A Rural Affair (49 page)

Bob spent the first course telling me how handy he was around the house: how he could put up shelves, fix the plumbing, cook,
too. How, last year, he’d done the whole of Christmas lunch for him and his aunt. I nodded and smiled politely, feeling all
the time as if I were pushing torrents of dam water away from my flooding heart. I escaped him for
the main course and had a shouting match with the old man on my left, one hand cupped to his ear as he yelled, ‘What?
What?
’ Then I turned back, and Bob proposed. Asked if I’d marry him on Valentine’s Day, which was a Saturday, he’d checked. Said
we could live at his place while we looked for somewhere bigger. Told me he liked children. He squeezed my thigh and I slapped
his hand. During pudding he squeezed my thigh again and I pushed my chair back. Quite loudly. A few people turned to look.
I pulled it in, knowing my face was flaming. Then I warned him, in no uncertain terms, that if he tried that again, I’d deck
him. Bob looked astonished. Why, I could see him wondering, would I hit a man who really was my last and only hope? All there
was left for Poppy Shilling in the man pool?

I’d shifted quite a lot of wine during dinner for obvious reasons, but even I knew I was more than well oiled when I swayed
into the disco sometime later. I’d bided my time, waited at my table until most people had gone through, Sam and Hope included,
I noticed. Finally I followed the throng, yet another drink in hand for courage. The dark little room, lined with tatty, leather-bound
books, so presumably a library, was throbbing with drum and base and strobe light, packed to the gunnels with gyrating bodies.
In the flashing light, I saw Chad standing on the edge of the dance floor. He still looked haunted. I glanced across, expecting
to see Hope dancing with Sam. She was certainly dancing with someone, a blond chap, though; I could only see the back of him,
couldn’t see his face. And not a clinchy number, more throwing herself around the floor in a sexy manner, lots of hip action.
I was just wondering whether to go and talk to Chad when there was a voice in my ear.

‘Hello, Poppy.’

I turned too quickly and nearly toppled. A terribly attractive older man with silvery hair swept off a high forehead and twinkly
blue eyes smiled down at me. He held my arm as I lurched towards him. ‘Oh – Tom! Hi, there!’

‘You all right?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ I grinned as he steadied me, inordinately pleased to see him. ‘I heard you were coming. Quite bold on Angie’s
patch, don’t you think?’ Drink surely did loosen the tongue.

He laughed. ‘Possibly, but someone sent me a ticket and Peggy and the girls told me to go for it.’

‘The girls?’

‘Clarissa and Felicity.’

His daughters. I saw them on the other side of the room making furious signals at him.

‘I think you’re supposed to ask their mum for a dance.’

‘I know,’ he said nervously, and I’d never seen the charming Tom nervous. He passed a hand through his still abundant hair.
‘Will she laugh in my face, though? She left an encouraging message on my answering machine a few days ago, but I’m fairly
sure she was in her cups and regretted it later, so I didn’t ring back. Is she still furious with me? Will I get a black eye,
d’you think?’

‘Only one way to find out.’

Angie was looking very beautiful tonight. Diamonds sparkled around her neck and down onto her black velvet dress like a sprinkling
of stars on a night sky; her red-gold hair was piled in loose curls on her head. She was across the room talking to Jennie
and … oh, good heavens, Simon. Here without Emma, of course, who, if she wasn’t being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure,
soon would be, rumour had it. I saw Tom straighten his bow tie and approach. Angie smiled and said
yes, as I knew she would, and as her daughters had told her to. I caught Clarissa’s eye; she smiled with relief. Which of
course left Jennie and Simon together. But before Simon could even give it a thought for old times’ sake, Dan had sauntered
up. He was looking remarkably handsome in his dinner jacket, which I’d never seen him wearing before. Quietly taking his wife’s
arm and with a polite ‘Excuse me’ to Simon, he masterfully steered her onto the dance floor. Jennie, luminous in her silver
gown, glowed, and I sighed. If only men knew how simple we women really are, I thought. That all we wanted was to be shown
some chivalry, made to feel special. Of course the road to forgiveness would be much longer for Angie and Tom, I thought,
turning to watch them dance – not too close – but this was surely a start. And since you’ve got to start somewhere, a public
show of affection in front of all your friends and neighbours – I saw a few people spot them and give Angie a delighted look,
which she pretended not to see but the light in her eyes gave her away – was not a bad place to do it.

