The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [179]
The cousins were next, strolling nonchalantly in from just around the corner. They instantly installed themselves with the girls on bar duty, where, I noticed, tasting was de rigueur. A few more early birds appeared, looking around in wonder, exclaiming, and then the man I was most worried about, who breezed in on a gust of wind with Clarence.
‘Darling!’ He sashayed across the room to kiss me, then clasped his hands in delight. He spun around, tossing a blue velvet scarf over his shoulder as he twirled. ‘What a triumph!’
‘D'you really think so, Male?’ I said nervously. I followed his gaze, fearful of his censure. More and more people were coming through the door now, Ant and Mum amongst them. They gave me a wave.
‘Not too girly?’
‘Oh, it's girly all right, but that's what makes it work, don't you think, hon?’ This, hon, not directed to me, but to Clarence, smiling indulgently at Malcolm's over-camp style, whilst remaining resolutely straight himself.
‘I agree – thank you.’ He took a drink from Stacey, who'd approached with a tray. ‘You've done a superb job, Evie. I hardly recognize the place.’
I relaxed: these boys had taste, and I was pretty sure I'd know if they were fibbing. Pretty sure I'd know if they hated it. I enquired about London life, which, they assured me, was working out well. Some months back, Clarence, having completed his sabbatical at Magdalen, had headed back to the smoke, to take up the reins of his legal department at King's, leaving Malcolm desolate. Until Clarence had asked him to come with him, that is.
‘What, to visit?’ Malcolm had told me how the conversation had gone. Malcolm was a very good mimic and he'd acted out the parts, jumping to one side to be Clarence, and affecting his deep, treacly tones, then jumping back to play himself, in a high, silly voice.
‘No, to live,’ Malcolm growled, a.k.a. Clarence.
‘What, with you?’ (High squeak).
‘Unless there's someone else you'd like to live with.’ (Low growl.)
‘In your house?’ (High squeak) ‘In Little Venice?’
‘If you can bear it.’
‘But… what about my boat?’
‘It's not called Little Venice for nothing, Malcolm. I'm sure a mooring can be arranged. If not, it can stay in Oxford and be our country retreat.’
‘Can Cinders come too?’
‘Sooty would be distraught if she didn't.’
Malcolm, adopting an even higher falsetto: ‘You're asking me to move in with you?’
‘That's… the general idea.’
Quite a lot of jumping up and down on the spot was re-enacted for me then, together with excited flapping of hands, and then smothering of fictitious Clarence with kisses, which I eventually had to ask Malcolm to edit out as he wrapped his arms around himself and really got going. Besides, there was more.
‘But what about the shop?’ squealed baby bear, stepping back from the embrace, panting and blinking rapidly.
‘Ah, the shop…’ More treacle.
‘Quite a commute.’
‘Hell of a commute.’
‘Which is where you come in, flower.’ Malcolm had turned to me then, in something more like his normal voice. ‘Ludo wants to sell up too. He's going back to journalism.’
‘Is he?’ I'd flushed at his name.
‘Oh, yes, didn't you know? He's going back to be our fearless, war-torn reporter in Afghani… Isbeki… somewhere, again. Says he's stultified his mind for too long. Needs to get back to where the action is. He went back to London last week.’
‘Oh.’ I felt a pang. Of regret, I suppose; but I was pleased for him too.
‘It's the right thing for him,’ I told Malcolm.
‘Of course it is. He was wasted here. But the shop, dear heart…’
*
The shop. I moved around it now, feeling strangely weightless as I skirted groups of people, as if I was moving clear of the ground. The place had filled up quickly and everyone was chatting and laughing, exclaiming as they recognized old friends.