A Rural Affair (27 page)

‘I know. It’s Simon.’

I stared at her. Her face was a mask. Calm; impassive.

‘Simon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your Simon?’

‘He’s not my Simon, Poppy. Never was, never has been. I’m married to Dan, remember?’

I unstuck my tongue. ‘Yes, but …’ I was flabbergasted. Totally stunned. My mind flew to him walking her home from the book
club a while back; saying goodnight rather
tenderly, I thought, at the gate. No more than that, but still. He hadn’t looked like a betrothed man.

‘All rather sudden, isn’t it?’ I said, when I’d finally found my voice.

‘Very sudden. Last week.’

‘But, Jennie – it must be a hell of a shock! I mean, to you, surely?’

‘Not really. He rang and told me.’

‘
Did
he?’ I was amazed. But mostly because she hadn’t told me.

‘It’s more complicated than it sounds,’ she said quietly, finally letting me in, being more charitable. ‘And it’s not a whirlwind
romance either. He went out with this girl years ago. Remember I told you? He was engaged to her, but she got involved with
someone else. Simon just trod water. He looked about but never found anyone he liked as much. Loved as much, rather. He was
always, unconsciously, waiting. They got engaged for the second time last week.’

‘He told you all this on the phone?’

‘We had a coffee, actually. He felt he sort of owed me an explanation. We had, after all, had lunch once.’

I felt my eyes widen. ‘You had lunch with Simon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘In London.’

I gazed at her. ‘Right,’ I said finally, faintly. Although I was staggered, I also realized that in some nebulous way I’d
known. Realized at the book club there was a subplot; that they’d had private time together. Maybe even reached some sort
of understanding.

‘What was it like?’ I was intrigued.

‘What, lunch?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dreadful.’

‘Oh! Why?’

‘Because I felt terrible. Absolutely ghastly. Couldn’t believe I was doing it. There I was, some silly, middle-aged woman,
like Angie, making a fool of myself. Getting a cheap thrill out of having lunch with a man who wasn’t my husband. Suppose
Dan had walked in? Or some mate of his? How hideous would that have been?’

‘Only lunch, Jennie,’ I reminded her. Jennie’s rigorous principles and high moral standards didn’t apply just to others, but
to herself too.

‘Yes, only lunch. And a chaste peck on the cheek to say thank you, but by God I scurried home with my tail between my legs.
Felt wretched picking up the children from school, listening to Hannah chatting away about her nature trip; wretched when
Dan came in knackered from work and I guiltily fried him a steak. His eyes lit up pathetically when he saw it because these
days he’s lucky if I throw sausage and chips at him. He gave me a delighted squeeze at the Aga. That made me feel even worse,
I can tell you. Lousy. I almost broke down and told him.’

I hid a smile. Dan was a good man. And a worldly man. I didn’t think he’d kick his wife out for having lunch with someone.

She raked a despairing hand through her dark curls and threw her head back. ‘How do these women do it, Poppy? Sneak around
deceiving people? I felt bad enough I hadn’t told
you
let alone my husband. Oh, look – here he is.’

The church was fairly bursting now – testament indeed to how one could have one’s big day at a moment’s notice and still fill
it – and Simon, tall and striking in his morning coat,
came down the aisle with his best man, an equally good-looking blade. He greeted people along the way, his face alight, looking
the picture of happiness. As he came to take up his position in the front pew, his eyes found Jennie almost immediately. He
gave her a lovely smile. She smiled back.

‘He likes you,’ I said, not exactly surprised, but genuinely struck by the warmth.

‘Oh yes, we like each other tremendously. He’s a very nice man. Just what this constituency needs, incidentally, by way of
a representative. But let me tell you, Poppy, it’s one thing to have a quiet crush on someone you bump into at the village
book club and quite another to invent an excuse as to why you can’t take year three on the nature trail as promised, then
stand on Cherton station in a new skirt and full slap hoping to God no one sees you. I kept reciting in my head, “I’m going
to the dentist,” in case they did. And I can’t tell you how sweaty my palms were as I went past Dan’s office in the Strand
by taxi. By the time I’d got to San Lorenzo’s my face was shiny, my clothes, I’d decided, all wrong for London, and all the
thrilling excitement had disappeared down the plug hole because I was so bloody terrified I’d be spotted.’

‘In San Lorenzo’s?’ I said doubtfully.

‘Well, quite. Not exactly Odd Bob’s habitual stamping ground, I agree. I didn’t really expect half the village to be propping
up the bar and to turn around accusingly when I came in. But you know what I mean.’

‘Did you tell him?’ I knew Jennie well.

