A Blessing In Disguise (50 page)

Look around was what I did, while Mark went to speak with the caterers and then to the madly attractive young woman with a haircut to die for who was there to be at the desk just inside the door where she would give out catalogues and deal with queries – hopefully from would-be buyers. Mark came back to me and said, ‘I'll be with you as much as I can, and I'll introduce you to people, but I might have to neglect you a bit.'

‘That's OK,' I assured him. ‘I expect people always want to talk to the artist.'

‘That's true,' he agreed, ‘though in this case I think they might also like to talk to the model. Do you mind?'

‘Not at all,' I told him.

And then people began to come in, ones and twos to begin with and then more and more, and the champagne flowed and the canapés were offered and the room was alive with chatter from a surprising number of people. It was clearly a success. Mark was here, there and everywhere. He introduced me to several people whose names I immediately forgot, and a few people spoke to me, having recognized me from the portrait. I took a look at the catalogue while Mark was away from me, checking the price against my portrait. Two thousand pounds, so there was no chance at all that I could ever buy it.

‘You don't look a bit like a Vicar!' an elegant, elderly woman said to me. ‘But then you're a new species, aren't you? I've never met a woman priest before! A strange subject for a portrait!'

I don't suppose she meant to be offensive. It just came naturally to her.

After a while, a time of eavesdropping on a lot of chat which went on around me as people stood in front of the paintings making what sounded like quite clever remarks as if they knew what they were talking about, and what seemed to me a fair amount of champagne had been drunk – I had two glasses myself, not to mention several bites to eat to soak up the alcohol – the visitors began to leave. Mark appeared at my side.

‘They'll be gone soon,' he said. ‘Then we can leave. I've booked a table at a restaurant in Jermyn Street I think you'll like. Just the two of us.'

I hadn't expected this. I don't really know what I'd expected; I'd supposed that a few of Mark's arty friends would be joining us. I realized, however, that in spite of the nibbles I was quite hungry. I never eat much lunch and it was past my supper time so I was happy at the thought of food, though less so at the ‘just the two of us' bit.

It was without doubt the most upmarket restaurant I'd ever been in; exquisitely furnished, though in a rather ornate French style – but why not, since it
was
French. The maître d' greeted Mark by name. ‘I've reserved your usual table, Mr Dover,' he said. It was in a corner, from which we could see everything, or would have if the lighting had not been on the dim side of discreet. One waiter from a myriad of them brought me a menu one could happily spend half a day reading, which showed no prices, and from which I finally chose a sole.

‘A good choice,' Mark said. ‘And I shall have the same. It's always delicious here.' I had an aperitif, though Mark said no to that. ‘Since I'm driving,' he explained, ‘though I will have a glass of wine. Their Chablis is good. Do you like Chablis?'

‘Oh yes, I do!' I told him, but not adding that it was something which didn't often come my way.

The sole was grilled to perfection. The waiter brought it whole to the table then proceeded, with infinite skill, to take it off the bone for me. I felt pampered. It reminded me of when I was a little girl and my mother would probe delicately through my cod or haddock, searching out the hidden dangers so that I wouldn't choke on them. In real life I have to do it for myself.

But this was not real life, I told myself as the sole was followed by a creamy meringue confection, accompanied by a glass of champagne, which went straight to my head. Really, I thought, Mark Dover is quite nice! Perhaps I've been unfair to him? I also wondered how he could afford a lifestyle which took in regular visits to this restaurant. I'd thought that artists were mostly impoverished. Perhaps he sold dozens of portraits at two thousand pounds apiece? Or perhaps he had inherited wealth? I also wondered who sat with him at his ‘usual' table.

He ordered coffee and we were sitting there drinking it when he suddenly bent forward, stretched across the table, and covered my hand with his. My first reaction was to pull away, but almost at the same time I thought how silly that would be. It would make the gesture seem more important than it was. Play it cool, I told myself!

‘Venus,' he said, ‘do you know how beautiful you are?'