The party lurched on in a spirited manner. A band replaced the disco and there appeared to be a free bar, a splendid idea
as far as I was concerned, and one I made regular use of. I had a bop with Felicity and Clarissa, who for some reason rocked
with laughter at me. Frankie and Hugo had diplomatically stayed away, I noticed, so no haunted look for Clarissa tonight.
She and her sister were sweet, though, finding me a seat by the wall after I’d more or less cleared the dance floor to ‘Brown
Sugar’, so that I felt like a dowager duchess in a Jane Austen novel. They kept asking me, rather anxiously, if I’d like a
glass of water? Or some air? I declined.

It was late now, and some girls dressed as French maids were circulating with trays held above their heads bearing little
blue glasses.

‘Lethal,’ Peggy warned me, en route to the dance floor with my father as she saw me take one. She sighed as I knocked it back.
God, del
icious
. I swiped another from a passing tray and knocked that back too. Then I went to the Ladies. Went twice, actually. Came back
and found my chair. Then found the strap of my handbag incredibly interesting. Everyone was dancing. There were literally
only a handful of people left in the dining room – I got up to pop my head round the door. A few people – including Bob, who,
oh Christ, was making a beeline for me. I turned and fled. Scurried back to the library to lose him, muscling onto the dance
floor.

‘S’cuse me, sorry.’ I pretended I was looking for someone. It was heaving. Would anyone know I wasn’t really dancing with
anyone? Perhaps I should dance with Bob? At least then I’d have a partner. I turned back to see him leading Yvonne, from the
shop, onto the floor. Right. Great. Yvonne had a moustache.

Disastrously pissed, I gyrated to the music anyway, but my handbag on my shoulder kept swinging into people who looked amused
the first time, but not the second, so I put it on the floor. Ah yes, I could see why this worked, I thought, as I peered
myopically at it. Why girls did it. You could look at your bag, dance around your bag, pretend you were in love with your
bag … like so … I swayed, arms aloft – ‘Yooooo mye-eye, brown-eyed – oops!’

I was steadied by an irritated man who said, ‘For God’s sake!’ But I hadn’t fallen over, only stumbled. Abruptly he caught
my shoulders and I turned, annoyed.

‘Look, I’m just dancing, OK?’ I snapped. Only it wasn’t the same man. It was Sam. And I was in his arms. He was dancing with
me. Sam Hetherington was dancing with me,
and not just jiggy-jiggy: proper hold-you-close dancing. Right against his chest. I was in heaven.

‘Sam!’ I cried ecstatically into his left ear

‘Are you all right?’

‘Perfect!’ I breathed gustily. ‘Just, perfect.’ I nestled into his shoulder. We swayed in time to the music, or at least he
did; I followed. And I felt so much better, supported. And suddenly, so full of wisdom. I gazed up. He was a bit of a blur.

‘Sam, I know you’re probably only dancing with me to make Hope jealous, but I want you to know it’s fine by me. Really. I’m
loving it.’

His expression changed in a flash from amused to irritated. ‘Don’t be silly, Poppy.’

‘She is very beautiful,’ I said dreamily, catching her in a swirl of white chiffon being twirled around the floor. By Chad?
I couldn’t see. I hoped so. ‘And when they came, Hope and Chad, we thought, well, we thought they were so perfect. The perfect
couple. The blueprint for the rest of us. But nothing’s perfect, is it, Sam?’ My, those shots had been strong. Even I wasn’t
sure what was coming next. ‘Chip away at the surface and all sorts of cracks appear.’

‘Would you mind if we didn’t talk about Hope?’ Quite tersely, in my ear. I nodded sagely. Ah yes. Couldn’t bear it. But the
thing is, once my finger’s hovered over the self-destruct button, I find it awfully hard to tear it away.

‘I’ve got a terrible feeling I’ve fallen for you, Sam,’ I said throatily into his shoulder. I gave a cracked laugh. ‘How inconvenient
is that? When you’re still in love with Hope? Hope. Hope springs eternal. Hope springs –’ I dissolved into helpless giggles,
for some reason finding this dreadfully funny.

He was steering me off the dance floor now. But I’d made a bit of a confession, would not be distracted. ‘Sam?’ I had to shout
loudly above the noise. ‘Did you hear what I said? I said, I think I’ve –’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Poppy,’ he said firmly, depositing me on a chair. My old chair. Hello, chair. ‘Now wait here while I
get your father.’

‘While I get your father,’ I repeated sternly, wagging a strict Victorian finger. Then I snorted unattractively and had to
wipe my nose. But I sat demurely enough, sniggering only occasionally, as people drifted by. They smiled down, amused.

‘Thanks for the tickets!’ I called to Mark as he passed by with a pretty blonde girl.

‘Nothing to do with me, Poppy,’ he grinned. ‘But I’m glad you’re here. Having a good time?’

