The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [23]
‘So if Tim says it's final, it's final, so there we are. Contrary to popular belief we all know who really wears the trousers in this house. Now, for God's sake don't go and buy one on your own. Take someone to see it, OK?’
‘OK,’ I muttered dumbly.
‘I'll come, if I can, but my caterers have let me down again and the marquee's got a hole in it where someone's clearly had fun with a cigarette, and the next few weeks are jam-packed with weddings, so God knows when I'll get away. But for heaven's sake, if I'm not there, make sure it lives out so we don't have any mucking-out to do, and that it's good in traffic. And even more importantly, make sure it's got a snaffle mouth. You don't want some Arab in a gag, do you?’
A white-robed sheik, staggering, bound and gagged through the desert, sprang confusingly to mind.
‘No,’ I agreed.
‘So steer well clear of anything in a pelham or a curb, or she'll be carted into the next county. Just make sure it's safe, OK?’
Safe. Safe sex. Always wear a condom. Or not, as the case may be.
‘And don't look at anything described as a “fun ride” – that's shorthand for goes like a train – or “a proper character” – which means it bucks. But as I said, I'll come with you in a few weeks' time. Just as soon as I can get away from this sodding wedding fiasco.’
I remembered my manners. Cleared my throat. It was remarkably dry. ‘Um, how's it going, Caro?’
‘Oh, swimmingly. I've got potential brides bowling up my drive at an alarming rate, wafting around my kitchen wanting to discuss canapés and flowers and whether or not they can tie the knot under the willow tree. They can, believe it or not – can get married where they like these days, in the bloody bog if they so wish, as long as I've got the licence. And their ghastly mothers are all gimlet-eyed and never missing a trick. They're the nightmare, incidentally, the mothers. Last week we had one who discovered the groom's family had invited more guests than her side and then blamed me. Said I should have spotted it! I kicked her in the end, had to pretend I had a twitch.
‘Good, good,’ I said distractedly.
‘I mean they're not all ghastly, don't get me wrong. The Asians are heaven, lovely big families all nodding and smiley and so well behaved. Never any fornicating in the bushes, and never any sick to clear up, either. God, I love the Asians.’
‘Um, look, Caro, I'd better go, but thanks for… you know.’ What? I tried to remember why she'd called. Oh, yes. ‘The pony.’
‘Well, you haven't got it yet, and I'm not entirely convinced you know what you're letting yourself in for. Just for pity's sake be careful and don't look at anything under eight that hasn't been there, done it and got the T-shirt. But at the same time you don't want too many miles on the clock.’
She was talking a different language now, but no matter: I'd long since stopped listening because, actually, I'd just thought of something. Realized something. While she'd been prattling on I'd been thinking about the letter and about the girl being seventeen. I'd done the maths instantly, of course I had, and felt safe. I hadn't known Ant then. But that distracted me from when the child had been born – September 1990. She was still very much sixteen, wouldn't be seventeen till later this year which meant – and here I got to my feet, slowly replacing the receiver as Caro said goodbye – yes, of course. The child couldn't be Ant's. Simply couldn't. Because if it was her seventeenth birthday in the autumn, she'd been conceived – I did some rapid mental arithmetic – the previous January: which meant I'd been going out with Ant. Going