That was when a shiver of apprehension went through me, partly because I didn't know what to say. It's a long time since anyone told me I was beautiful – even Philip didn't use such extravagant words – but what woman anywhere wouldn't like to be told she was beautiful? I wasn't sure whether I liked it, or not. Nevertheless, I withdrew my hand from under his, though gently.

‘Thank you, Mark,' I said. ‘You exaggerate, of course!'

‘No I don't,' he said. ‘And it's time someone told you just how attractive you are!'

At that moment the waiter came to pour more coffee, which I refused. ‘I really ought to be getting back!' I told Mark.

‘Why?' he asked. ‘You don't have to clock in, do you?'

‘Not exactly,' I agreed, while searching for an excuse. ‘But I am more or less on call. I might be needed.'

It was a lame excuse, and I think he thought that. Nevertheless he said, ‘OK Cinderella! I'll get you home before midnight strikes!'

He paid the bill, we left, and went to pick up the car. As we walked along Piccadilly he took my arm and held me closer than need be, so that I wondered what the journey back to Thurston might be like. I needn't have worried. Before we left London the rain started, a heavy, misty rain, and the traffic was thick even at that time of night, so that he had to concentrate on his driving. We didn't talk much.

When he drew up at the Vicarage, well after midnight, he opened the car door for me and said, ‘Are you going to invite me in for coffee?'

‘No,' I said. ‘It's much too late for me. But it was a lovely evening, I really do thank you – and the portrait is wonderful. I wish I could afford to buy it.'

‘I'm not at all sure I want to sell it,' he said. ‘Just one thing, Venus, don't let's, because the portrait's finished, lose touch with each other. I wouldn't like that at all. There's still a lot going for us.'

‘Of course we won't lose touch,' I assured him. ‘It wouldn't be easy to do that in Thurston even if we wanted to, which I don't.'

‘Right!' he said. Then without another word he took me in his arms, kissed me on the mouth, then turned and got back into his car and drove away.

Afterwards I lay in bed and thought, would I like to be seduced? Would I, if I were really honest? I recognized that, had I been agreeable, this would have been Mark's plan.

It was a difficult question to answer. Yes, I'm a priest, and I'm the mother of a ten-year-old daughter – but I'm a woman and my body has all the instincts of a woman, which need no more than a touch for them to catch fire. If you were to ask, would I like sex back in my life, then the answer is yes, I would. That's my body speaking, and the body is powerful (especially fuelled by champagne and wine, I reminded myself), but when they have to the mind and the spirit can beat the body – and in this case they have to. Besides, I don't think Mark, charming and attractive though he is, would be the man for me.

I put out the light, turned over, and eventually – but not quickly – I went to sleep.

I was on the phone to Sally Brent reasonably early next morning but Becky and Anna had already left for school.

‘She's absolutely fine,' Sally assured me. ‘She and Anna get on so well together, and of course having Missie is a bonus. I think I'm probably going to have to get a dog!'

‘Thank you for everything,' I said. ‘I'm afraid I might be home quite late again this evening so I won't call you then. Shall I come in the morning and collect Missie?'

‘Not unless you specially want to,' Sally said. ‘I'll pick up the girls from school and bring them and Missie back to you. Is that OK?'

I told her it was fine. I think Sally will turn out to be a good friend.

Next day's trip to London was quite different. Sonia wasn't able to go because she and Nigel couldn't both leave the practice, but Evelyn Sharp and her husband made up a foursome. We, that's to say Evelyn, Nigel and I, left as soon as school was through and went by train from Brampton, meeting Colin, who had had business in London for the day, at Victoria. We made straight for the gallery – Mark wasn't there as I'd thought he might be. The beautiful girl, hair still super – I wondered where she had it cut and what it cost – said he had just slipped out, she didn't know when he'd be back. The portrait was extravagantly admired, even by Nigel. ‘I'd no idea Mark Dover was so good,' Evelyn said. ‘It really is wonderful.' I caught Nigel looking at the price in his catalogue, though he said nothing. He wouldn't be able to afford it, not on a doctor's pay, and why would he want it?

