One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [123]
Was it my imagination or was Seffy, who’d turned ostensibly to pour more drinks, listening intently?
‘Well, engaged, Biba,’ I mumbled. ‘Getting married next month.’
‘No, apparently not. He’s called it off – again.’
I stared at her. ‘What?’
Her blue eyes were very bright and I had an idea she’d sampled a few glasses from her tray herself.
‘Yes, apparently for good this time. I was just talking to Letty. She said his heart’s simply not in it and he can’t go through with it. The fiancée’s devastated, apparently.’ She pulled a mock-sorrowful face. Then shrugged and grinned broadly. ‘Oh, well.’ She nudged me.
‘Is she here?’ I managed.
‘Who, the ex?’ She looked at me incredulously. ‘Rather doubt it, don’t you? You’re hardly going to pitch up for a dinner party if you’ve just been dumped. Second time apparently, after hundreds of years. Letty says she thinks he’s in love with someone else, always has been. God, I love middle-aged gossip. You lot are way more interesting than we are. Oh, look out, Daddy’s trying to get everyone in for supper. I said I’d help, he’s so pathetic.’
She scooted off towards her father, who, in his amiable polite way, was tentatively suggesting to the roaring, pissed throng, that perhaps they wouldn’t mind awfully going through to the dining room… food hot and all that…
Biba beetled to his side and cupped her hands round her mouth.
‘Supper time!’ she yelled.
Everyone swung around, laughing. She earned a sheepish grin from her father.
I joined the flow back across the hall, and through the double doors to the dining room. The grey hessian-covered chairs, all twenty-six of them, were now around the long table, and everyone was cooing and admiring Ralph’s décor, the painted panelling, the modern art. Ralph looked pleased, but actually, nicely pink too, I thought. Not totally immune to these admiring comments. He pushed his hair back somewhat shyly, smiling delightedly when he was pointed out. And the effect he’d created was truly beautiful: bathed in candlelight, the gleaming mahogany was covered in bowls of white roses and sparkling silver, the flickering light softening sharp noses, ruddy jowls, non-existent chins. Jewels sparkled and skirts rustled as everyone found their place, and as I moved to mine, I just knew – of course I knew – that he’d be there, beside me, holding out my chair for me. I advanced with a thumping heart.
‘Hal, how lovely.’ And this time we exchanged the peck we should have traded in the rose garden. ‘I’m approachable now.’
‘You’ve scrubbed up.’
‘I have, but it was nip and tuck. I considered coming as I was, then thought, nah, make an effort.’
‘Shame. I rather liked the in-the-bush-backwards look. It had a certain dishevelled charm, although you smell a bit better now.’
‘I should jolly well hope so. Chanel have got problems if I don’t.’
He laughed, and after that, it was easy. We talked about the house and my work here with Maggie, and then we discussed country life. After a bit we got on to old friends: ones I hadn’t seen for years, but he had.
‘Remember Kirsten?’
‘God, yes, the pious swot. She hated me.’
‘High-class tart in Park Lane now.’
I put down my fork. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘No, OK, she runs an escort agency. But still, much the same thing.’
‘Good heavens! She was so Miss Jean Brodie! So disapproving. They’re always the worst, of course.’
‘Or the best,’ he remarked, eyebrows raised.
I laughed, and it occurred to me he was flirting. Which years ago would have been anathema. This was a more relaxed Hal: less serious, less intense.
We turned, briefly and politely through the main course, in Hal’s case to a tall blonde woman with hooded eyes, and in mine to a sweet old chap who couldn’t hear a thing and bellowed ‘What?’ a lot, bending his head, practically in my Bourguignon. By