‘Fantastic!’ I gave him a broad wink. Well, of course. He wouldn’t want to admit to sending another woman tickets in front
of his girlfriend, would he? More people passed by on their way to the dance floor.

‘Good evening,’ I greeted one or two. No, I would not sit. It was rude. I got to my feet. Just. ‘And thank you so much for
coming.’ An elderly matron blinked at me, astonished. ‘Yes, it is a lovely party, isn’t it? Not at all, my pleasure. Do come
again.’ This, to Luke. ‘You too, Sue.’

‘Christ, love, what are you on!’ Dad was suddenly beside me, alarmed. My father doesn’t do alarmed. He’s not a big man, but
he was managing to hasten me, bodily, to the door. We passed a waitress. ‘Hey, hang on, Dad,’ I swung about. ‘There’s this
little blue glass, right, with this delicious –’ But she’d gone.

‘Schnapps? You drank that?’ he said aghast.

‘Three,’ I told him solemnly. ‘Wouldn’t mind another.’ I
made a break for it, but Dad’s an ex-national hunt jockey, and his arms are strong. He was propelling me forcibly outside.

‘Now what I’m going to do,’ he was saying in the patient tones one normally reserves for the educationally subnormal, ‘is
pop you in the lorry, OK? Then I’ll go back for the children, and then we’ll potter off home, all right?’

‘Righto,’ I said cheerfully, as he hustled me down the floodlit gravel drive. The night air hit me like a cosh, though, and
suddenly I felt terribly, terribly light-headed. And a bit unwell. Was I going to be sick? I counted to twenty and somehow,
having taken my shoes off to cross the paddock, found myself seated in the cab of a dark lorry in the middle of a field, shoes
in my lap. Dad beetled off.

To stop myself being ill and the world going round, I sang. I sang, with deepest concentration, a verse from ‘Raindrops on
Roses’. So many favourite things to remember, though. Whiskers. Kittens. Kettles … Bugger. ‘Edelweiss’, then. On I warbled.
Beside me, a young couple who’d left the party early jumped into a Land Rover. They climbed into the back seat and started
kissing. Ah well. I sang on. Everyone, it seemed, had found love tonight, except me. I sang on to the stars, just like Maria
singing to the children, and somewhere during the third verse, my own children appeared. Just like the Von Trapps, but fewer,
thank God.

‘Darlings!’ I greeted them exultantly, arms wide. Archie was fast asleep, wrapped in a blanket as Dad handed him to me through
the driver’s door. Then my own door opened and Clemmie was in Sam’s arms, wide-eyed.

‘Why were you singing, Mummy? We heard you miles away.’

‘Because I’m happy, darling! Well, hello,’ I drawled to Sam. ‘Can’t keep away, can you?’

‘Shut up and move across,’ said my dad, unreasonably officious for him. ‘Here, put this across the children.’

‘A seat belt,’ I boggled. ‘Didn’t spot that on the way over. Coming, handsome?’ I winked extravagantly at Sam.

‘That’ll do, love,’ said my father more gently. ‘And let go of his bow tie, there’s a good girl.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he doesn’t like it.’

I dropped it, disappointed. Sam’s head retracted and within a twinkling the cab door had shut on me. ‘Spoilsport,’ I pouted.
Then I wound down the window and leaned out. Dad was already behind the wheel, though, and had the engine started. ‘Lovely
party!’ I sang, hanging out of the window as we reversed.

As we turned back towards the gate, the headlights from our lorry lit up the back of the Land Rover beside us. Bare limbs
shivered in the yellow beam: two people were kissing horizontally and half naked on the back seat. From the waist down, in
fact. A pair of pearly white buttocks gleamed, a broad back still in its dinner jacket, the back of a man’s blond head, poised
above a dark one. Suddenly Hope’s beautiful but startled face was caught in the spotlight. As we rumbled off across the field,
leaving Sam standing in the midst of his acres, it occurred to me that, whilst I hadn’t recognized the buttocks, I had recognized
the Land Rover. It rumbled through our village on a regular basis. It was Passion-fuelled Pete’s.

The following morning found me a radically altered woman. No longer on top form. No longer singing in close harmony with an
aristocratic Austrian family fleeing the Nazis. No longer in heaven. This woman was in hell, not with the sound of music,
but the sound of throbbing temples. Unable to move from her bed, or unleash her tongue from the roof of her mouth, or crowbar
open her eyes – I managed, briefly, then shut them again – never had a person felt so unwell. Staggered by the weight of my
limbs, which I could just about coax into a foetal position, I lay doggo. Deado. Dead. And went back to sleep.