One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [121]
Minutes later, heart fluttering, I went along the galleried landing, one hand brushing the banister rail, the other smoothing down my dress. I realized I was spectacularly nervous. It had occurred to me, in my bedroom, that she would be down there too – Céline. Undoubtedly. And I had to meet her, make polite conversation. Plaster on a smile. And all the while, might I be thinking… it could have been me? It should have been me, even? I stopped, my breath taken momentarily. That I could think such a thing.
On I went. Already I could hear the muffled chatter and clinking of glasses, sounds of pre-dinner drinks in full swing. But as I got to the top of the stairs, I was halted again, by voices much closer. They were coming from the room my brother always stayed in when he was here. His voice, together with another very familiar voice, was raised; laughing. The door was ajar. I pushed it incredulously.
Maggie was sitting on the bed, hands clasped under her chin, as Kit paraded in a full-length cassock.
‘Ooh, yes, I love it!’ she cooed as he gave a twirl. ‘Definitely the blue. It matches your eyes. Oh – hi, Hatts.’
She got up from the bed, looking a little sheepish, I thought. She kissed me, covering any confusion.
‘The blue? As opposed to?’ I enquired coolly, kissing my brother. ‘Hi, Kit.’
‘The grey,’ he said serenely. ‘For Sunday’s service. Maggie thinks the blue is more suitable for Harvest Festival.’
‘Does she now,’ I said drily, knowing Maggie very well. Recognizing the shine to her eyes, the flushed cheeks. ‘But surely not for dinner, Kit?’ I enquired lightly.
‘Oh, no, I’m just about to change. Now off you trot,’ he shooed us both out. ‘Just showing Maggie because she was interested.’
I bet she was, I thought, as she scuttled out ahead of me, all ready to party on down. She was wearing elegant black silk trousers and an ivory top, prattling some spurious nonsense about what a lark my brother was. But she didn’t get very far as, at that moment, Mr de Granville appeared from another bedroom. They stopped, glared at one another and then, just like a French farce, Maggie disappeared firmly into her own room, muttering something about forgetting her evening bag.
‘So exhausting,’ Ralph murmured, shaking his head as he fell in beside me. I took it to be a rather friendly tone and glanced up, surprised. He was looking particularly dashing in his black tie, floppy hair curling on his collar.
‘To be so despised,’ he explained, with a wry smile.
‘Oh, she’s all right really,’ I assured him. ‘I think the two of you just got off on the wrong foot. She can be a bit insecure.’
‘Well, if she’s insecure she should be tethered,’ he snapped in more like his usual voice. ‘Put on a lead and not allowed to snap at one’s ankles like a yappy little terrier.’
‘Oh God,’ I grinned. ‘She’d hate to be thought of like that.’
‘Would she?’ His face cleared. ‘Excellent. I shall make it my analogy for the evening. Might even refer to her as Nipper.’ He bared his teeth.
I giggled.
Ralph swept back his hair. ‘Sweet of your sister to ask me to stay on this weekend,’ he observed lightly.
‘She wanted to thank you. She’s thrilled with what you’ve done here and I’m not surprised, it’s fab.’
‘Why, thank you, flower,’ he drawled, but looked genuinely pleased.
‘And of course she’s not averse to having a trophy designer at her dining table,’ I reminded him.
‘Just as I’m not averse to being one,’ he shot back.
As we descended the huge sweeping staircase – and privately I was glad not to be doing it alone – we encountered two portly, middle-aged men at the foot of it. They were removing coats and straightening cummerbunds, brushing dandruff from shoulders. One, with bristling eyebrows, was addressing the other, very florid one.
‘I say, awfully sorry to hear about your wife,’ he remarked as we followed them to the drawing room.
‘What about my wife?’
‘Well, I gather you’ve split up.’
The florid one turned even pinker. ‘Do you fancy my wife?’ he demanded.
‘Er, no. Of course not.’
‘Well,