One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [59]
‘Oh, I don’t know, I think you’d rather enjoy it. They’re much more social in the country, you know.’
‘Oh, come on,’ she scoffed.
‘No, it’s true. I know we’re out most nights in London, but only to a civilized drinks party or a film or something, and always tucked up in bed by midnight. Down here they might only go out Friday or Saturday nights but boy, do they party hard.’
‘In what way?’ said Maggie, chippily.
‘Oh, you know. Roll back the carpets, dance—’
‘Gee whiz,’ she mocked.
‘Smooch each other’s husbands, drink heavily, shove illicit substances up their noses…’ I was making it up as I went along.
‘Do they?’
‘God, yes. Then rattle home in swerving Land Rovers at three in the morning, singing at the tops of their voices.’ I was in a scene from Four Weddings now, but she didn’t spot it. ‘When was the last time you stayed up till gone three?’ I demanded.
Maggie blinked. ‘Can’t remember. But then again I do have to get up to go to work in the morning,’ she said pointedly.
‘There is that,’ I agreed.
‘But meantime,’ she straightened her back as we approached the village, ‘bring it on, I say. The last thing I stuck up my nose was a Vicks nasal spray, and I’m very happy to have my arm twisted into some illicit sex while I’m here.’
‘Oh, yeah? And what would Henry say to that?’
‘He’d probably watch,’ she said gloomily.
I laughed.
‘And if I took the blinkers off my eyes,’ she went on lightly, ‘and listened to my friends, I’d hazard it’s what he gets up to in New York anyway. So why the hell not? What’s sauce for the goose, and so on…’
This, an allusion to Maggie’s beyond disastrous relationship with an unbelievably handsome married man, who not only cheated on his wife, but, as Maggie was increasingly being forced to believe, his mistress too. She didn’t look at me, clearly not wanting it confirmed right now, but there was a telltale blush to her cheeks. Let me accept the poverty of my situation gradually, she seemed to be saying, at a drip, drip pace. We walked on.
‘Where’s your brother?’ she asked suddenly.
I jolted at the juxtaposition.
‘At work. Big day for him.’
‘Oh,’ She nodded in surprise. ‘Of course. D’you ever go and watch? See him – you know, preach? Or whatever he does?’
‘Of course.’
Maggie looked surprised. Her Sunday morning devotions generally revolved around a bistro in Chelsea.
‘People do that in the country, I suppose,’ she mused.
‘In towns too,’ I said, suppressing a smile.
‘Any good?’
‘Who, Kit? Yes, he is rather. In a subtle sort of way. He doesn’t go in for fire and brimstone. Rather quiet and reflective. D’you want to go in here?’ I asked, suddenly wanting to change the subject, and deflecting her rather neatly, I felt. We’d reached the edge of the village and were outside a dreary-looking coffee shop.
‘Is this all there is?’ She peered warily through the frosted window at the depressingly empty room. A solitary carnation in a specimen vase sat wanly on each table.
‘Were you expecting to perch your Armani-clad backside on a zinc barstool perhaps? Admire your reflection in the mirror as garçons in white aprons swept by?’
‘Actually, I was expecting to sit outside a thatched pub and watch the cattle go by. Off to market or somewhere.’ She looked around wistfully. A car swept past, much too fast, down the main street. She jumped back from the kerb in alarm.
I laughed. ‘This is north Buckinghamshire, Maggie, not deepest Devon. There is a nice pub, actually, but it’s a hell of a hike. And if the cattle were going to market they’d find it’s been turned into a gift shop now.’ I nodded to it across the road, ‘All manner of expensive knick-knacks in there. I’ll show you in a minute.’
In the event we didn’t stay for a coffee, the establishment having an even more depressing air within than without. The surly proprietress did little to alleviate it either, and even the air had a stale eighties feel. Instead, we got a couple of Fabs from the freezer and walked across