‘Simon? Yes. Almost immediately. Explained I simply couldn’t handle this and wouldn’t be doing it again. He was sweet. Said
he liked me all the more for it, and, actually, he wasn’t convinced he could cope with the subterfuge either.
He’d run into Dan in the local garage, apparently, as they were both putting air in their tyres. Found it surprisingly hard
to make small talk.’ She smiled. ‘We both agreed we could do the sex but not the deceit.’

‘Oh. So … you definitely knew what you were there for?’

‘Well, ultimately, yes. Oh, you can kid yourself it’s “just lunch”, Poppy, but it’s tantamount to sitting there in your underwear.
And don’t let anyone tell you any different.’

The overture to
The Marriage of Figaro
was crashing in quite loudly now, presumably with Luke at the helm. Luke. Single and uncomplicated, thank God.

‘The idea of running upstairs and taking my clothes off, like Angie did, is complete anathema to me,’ she said rather primly.

‘Angie’s separated, Jennie,’ I said quickly. ‘Single.’

‘Her husband walked out on her.’

‘Yes,’ I said, surprised and wondering what she meant by that. Surely that was morally better than the other way round? For
complicated reasons, I knew Jennie was so shocked by her own behaviour she was taking it out on Angie. I was pretty sure she’d
normally have roared with laughter at the Pete debacle; given her friend a comforting hug.

‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ I said gently. ‘You had lunch with a man. Big deal. You couldn’t even get as far as the starter
without blurting out that it was a big mistake. Relax.’

She nodded, but I saw her swallow. She was about to say something, then blinked and swallowed again.

‘Should I tell Dan?’ she managed eventually, in a small voice.

I was instinctively about to say: no! Then hesitated.

‘Could do,’ I said thoughtfully. She nodded, knowing I knew what she was thinking. That it might bring them closer
together. Dan was no fool. He’d realize there had to be a very good reason for a woman like Jennie to put on her best bib
and tucker and shimmy off to London. With no threat intended – or even apparent now – it might give him pause for thought.
Might give them both pause for thought. And marriages sometimes needed that. A moment when, as you rattle along helter-skelter,
helping with the homework, arguing about who’s picking up from ballet, or whether it’s your turn to entertain the Jacksons,
you suddenly look at each other and go – oh, OK. A half halt, Dad would call it: when a moving horse is reined in, but not
entirely stopped. Just asked to take a moment. To reflect. This might be Dan and Jennie’s moment.

Figaro
was gaining momentum now, really building up a head of steam; then a dramatic change of key as
Lohengrin
seamlessly roared in behind it, signalling the arrival of the bride. It was prettily done, and as we all got obediently to
our feet, Luke glanced over his shoulder. I gave him a smile and he grinned back, deliberately giving it some exaggerated
wellie, hands raised like claws. My smile broadened. Funny. The other day I’d thought a damp church not terribly conducive
to romance, but today I liked him in here. Found his particular brand of laddish humour rather infectious, probably since
he’d made me laugh at the King’s Head. And perhaps Angie was right: perhaps a man shone in his natural environment. He was
certainly making some prodigious music, despite the intended irony, I thought, looking at his amused profile. I glanced at
Simon, the very picture of radiance, beaming in the front pew, waiting for his bride.

‘And Simon’s happy because he got the girl he always wanted,’ I murmured to Jennie, straightening the back of my skirt where
I’d sat on it.

‘Exactly. And he doesn’t have to fool around with married women like me while he waits for her to make up her mind – which
he wasn’t having again, incidentally. I gather there was an element of ultimatum from him about it. When she asked him to
take her back, he said, “On one condition. We get married now.” ’

‘Gosh, how thrilling.’ I shivered. ‘Frightfully masterful.’ I was intrigued. Simon was quite a catch. ‘So who had she been
going out with all this time, then, while he waited?’

‘Oh, some married man, apparently.’

‘Right. And what happened to him?’ I asked, as the door at the far end of the church swung open with a flourish.

‘He died,’ Jennie told me, as at that moment the gothic arched doorway filled with ivory tulle. It shimmied for an instant
in the shaft of sunlight behind it, then steadied and moved towards us. Accompanied by some tiny attendants in matching ivory
silk, and with lilies of the valley in a charming circlet in her blonde hair, white roses cascading like a waterfall from
her bouquet, Emma Harding came gliding down the aisle.

It was all I could do to stay upright and not give way to my knees, which were advising me, in the strongest possible terms,
to sit down. I certainly couldn’t have done without the help of the pew in front, the back of which I clutched, knuckles white.
I gazed in horror and disbelief as she got ever closer, a nightmarish veiled vision, smiling coyly and acknowledging friends
along the way, presumably on the arm of her father, a small, ruddy-faced man with bulbous eyes. My own eyes were giving them
some competition, unable to believe what they saw.

