

  I stare at my father for a second. “Was she feeding him sardines in the bath again?” I whisper.

  He nods slowly. “Straight from the tin.”

  Why me? Why not Emma or Holly or even Charlotte? Why? Why? I run like billy-o upstairs and jump in the shower, where I scrub and polish until my skin and scalp are raw.

  “Do I still smell?” I ask anxiously as I hurtle back downstairs and proffer my wet head toward my father. He sniffs apprehensively.

  “Only slightly.”

  “But I've scrubbed until my head is raw!” I wail.

  “Well, you did bathe in fish oil. It is somewhat hard to get rid of.”

  My mother is clearly experiencing one of her mad energy phases and she zooms back into the room at well over the speed of sound. “Patrick, what on earth are you doing? There's no need to sniff Clemmie like that; I'm sure she doesn't smell that bad. Her hair has probably just picked up some of the cooking smells from the café.” She looks at her watch. “I'd suggest you go and have a bath but you simply haven't got time.”

  “I've already had a bath,” I say sulkily.

  “Well, I hope you remembered to wash it out first.”

  She looks from one to the other of us.

  “I did tell you to wash it out first.”

  One of us is looking very mutinous.

  “You didn't wash it out first?”

  Very mutinous indeed.

  “Good Lord, you are going to smell. Never mind! No time for that now!”

  She yells up the stairs for Emma, who is apparently having a quick rest, and then through to the sitting room for Holly, who has been lying comatose on the sofa since I got home from work. To add insult to injury, Norman then waddles in and makes his way straight over to the Aga, which my father lit a few days ago, and settles himself down on to his beanbag with a contented sigh.

  “Why is he in here?” I ask crossly.

  “Darling, it's too cold outside for him now.”

  “Too cold? What about the millions of other seagulls out there?”

  “Well, they can have a fly about to keep themselves warm.”

  “He could jump up and down on the spot,” I retort.

  “Now don't be mean to Norman. It's not his fault you forgot to clean out the bath.”

  I look at Norman crossly and he stares back at me. Is he . . . ?

  “Is he laughing at me?” I demand. “He has a very funny look in his eye.”

  “Don't be silly, Clemmie.”

  Holly wanders, yawning, into the kitchen. “What's going on?”

  “Clemmie forgot to clean the bath out after Norman had been in it.”

  Holly looks at me delightedly. “Do you smell?” she asks, a large grin spreading across her face.

  “Of sardines.”

  Emma has, in the meantime, followed Holly into the kitchen. She is all ready to go and carrying her handbag. “Did someone mention sardines? Goodness, I can really smell them now.”

  “It's Clemmie,” says Holly. “She took a bath after Norman had been eating sardines in it.”

  “You used his old water? God, how disgusting!” says Emma in horror.

  “No,” I snap. “I just didn't know he had been in there.” I throw my mother an evil look but she's too busy putting lipstick on to notice. “Can you really smell sardines?”

  “Your sense of smell is always stronger when you're pregnant. And you stink.”

  Oh good.

  I run upstairs, deaf to my mother's pleas that we really should leave, and spray myself all over with perfume, throw on some clothes and then charge back downstairs.

  “Have you got anything else to wear?” Holly greets me doubtfully.

  I look down at my old cords. I've bunged my father's old beanie hat on, as well as a bohemian kaftan, in a vain attempt to hide the smell. “What's wrong with this?”

  “You look like some sort of old fisherman,” puts in Emma. Was I asking her?

  “Of course, that might be the smell,” murmurs Holly.

  “Too late to change!” cries my mother and hustles us all out of the door.

  What a marvelous evening this is going to be.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Do come in!” Charlotte's very distinctive vowels echo in the street. “It's getting very chilly out.”

  “Charlotte, dear, thank you so much for inviting us. Such a treat.” Holly and I look at each other and raise our eyes to heaven as our mother gives Charlotte a huge kiss on each cheek. “Now tell me, what's the name of the fabulous perfume you're wearing? It smells simply divine. It must be terribly, terribly expensive.”

  Charlotte blushes and leads the way in. “Oh, it's rally sweet of you to say so but
it's just essence of violet from Yardley. Honestly, I could drown myself in it for fifty pounds.”

  “I could donate thirty quid,” I murmur to Holly, who giggles.

