Chapter 21
I should have worn waterproof mascara. A lifetime of experience taught me this and yet there I was, snuffling into my hand. Surely a cold hard shard lodged in the hearts of those who didn’t get emotional at weddings. Or else they were able to exercise some self-control. Unlike me, whose make-up had gone all Maori.
The coral-blushing bride looked beautiful in her baby blue silk suit. It was, she told me nostalgically, the first thing she’d had made when she and Tony moved to Hong Kong.
It wasn’t quite Westminster Abbey (and we were no Kate and Pippa Middleton) but the activities room looked quite pretty full of summer flowers as we walked together down the aisle. Marjorie was determined to walk. The wheelchair, she said, ruined the lines of her suit. So, slowly we made our way to where The Colonel and The Grandson waited beside the registrar. Both cut dashing figures in their morning suits, and The Colonel toddled forward to meet us. I kissed Marjorie and took my place at the front, attractively blowing little snot bubbles as I went. Oh yes, I was a grand choice for bridesmaid.
‘I now pronounce you husband and wife,’ announced the registrar, prompting one old dearie to shout to her companion, ‘What did he say?’ The rest of us beamed and clapped and the photographer snapped away. The Grandson took my elbow as we trooped behind the newly-weds towards the dining room. Chef pulled out all the stops to serve up the wedding breakfast. Phobic Jim helped out, though I noted that he wore his rubber gloves. It was a bit of a palaver to fit in the extra tables to accommodate everyone, but the staff were great about it. It was the most excitement the home had seen since the BBC started airing Strictly Come Dancing. Even the old biddies were in attendance, gawping at the spectacle with hypocritical smiles plastered to their wrinkled faces. The residents wore their finery, shuffling, wheeling and crutching their way toward the trays of champagne and orange juice. It was a bit like watching zombies in hot pursuit of one of the living.
‘I hope they don’t break a hip on their wedding night,’ said The Grandson, making me snort.
‘Well, I’ve talked with Marjorie so she knows what to expect.’
‘Granddad will be gentle.’ We took a moment to gag at this unsettling spectre.
‘What a thought.’ He laughed. ‘It’s bad enough imagining one’s parents. At least they don’t have to worry about an accidental pregnancy.’
‘Or presumably an STD.’
‘True. Neither strikes me as the promiscuous type. I meant to ask you. Oh, not about Marjorie’s sex life, don’t worry!’ He said, seeing my face. ‘I just wondered why she never had children? She’s such a lovely woman. She’d have been a wonderful mother, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, she would have been. She did have a son with her first husband, the one who died in the war. But he was killed by a bomb that fell on her mother-in-law’s house. It doesn’t sound like her second husband stuck around long enough, and she was in her forties by the time she married Tony. I gather it was unseemly in those days to be pregnant in your forties. She’s never talked like she’s had any regrets, though.’
It just wasn’t like Marjorie to do that. She always saw the positives instead of looking back at what might have been. She told me this often, in different ways. It didn’t do any good to think about what might have been, because the fact was, it wasn’t. Jimmy and her son were killed and the love rat did bugger off to Australia with another woman. Of course those were terribly painful times and she didn’t want them to happen, but looking on the bright side as she did, if they hadn’t happened she wouldn’t have met Tony and enjoyed their life together in Hong Kong for thirty years. And if Tony hadn’t died she wouldn’t be eating Chef’s crumble, with extra custard, off her new husband’s plate. That was the lesson. If you weren’t going to believe in fate, then you should at least believe in the life you led.
‘What about The Colonel, is he close with your dad?’ I couldn’t help notice that The Colonel and his son had greeted each other with stiff handshakes. Hardly the effusive familial congratulations you’d expect. This made The Grandson’s obvious affectionate gene even more puzzling. Perhaps it skipped generations.
‘I think there’s mutual respect,’ he said carefully. ‘But I’ve never seen them embrace. My mother is more demonstrative.’
