One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [7]
‘Mum.’ I kissed her fragrant cheek, marvelling at how she seemed to get younger: her shoulder-length ash-blonde hair was streaked with silver now, but the bones were still good, blue eyes bright, and she was slim and straight-backed as ever. ‘You look terrific.’
‘Thank you, darling. I’ve got a new girl doing my facials in Motcomb Street. It’s all to do with the rotation of energy and fluids, apparently. You might try her; I’ll give you her number. You’re looking a little peaky, if I might say so.’
‘Thanks.’ I grinned. ‘Oh, Mum, you remember Maggie, don’t you?’
Mum, who at five foot ten, never stooped to accommodate lesser beings, peered. Maggie flushed, and almost curtsied. There was certainly a bit of a bob going on there.
‘D’you know, I believe I do. Now, Maggie, you look awfully well. You clearly look after yourself, and you single girls should, you know.’ She cast me a reproving look as she air-kissed Maggie’s cheek. There, the first reference to my spinsterhood, and we’d been here, what, two minutes?
‘Did you go and see Mr Auchbach, darling?’ She was back to me, eyes penetrating.
‘Oh, no, I haven’t yet.’
‘I knew you hadn’t. I could tell by your worry lines. For pity’s sake, go.’
This, a reference to her counsellor, a complete stranger, to whom she poured her heart out once a week. Lord knows what about; she couldn’t be more happily married or solvent. Me, the problem daughter, no doubt.
‘And Laura tells me you failed to catch the Garnier.’
Not a bus, but an exhibition, by a little-known Cuban painter, thus completing, in under three minutes, the Hattie-will-not-be-beautified-analysed-or-cultured trilogy. Not bad, I thought, in awe.
‘A record, surely?’ murmured Kit, who, in his languid manner, had finally managed to stroll down the steps to kiss me, hands in pockets.
‘Must be,’ I muttered back. ‘She’s only got to mention Seffy’s long hair and alcohol consumption and things will really get provocative.’
‘Oh, we’ve already done that. I thought I’d get it out of the way early. I told her a bottle of wine a day was quite normal for a fifteen-year-old, especially one who’s spent so much time in France.’
I giggled. ‘Thanks.’
He moved on to shake hands with Maggie; all six foot two and eyes of blue, with cheekbones and swept-back blond hair to boot; surely the most decorative and affable vicar the Church of England was ever likely to get. My family are red hot in the looks department, or at least most of them are. I’ll come to me and Dad later. I saw Maggie swoon visibly.
Hugh was amongst us now, muttering, ‘… how marvellous, thanks for coming, splendid, splendid…’ as he kissed and shook hands, palpably relieved, I think, that we’d actually made it, and that his wife wasn’t sulking at being outmanoeuvred. However, as we all climbed the steps behind him – his hair had finally retreated, I noticed, apart from two plucky outposts above his ears – and he pointed out architectural features and turrets to Maggie, who was exclaiming politely, Mum helpfully sticking her tour-guide oar in when she felt her son-in-law wasn’t being effusive enough, Laura linked my arm – held it, rather – and we fell back. She discreetly got down to brass tacks.
‘Presumably you know I’ve got Ralph de Granville coming to look at the place?’ she said softly.
‘I do, and listen, Laura, he’s streets ahead of us in design terms. Whoppingly famous and totally different, too. You stick with him, if that’s what you want. Maggie and I can just give you