  We all make our way into the house, and I reluctantly relinquish my hat and then make a beeline for the fire while my mother introduces Emma to Charlotte. It is rather chilly out, especially with wet hair.

  As I am toasting my bottom, Sam comes out from the kitchen. My parents make me smile with the warmth of their greeting to him, he gives a wave to me, a kiss for Holly and then goes off to get drinks for us all.

  Sam and Charlotte are entertaining at Sam's house because Charlotte's place couldn't fit eight people in for a dinner party. This is the place his aunt used to own and I actually don't think I have been inside it since she died so I look around with some interest. It is in a perfect position in the village, just far enough away for the church bells to sound peaceful and facing the small patch of grass we like to call the village green. Barney's cricket matches are supposed to be played there but the village tries to get as many away fixtures as possible due to the fact that a ball inevitably goes through someone's window. I can't imagine anyone who lives near the green will be very happy to hear that Barney has now made the squad.

  Anyway, Sam's house is a very sweet affair. I am glad to see that he has made his mark on the place: out have gone his aunt's faded, chintzy sofas, to be replaced by a huge leather Chesterfield and two beautiful chairs. He has kept the pieces of old antique furniture and the occasional blue Wedgwood vase, but most of the ornaments have disappeared.

  I smile up at him as he passes me a glass of champagne (ooh, lovely champagne, mustn't appear too excited at this and thus look as though I'm easily bought) and then offers me a smoked mussel drenched in lemon juice, olive oil and black pepper.

  “I like what you've done with the place,” I say to him.

  He looks surprised and then smiles back at me. “Thank you. I didn't want to throw everything out though. Sentimental value and all that.”

  We stare at each other for a second and suddenly I want to ask him all manner of questions. I want to ask if he misses his aunt, if he remembers anything of his parents, if he has happy memories of this house. But Charlotte comes out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel, and Sam moves on. Charlotte starts to look nervously around the room. She must be looking for Morgan; it's a pity we couldn't have brought him. It still amuses me that Charlotte won't keep still for a second around him—my parents are starting to think she has some sort of attention deficit disorder. Marvelous.

  “He's at home,” I call out to Charlotte.

  Her head jerks up at the sound of my voice. “Hmm? I'm sorry?”

  “Morgan. We didn't bring him. He's at home.”

  She walks slowly toward me, frowning a little. “No, it's not that. There's just some sort of . . . well, smell, I suppose. A fishy sort.”

  Bugger. I thought I'd sprayed enough perfume on. My mother breaks off from her conversation with Emma. “It's Clemmie,” she calls out and then goes back to her chat.

  Dear God! Does she have to do that? Tell everyone that I smell as though I have a perpetual struggle with being whiffy and then just leave it at that? No I've-been-feeding-my-ruddy-seagull-in-the-bath-again.

  “It's Norman,” I put in quickly.

  Charlotte has another quick look around the room. “But he's not here.” She clearly thinks I'm trying to pass my rather severe odor problem on to some poor unsuspecting creature who isn't even present.

  “No, I know. But my mother was feeding him sardines in the bath this afternoon and didn't tell me, and so I took a bath when I got home from work. I think the oil has somehow stuck to me.”

  There's a loud guffaw of laughter from Sam as he tops up Holly's glass. I look at him suspiciously but he now appears to be talking seriously to Holly about property prices.

  “Oh,” says Charlotte, who is clearly at a loss as to how to reply to this. Debrett's obviously doesn't cover such incidents. “Well. That clears that up then. I'm glad it's you because I thought something had died in here!” she says jollily.

  “Really.”

  She blushes a brilliant red and Sam lets loose another shout of laughter. We both look at him this time but he's still talking to Holly. Charlotte bustles off back to the kitchen and Sam goes to fetch another bottle.

  I wander over to Holly, who is grinning at me.

  “Well, so much for social etiquette. She just told me I smell like something that's died.”

  “That's God punishing you for the perfume comment. I have to say that you don't smell good.”

  “She'll probably make me eat outside.”

  I can hear Barney's dulcet tones coming from the kitchen; he must have let himself in through the back door; a few seconds later he makes his appearance, grasping a glass of bubbly in one hand and several canapés in the other.

  Holly and I give an involuntary gasp which makes my mother and father cut off their conversation with Emma and turn toward him. He has had all his golden, blond locks cut off to a smart, short stubble. He grins at us all nervously and quickly shoves the canapés into his mouth.