‘You take after her, then.’
‘Do I? Maybe so. But I was also away at school. At first I went home during the holidays but by the time I was a teenager I spent most term breaks with my best friend’s family. I suppose they influenced me more than my parents did.’
I’d met lots of men who were sent away at a young age. I never had the courage to ask exactly what they got up to. There were enough jokes floating around to guess that some of them learned about sex after lights out. Where there was smoke-innuendo there was fire-buggery. ‘You’re not close, then, with your parents?’
A shadow crossed his face. ‘I wouldn’t say we’re a particularly close family, but we have a cordial relationship. I don’t resent them for sending me away.’
Interesting choice of words, but I wasn’t there to play counsellor. Naturally, though, it made me wonder how deep The Grandson’s wounds were. I was an emotional rubber-necker, eager for a glimpse of the car crash. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t bring a date today,’ I said instead. He looked quite handsome and completely at home in his suit. Once I got to know him better I realised that I was wrong about his buttoned-up reserve. There had to be a degree of free-spiritedness in someone who wore curly hair long so that it stood on end. It looked like it spent most of its time on the naughty step.
‘You’re surprised? But I’m not seeing anyone.’
‘Oh. I assumed you were.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know, actually. I guess I just imagine you with a girlfriend. You seem like the type who’d have one.’
‘That’s flattering, thanks. But I’m not seeing anyone now. I did have a serious girlfriend, but I’ve mainly been single for the past few years.’
‘What happened to the serious girlfriend?’ Hopefully my smile lessened the chance that he’d tell me to mind my own business. I didn’t fancy the prospect of sitting in awkward silence watching the pensioners dance the Electric Slide.
He ran his hand through his hair and shrugged. ‘When it came to decision time we simply weren’t sure whether we wanted to take the next step. Well, I wasn’t sure. We practically lived together at mine, though not officially. Karen kept her flat. After three years she understandably wanted to know where the relationship was going, and I honestly couldn’t give her an answer. I loved her and we had a lot in common. She’s incredibly sweet and nice, intelligent, pretty. But every time I thought about proposing I panicked. There’s nothing not to love about her, yet I wasn’t in love with her. We shared all of our friends and now I wonder if it wasn’t our life together that I loved so much.’ He looked wistful.
‘Do you regret not marrying her?’
‘No, not really, as wonderful as she is. We were friends first, in the same circle, and eventually started seeing each other. With so much in common it was almost inevitable. But we had substantial differences that meant we’d never really be right for each other.’
Should I ask? Shouldn’t I? Of course I should. He wouldn’t have brought it up if he didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Differences?’
‘She was just so nice. It’s wonderful in a friend but to be honest, in a relationship it can be wearing. I don’t want to say she was insipid but I’m afraid that’s how I began to see her. She was perfectly happy to defer to me on everything, and it got tiring after awhile. Men may say they want a compliant girlfriend but they don’t, not really. They want an equal, a partner. Karen suffers from being too nice… also, she’d had relatively little experience before we went out. She’d only had one other, very serious, boyfriend. That caused some problems.’
‘The ex-boyfriend?’
‘No, her lack of experience,’ he murmured. ‘Or not her experience exactly. Our lack of compatibility.’
‘In the bedroom?’
He took another swig of wine. We’d had a lot to drink. ‘Er, yes. Our tastes were different, you might say.’
Was this the point at which he confessed to liking soapy games with the other boys? Perhaps I was on the cusp of having all my questions about boarding school answered in the first person. ‘How so?’ I asked, neutrally, I hoped.
‘She was very conservative. I don’t mean just in terms of experience. She wasn’t willing to try anything, em, beyond the most basic repertoire. I wanted a bit more than that… I don’t mean to sound like a sadist. I’m not into anything too kinky. It’s not like I have a gimp mask.’ He sounded defensive.
‘It’d be okay if you did. It’s not for me to judge another’s sexual preferences, as long as we’re not talking about kids or animals or violence.’