‘Pretty,’ commented Jennie charitably in my ear, because of course we had a bird’s-eye view from the raised choir stalls.

‘Pretty unbelievable!’ I spat, a trifle loudly perhaps, causing even Molly, tone – if not stone – deaf, to turn.

‘Shh!’ Jennie hushed me, alarmed. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘That’s Emma Harding!’ I hissed. ‘The one who was bonking Phil until he up and died a few weeks ago!’

The shock on Jennie’s face gave the outrage on mine a good run for its money. The blood drained from her cheeks and the breath
was seemingly sucked from her as if a high-speed vacuum had been applied to various orifices. She stared at me, dumbstruck.
Then, as one, we swung back to the bride.

‘I
don’t
believe it,’ she gasped, joining me in clutching the pew in front.

‘I swear to God,’ I sped on furiously. ‘She sat on my sofa
in my sitting room piously explaining how she wouldn’t take a penny from me, before deciding better of it. I’d know her sanctimonious
little face anywhere!’

Jennie digested this in horrified silence as Emma and her father proceeded in stately fashion towards us, up to the steps
where Simon and the vicar waited by the altar.

‘And all the time she was busy re-bagging Simon!’ Jennie said. ‘Little tart,’ she spat venomously. Sylvia, in front, turned
to give her a disapproving look.

‘
Schem
ing little tart,’ I agreed, ignoring Sylvia’s furious frown.

Fortunately for Emma, Luke was still giving it whampo, and our remarks didn’t drift further than our immediate neighbours.
We watched, tight-lipped and incredulous. Without much fear of recognition either, disguised as we were in unfamiliar cassock
and ruff. Emma’s eyes, anyway, were only for her groom, waiting straight-backed and proudly for her; she wasn’t busy scanning
the choir stalls for detractors. As she hove into view under our noses I realized she was much more of a highlighted blonde
than a natural one these days, and she was sporting a deep San Tropez tan, her shimmying shoulders, smooth and gleaming, rising
from her strapless gown. She glided into position, and as Luke’s final chord drifted away into the rafters she smiled up into
her groom’s eyes. Simon’s face was suffused with unadulterated delight as he gazed down.

‘Hussy!’ hissed Jennie, and even Angie leaned around to give her a startled look.

Mike, our vicar, rocking back and forth on the soles of his shoes, said a few words of welcome – as usual mentioning the church
roof – and then directed us to our first hymn. I managed to mutter a few words of it but Jennie, beside
me, stood mute and pale throughout. Finally, under cover of the last verse, which was delivered at full volume by the congregation
and to which we were supposed to provide the descant, she muttered in my ear, ‘I’ve a jolly good mind to say something.’

My eyes widened in horror. She had a determined look on her face that I knew of old. ‘What – you mean at the just-cause-and-impediment
stage?’

‘Well, that’s what it’s there for, Poppy.’

‘Like what?’ I yelped. ‘What would you say?’

‘Something like: do you have any idea what cunning little fortune-hunter you’re about to get hitched to? That’s what. Oh,
and incidentally, the married man she was bonking was married to my best friend and was the father of her children. That’s
sort of what I had in mind.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ I whispered nervously. ‘He clearly loves her cunning little heart for better or worse, and don’t
forget that he knew about the married man, probably the children too. The fact that it was
my
married man, had he known Phil, would probably have been a great comfort to him.’

Yes, I thought, as the hymn ended on a high note, Simon must have thought he was up against some handsome, virile lurve machine.
Some piece of work in the sack and some insatiably smooth operator out of it. And, all the time, it had been Phil. Phil Shilling,
with his thinning sandy hair, his long nose, the pointy bit of which reddened and dripped when it was cold, his thin lips,
his very short temper, not to mention his very short … Well. Not that size matters. But what had
she
seen in him? This baffled me most, as we sat to watch them make their vows. It actually made me question my own recollection
of Phil. Had I not spotted his startling
resemblance to George Clooney? Was I perhaps jaundiced, due to a stunning lack of attention? Did he, in fact, have a scintillating
wit and a charming manner, but only when I wasn’t in the room? Had I sapped it out of him, squashed him? With my domineering
ways, my fish-wife manner? Was it
my
fault? You don’t have to know me too well to realize this line of thought was well within my psyche; for the finger of blame,
even at my most innocent, to pivot suddenly and point inexorably at me. After all, I’d picked him too, hadn’t I? As Emma had.
He must have had
some
endearing qualities.