Afterwards we had a Chinese meal in one of those small streets close to Piccadilly Circus. It was very different from the previous evening, about which I said little or nothing to the company I was with. It was crowded and noisy and the service was slow, but the company was good, we found plenty to talk about, and the whole thing was a success. I fell asleep on the train back to Brampton. Nigel had left his car in the station car park. He dropped off Evelyn and Colin first, then took me home to the Vicarage. Again, it was after midnight but I thought that if Nigel mentioned coffee I would ask him in, but he didn't. He simply came round, opened the car door, walked with me to the door and waited while I fiddled with the lock, which is always dodgy, then gave me a kiss on the cheek, and left. ‘A wonderful day,' he called out as he walked back to the car. I wondered if my neighbours heard any of this, and what they thought of their Vicar, returning two nights in a row after midnight.

It's amazing how quickly the time flies by between the end of summer and Christmas. I suppose it always did, especially in the church because the last four weeks before Christmas are Advent and we're looking forward for reasons additional to presents and family and friends and shopping, but I've never noticed its passing as keenly as I have this year. Perhaps it's because I've never in the past had so many responsibilities, large and small, some of them sole responsibilities about which only I could decide. In former years I've had someone, like Philip – especially my dear Philip – with whom to share them or, not nearly as agreeable as sharing, someone telling me what to do without allowing me any freedom in the doing. The Reverend Humphrey Payne springs to mind. Now, though I have two churchwardens to keep me in order (they have the right, in fact the duty, to report me to the Bishop if they think I'm neglecting my duty), I am really Head Girl of the parish, with everything that entails.

It was no surprise to me, therefore, when the morning after the visit to London everything began to hum. My first call, straight after breakfast and before I'd even had time to phone Sally Brent to ask about Becky, was from Cliff Preston.

‘Have I got work for you!' he said. I thought he sounded gleeful, as gleeful as his job allows him. ‘Two funerals. They both came in yesterday when you were living it up in London.'

Did the whole parish know I'd gone to London? And if so, how?

‘And a third more or less in the bag,' he continued.

‘What do you mean, in the bag?' I asked.

‘Pending File. NYD,' he says, a bit offhand.

‘NYD? What on earth . . . ?'

‘Not Yet Dead,' he says patiently. ‘In this case the lady is in intensive care, still alive, but from what I hear it can't be long.'

I'm somewhat shaken by the sound of the Pending, NYD file – would I want to be in it? And yet I know that no funeral director I've ever encountered is more caring, more sympathetic, than Cliff. He takes so much of the weight off the shoulders of the bereaved – and I suppose to do this he has to have a firm business nature.

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘Are they anyone I know?'

‘You know the first one,' Cliff said. ‘It's Cyril Henfield. He was one of your vergers, wasn't he?'

‘Oh, Mr Henfield! Yes, he was. One of those who didn't go to church but helped to look after it. A nice man! I didn't even know he was ill.'

‘In a manner of speaking, he wasn't,' Cliff said. ‘At least not until he had a heart attack and died more or less on the spot. The other was a Mrs Bulmer. Lives in the parish but I didn't know her. I gather she'd been ill a long time.'

‘Right!' I said. ‘Give me the details and I'll ring both families this morning. And what about the lady who's in intensive care? If she's one of my parishioners I must go to see her.'

‘A Mrs Carson. Lives in Anderby Drive,' Cliff said. ‘Her daughter Emily – spinster of uncertain age – was the one who notified me.'

I realized at once, I recognized the address, that the daughter must be the Miss Carson who, with Mrs Blamires, left St Mary's for the greener pastures of St Saviour's. And of course I knew I must go and visit her mother, and from what Cliff said, the sooner the better. Whether I would be welcomed by daughter Emily was another matter. Possibly, I thought, she had her own ideas about visits by women priests to the sick and dying. Nevertheless, there was no way I wouldn't do it and I decided not to phone Emily beforehand. After all, if either of the two needed me it would be Mrs Carson.

I made some phone calls, first to Sally Brent who said Becky had been fine, they'd enjoyed having her, and Missie, and she'd seen the two girls off to school this morning. As agreed, she'd meet the girls from school and bring Becky and Missie back to the Vicarage. I'm so looking forward to seeing Becky – and Missie of course.