‘No, no, nothing like that. I just wanted a sex life that was better than perfunctory. I think that was part of the panic when it came down to the decision. And yet she had so many qualities I knew were good for me. Maybe I was being shallow.’
‘Thinking with your willy.’
‘My willy has a lot to say on these matters.’
‘Fair enough. Sexual compatibility is as important as all the other stuff. It doesn’t matter how perfect on paper the person is. If the chemistry isn’t there, or you’re frustrated, it’s not going to work, not in the long run. And you can’t manufacture it. Either it’s there or it’s not. Sad but true.’
‘Wise words, B., from a wise woman. And by the way, may I say again that you look lovely today. That dress really suits you, but then you always look nice.’
I happily accepted the compliment, though I couldn’t take credit for the dress. It was one of Marjorie’s, stitched by the Hong Kong genius. I spotted it when she unfurled her collection to decide what to wear today. The pale green chiffon peeked from behind all the bright silks and I fell in love with it. It was a classic 1950s prom dress. Marjorie choked up when I asked to wear it today.
‘So given that you’re clearly a catch, why didn’t you bring a date?’ He asked.
I could tell he didn’t want to talk about himself, which was fine with me. We were heading for weirdly frisky territory with any more disclosures. ‘Nobody to bring.’ I shrugged like it didn’t matter.
I didn’t call The Dad after Faith’s boss’s dinner. It certainly wasn’t anything that Mattias had said that stopped me. Quite the contrary, in fact. He hadn’t asked me a single question about other men since I moved back in. Granted, he didn’t really need to ask. Until recently we’d spent most evenings together in a reasonable facsimile of our old life.
Yet instead of his silence condoning my freedom, it seemed more the result of his certainty that I wasn’t dating. He didn’t need to ask because he was confident I wasn’t thinking about other men. And it seemed like a betrayal if I did.
But that wasn’t the reason either. What had made me writhe with guilt at The Dad’s interest had nothing to do with Mattias, and everything to do with me. I still couldn’t say I was in love with Mattias, but I liked him. And no matter what pearls of wisdom I’d just imparted to The Grandson, it was starting to feel like that might just be enough.
‘Just look at Marjorie,’ I said, trying to shake my train of thought. ‘She’s so obviously smitten with The Colonel.’
‘And he with her.’
‘Have you ever been in love like that?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes. She was called Maureen and I loved her more than I thought possible. But I was young, and stupid, and I smothered her.’
‘You don’t mean with a pillow?’
‘I’ve never been done for murder. She was a singer, like you, gigging constantly when I just wanted to spend all my time with her. I got too clingy. The more time she spent away from me the more I engineered to see her, which made her distance herself, which made me chase her. It got ridiculous and she rightly dumped me. It absolutely broke my heart. It never would have worked, with her out most nights gigging and me pining away at home. So let that be a lesson to you.’
‘Thanks, I’ll take it under advisement – though I don’t think any of my boyfriends had to worry about pining away night after night, given that I’ve hardly worked. But I do now have a regular gig again. Did I tell you a manager signed me? She’s fantastic. She got me the gig, three nights a week. It’s not a huge club but I’m still excited.’
‘You should be very excited. Not to mention proud.’
‘Thanks. I start next week. My friends are coming and we’re going to pretend it’s my premier! I’m not headlining or anything,’ I rushed on guiltily, wondering if he expected me to invite him. ‘But it’s regular work and should increase my exposure.’ I laughed. ‘Listen to me, “increase my exposure”. I make it sound like bloody X Factor. It’s just a little gig, but it’s regular, and that’s a start.’
I couldn’t stop grinning. I had such a girl-crush on my manager. Within a day of meeting she’d got me further than I’d done on my own in a decade.
‘That’s splendid news, B., really, it sounds like you’re on your way. And speaking of X Factor, I heard your mum’s song the other night. That contestant from Leeds sang it. You know the one, whose boyfriend was killed… What?’
