sure if I’ve got the conversation in me yet to be left alone with Mary.
Rufus shakes his head. ‘It’ll be far quicker if I go.’
‘I know where the supermarket is!’
‘Yes, but you’re hardly decent.’
‘But it won’t take a minute …’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He fails to grasp my meaning. And there was me thinking we were such soulmates we could finish each other’s sentences.
Another little tinkle of laughter. ‘Melody, dear, let him go ! You have to let the men be useful for something ! Heaven knows, they’re not use for much!’ she says in that giggly confidential tone that antifeminists always use with younger women. ‘And besides,’ she continues, ‘I’m dying to have a little girlie chat with my new daughter-in-law. Go on, Rufus! Off you go, darling! Make yourself useful!’
He heads dutifully into the kitchen and I subside into my chair. And Mary sits back in hers, leans her elbows on the arms and steeples her fingers at me. ‘Yes,’ she repeats, ‘I can’t wait to have a proper chat.’
He reappears in the doorway, shirt on and car keys bouncing in his right hand. ‘Do we need anything else while I’m there?’
Temazepam, I think. I just might need some before the evening’s out. I smile, and shake my head.
‘Some lovely olives,’ says Mary, ‘and perhaps some snacky bits. I couldn’t face the Air Malta food, and Caviar House wasn’t open when I went through Gatwick. I’ll take you both out to a celebration dinner at the Ta’Cenc tonight, but I’ll need something to keep me going.’
‘Thanks, Ma,’ says Rufus, ‘that would be lovely.’
‘Good-oh,’ she says. ‘So it’s a date. Unless I’m interrupting your plans? Sorry! Sorry, Melody! I should have checked.’
‘Naah, naah, she’ll be right,’ I say, and they both look puzzled for a moment, like I’ve just come out with a slew of Swahili. ‘It’s fine,’ I correct myself. ‘I’m cool.’
‘Now, off you go! Woman talk!’
‘Bye, then,’ says Rufus, and goes into the house once more. Mary waits as the slop slop slop of his deck shoes crosses the outer courtyard and the big wooden door bangs shut.
And then she turns, and runs her eyes from the top of my head, down the length of my body and all the way back up again.
Chapter Nine
The Upstart
It’s a full thirty seconds before she speaks, and by the time she’s finished with her caustic inspection, I feel as though I’ve been given a going-over with a wire brush. There’s no more silly coquettishness about her. And her expression, now that he’s gone, is an interesting mixture of contempt and curiosity. Eventually, she unsteeples her fingers, aligns her forearms with the arms of her chair, hands dangling loosely by her thighs, and speaks.
‘So. You’ve landed on your feet, haven’t you?’ she says, in a tone that allows me to harbour no doubts that I might have got the wrong end of the stick. Lady Mary Callington-Warbeck-Wattestone means business, and an upstart like me is not a foe who alarms her.
I take a long, slow drink of water to give myself some thinking time. It’s always useful to have a prop or two to hand for these sorts of contingencies. I’m sure that’s one of the reasons so many people still smoke. Then I put my glass back on the table, very carefully and deliberately, lining it up so that the edge is up against the flourish of the cast-iron vine that runs around its surface. And then I smile and say: ‘Yip. I reckon I have.’
I don’t say any more. Purposefully, I cross my hands on the table and sit in silence, waiting to see what comes next.
Lady Mary shows off her own black belt in prop usage. She reaches sideways and plucks from the ground by her left ankle the small, plain black clutch bag she was carrying when she entered my world. Opens it and produces a lipstick that is encased in one of those tampon-shaped compacts people give each other as stocking-fillers and then usually store in backs of
Rufus shakes his head. ‘It’ll be far quicker if I go.’
‘I know where the supermarket is!’
‘Yes, but you’re hardly decent.’
‘But it won’t take a minute …’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He fails to grasp my meaning. And there was me thinking we were such soulmates we could finish each other’s sentences.
Another little tinkle of laughter. ‘Melody, dear, let him go ! You have to let the men be useful for something ! Heaven knows, they’re not use for much!’ she says in that giggly confidential tone that antifeminists always use with younger women. ‘And besides,’ she continues, ‘I’m dying to have a little girlie chat with my new daughter-in-law. Go on, Rufus! Off you go, darling! Make yourself useful!’
He heads dutifully into the kitchen and I subside into my chair. And Mary sits back in hers, leans her elbows on the arms and steeples her fingers at me. ‘Yes,’ she repeats, ‘I can’t wait to have a proper chat.’
He reappears in the doorway, shirt on and car keys bouncing in his right hand. ‘Do we need anything else while I’m there?’
Temazepam, I think. I just might need some before the evening’s out. I smile, and shake my head.
‘Some lovely olives,’ says Mary, ‘and perhaps some snacky bits. I couldn’t face the Air Malta food, and Caviar House wasn’t open when I went through Gatwick. I’ll take you both out to a celebration dinner at the Ta’Cenc tonight, but I’ll need something to keep me going.’
‘Thanks, Ma,’ says Rufus, ‘that would be lovely.’
‘Good-oh,’ she says. ‘So it’s a date. Unless I’m interrupting your plans? Sorry! Sorry, Melody! I should have checked.’
‘Naah, naah, she’ll be right,’ I say, and they both look puzzled for a moment, like I’ve just come out with a slew of Swahili. ‘It’s fine,’ I correct myself. ‘I’m cool.’
‘Now, off you go! Woman talk!’
‘Bye, then,’ says Rufus, and goes into the house once more. Mary waits as the slop slop slop of his deck shoes crosses the outer courtyard and the big wooden door bangs shut.
And then she turns, and runs her eyes from the top of my head, down the length of my body and all the way back up again.
Chapter Nine
The Upstart
It’s a full thirty seconds before she speaks, and by the time she’s finished with her caustic inspection, I feel as though I’ve been given a going-over with a wire brush. There’s no more silly coquettishness about her. And her expression, now that he’s gone, is an interesting mixture of contempt and curiosity. Eventually, she unsteeples her fingers, aligns her forearms with the arms of her chair, hands dangling loosely by her thighs, and speaks.
‘So. You’ve landed on your feet, haven’t you?’ she says, in a tone that allows me to harbour no doubts that I might have got the wrong end of the stick. Lady Mary Callington-Warbeck-Wattestone means business, and an upstart like me is not a foe who alarms her.
I take a long, slow drink of water to give myself some thinking time. It’s always useful to have a prop or two to hand for these sorts of contingencies. I’m sure that’s one of the reasons so many people still smoke. Then I put my glass back on the table, very carefully and deliberately, lining it up so that the edge is up against the flourish of the cast-iron vine that runs around its surface. And then I smile and say: ‘Yip. I reckon I have.’
I don’t say any more. Purposefully, I cross my hands on the table and sit in silence, waiting to see what comes next.
Lady Mary shows off her own black belt in prop usage. She reaches sideways and plucks from the ground by her left ankle the small, plain black clutch bag she was carrying when she entered my world. Opens it and produces a lipstick that is encased in one of those tampon-shaped compacts people give each other as stocking-fillers and then usually store in backs of
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