  “Hello,” he says through the bulges in his cheeks, and waves at us uncertainly.

  “I think he's better looking,” murmurs Holly in disbelief. I take a long, hard look at him. I've never seen him without his hair. It's actually a couple of shades darker at the roots and his features seem more pronounced and angular somehow. The whole thing makes him look more grown-up. I can almost feel my mother getting a little tearful as she stands next to me but I think Holly is right. Barney is better looking for it which almost seems impossible.

  “Do you like it?” he says apprehensively, glancing from one to the other of us.

  We all loudly voice our assent and, looking more relaxed, he joins Holly and me at the fire. Luckily his sense of smell has been eroded by the state of his own kitchen and so he doesn't even pass comment on me.

  “What on earth made you decide to do that?” asks Holly.

  “I thought I would look more serious.”

  “You do. The Scooby T-shirt and trainers ruin the effect a bit though.”

  “Has this girl of yours seen the new haircut?” I ask in a whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  He shrugs. “I don't know. I'm not sure if she liked it or not.”

  “Of course she liked it,” I say fiercely. “She must have done. She's probably playing her cards very close to her chest.”

  “I don't think she's very impressed with anything I do. She just said she was pleased I was going to get a new job and that was it!”

  “Sometimes, when someone doesn't like you in that way, there is nothing you can do about it.” I look at my dejected brother's face and my heart goes out to him. The poor boy simply doesn't know what to do because it's never happened to him before. Whereas it's happened to me aplenty.

  Sam calls us through to the dining room for supper before we can ask any more questions and so I give Barney's hand a quick squeeze in lieu of any verbal comfort.

  It's a peculiarly strange feeling watching Charlotte in Sam's house, taking over the kitchen, striding from room to room finding serving spoons and heatproof mats for the table. She has an old apron wrapped around her waist and the whole scene seems unbearably cozy. Sam is opening some wine in one corner and I feel quite possessive about him suddenly. After all, he is practically a member of my family, and I feel as though Charlotte is an intruder. I quickly shake off the feeling and drain the dregs of my champagne. After all, I daresay I would feel exactly the same if it were Barney.

  Sam passes around the wine while Charlotte serves a starter of little onion tartlets. We all begin eating and I have to admit that she really is quite a good cook.

  “So how long will you be staying with the Colshannons, Emma?” asks Charlotte politely.

  Emma is still holding the fact that she had to pack in a bit of a rush against me
and Holly, and my forever good-tempered mother has let her rummage through her own wardrobe (in which there are a fair smattering of designer labels from photo shoots and adverts). I did offer Emma the use of my own meager wardrobe but she said she didn't want to because besides making her look like some sort of refugee, my clothes would be far too large for her. Considering she is pregnant and an inch taller than me, I take this as a fairly large punch in the face. Holly has lent her something for this evening because she desperately needs Emma's help to write copy for “High Society.”

  “Just a few days.”

  “Have you and Holly been friends for long?”

  “Oh, we're more than just friends. I owe Holly a lot.” She shoots a really nasty look down the table at us and Holly blushes.

  “Oh that's nice.” Charlotte smiles prettily.

  “Isn't it? I'm hoping to pay her back one day.”

  “Sam is always telling me how generous Holly is, I mean in spirit.”

  “Oh, she's definitely that,” affirms Emma.

  “How do you know each other?”

  “We work together at the paper. Holly is so popular there!” Goodness! Is Emma paying Holly a compliment? I glance over to Holly. Emma has the whole table's attention now. “Yes,” she continues, “Holly is quite a girl.”

  “Oh really?” says Charlotte with interest. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, there are so many stories that I hardly know where to start!”

  Holly sucks in her cheeks and looks absolutely thrilled.

  “What sort of stories?”

  “Well, do you remember that time, Holly, when Joe nearly had to get the police in because they thought you were dealing in drugs?”

  There is a collective gasp around the table and Holly damn near falls under it. She quickly pulls herself together. “I hardly think that a few vitamin C tablets can constitute a drug charge, Emma,” she says in a very careful voice. “I was only joking and Joe just got the wrong end of the stick.” Holly looks round at all the anxious faces to make sure they are taking heed. “The wrong end of the stick,” she says again, enunciating very clearly. My mother lets out a nervous giggle.