‘I’m sorry, I just don’t picture you watching programmes like that. That’s cool, though. Mum still gets royalties off it, you know.’
‘She’ll get a lot more now. Remember when Glee did “Don’t Stop Believing”? It went straight back up the charts. Again, why do you look shocked?’
‘Again, I’m surprised by your knowledge of pop culture. Aw, don’t look so offended, it’s a compliment. You’re worldly wise, that’s all I mean. I picture you reading Russian classics and going to avant-garde cinema, not watching X Factor with a copy of Hello! on your lap.’
‘You mean I’m boring.’
‘No, not boring! Traditional. You know, with a Labrador at your feet, in front of an open fire, reading The Telegraph in a pub over Sunday lunch.’
‘The Telegraph! Honestly, B., what do you take me for? And might I say I’m offended that you seem to have painted me as a granddad with my pockets full of Werther’s Originals.’
‘No, not at all!’
Well, yes, kind of. I couldn’t help sneaking a peek at his parents. She looked like she wore pearls to bed and he could have been mistaken for Jeeves. ‘I just mean that you seem more serious than to watch that kind of thing. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend you.’
‘No, I’m sorry, B. I’m too sensitive. I’ll tell you a secret if you promise never to throw it back at me.’ I nodded. ‘My nickname at school was Gramps. Stop smiling, you’ve promised never to mention it.’
‘It’s an unfair nickname. I promise never to use it. We will not speak of this again,’ I said in passable Brando. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you a secret too about my name. It isn’t B. It’s Bella.’
‘That’s pretty.’
‘Yes, literally. My brothers traumatized me when they found out the Italian translation. As a kid I was anything but bella. My parents took pity on me and let everyone call me B. I think they realised the teasing I was in for if boys in my class found out. That’s the risk with kid’s names, isn’t it? If you name your child something like Bella, or Thor, you’d better hope they live up to it. I’ve never felt like a Bella.’
‘I think you’re bella. But your secret is safe with me. Come on, let’s dance. We’re being put to shame by people with Zimmer frames.’
Laughing, we joined the small crowd swaying to Sinatra’s greatest hits.
Mattias was home when I returned, full of wedding cake and admiration for Marjorie.
‘How was it?’ He asked from his spot on the sofa. ‘No teenage drama or tequila body shots, I assume.’
I laughed, kicking off my shoes. The Grandson and I had danced till the blisters rose – though not usually with each other. As soon as the olds noticed dancers under pensionable age on the floor, we were cut in on at every song. I’d forgotten how much I loved proper dancing. ‘Remember what fun we used to have swing dancing?’ I said.
‘Oh, yes. I’d love to do it again. Shall we go one night?’
‘Do they still swing dance here?’ It had been years since we went.
‘I imagine so. It’s London. You can find anything here. I’ll look into it.’
‘How was your night?’ I asked.
‘Oh, fine. Tell me about the wedding. Was the bride blushing? The groom gallant? Hang on. Want a glass of wine?’
‘No, I’d better not. I drank quite a bit at the reception.’
‘And you’re afraid you might do something you’ll regret if you have another glass? Am I that irresistible?’ He grinned.
If I’d wanted to, I could have resisted with a methuselah of champagne in me. If. ‘Whatever I do, I’d do drunk or sober.’ I was hardly breathing, waiting for his response. Either way, it would pepper our relationship with an emotional minefield. I was prepared for that.
‘I know that look,’ he said. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
I shrugged, invoking the sexual get-out clause in case he laughed in my face.
‘Finally, you’ve come around to my way of thinking.’ He wasn’t laughing.
He moved to my end of the sofa, and he kissed me. I kissed back, trying to muster the fizz of excitement I’d felt with The Musician, the flutter I imagined Kat felt with The Hairy Biker, or Faith experienced with Fred.
It wasn’t there. I wasn’t in love. But I felt like I was going home as we kissed our way to the bedroom.