A Surrey State of Affairs (34 page)

Jeffrey’s naturally ruddy complexion had darkened to a violent shade of puce. He picked up his cheese knife, then put it back down. He looked up.

“Natalia, you must be awfully tired,” he said finally, in a flat voice. “You work too hard. Why don’t you take a break for a few weeks?”

She stood perfectly still for a few seconds, then picked up her duffel bag, placed the straps delicately across her shoulder, and walked right out of the room without saying another word.

And just like that, Jeffrey had stripped me of my housekeeper. Ivan guffawed, then smeared a piece of Stilton onto a cracker, placed a grape on top, and rammed it down his throat. He picked up his glass of port. “To us,” he said, looking at Jeffrey.

“To us,” Jeffrey weakly replied.

From the kitchen came the sound of a muffled smash and foreign words screeched in anger.

Afterward, I lay awake for a long time waiting for Jeffrey to come to bed so that I could ask him pointedly what his plan was for cleaning the windows and ironing his socks, but after I had rehearsed the question over and over again in my head, including the exact way that I would smile sadly and shake my head, I heard the familiar caterwauling of Led Zeppelin start up and noticed that the bedside clock showed two
A.M.
I gave up and fell into an uneasy slumber, during which I dreamed that the house had fallen into disrepair and I was trapped in labyrinths of rubbish until the blond woman with the pink rubber gloves from
How Clean Is Your House?
tunneled through to release me.

When I woke up, Natalia had already gone, leaving no indication of when—or if—she plans to return. I went down to the kitchen to find Ivan and Jeffrey breakfasting on fried eggs, Tabasco, and Belgian beer. I asked Jeffrey if he was going to be late for work and he just shrugged.

  
WEDNESDAY, JULY 30

Bell ringing last night. With just two weeks to go until the competition, there is a new edge to the group. Could we, can we, will we, challenge St. Albans, that ruthlessly efficient group of ringers who have been the reigning champions for the past three years? We will certainly give it our best shot.

Reginald wore red Nike sweatbands around his wrists. When Gerald rang his bell half a second too soon during the Reverse St. Sylvester Miss Hughes sucked in her breath and muttered, “Stupid little man,” putting me and several others off our stroke. During the tea and biscuit break, Reginald sipped from a bottle of Lucozade, and gave us all a little pep talk.

“Friends, Christians, ringers,” he said. “We gather here because
we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord. St. Albans is a fearsome enemy, but by standing together, as our forefathers have stood together for generations, we
can
overcome—and I tell you, ringers, we
shall
overcome.”

“Hear, hear,” said Gerald politely.

“Now is not the time to descend into petty disputes, to let the old divides weaken our sense of purpose,” he said, glancing hesitantly at Miss Hughes, who was noisily eating a chocolate biscuit and ignoring him.

“We must toil until our hands are raw, we must look at our adversaries without fear, we must, above all, have the audacity of hope.”

He stopped. Daphne, the postmistress, wiped a tear from her eye. I clapped, to show my support.

“On another matter,” I said, as Reginald mopped his brow with his handkerchief, “does anyone know a good housekeeper?”

No one did, unfortunately; although when I had explained my predicament, Gerald at least made very sympathetic noises, which is more than can be said for Jeffrey. I’ve not heard a word from Natalia, but every time I ask Jeffrey where he thinks she went, he just shrugs and changes the subject.

  
THURSDAY, JULY 31

You would have thought that a decent housekeeper was as rare as a three-toed alpine ibex or a lump of frankincense. Try as I might, I have made no inroads in finding a Natalia substitute. It doesn’t help matters that I have no idea whether I am seeking a temporary, or permanent, replacement. I asked at Church Flowers, and was met with the same blank silence I encountered at bell ringing. I am loath to go down the same road I used to hire Natalia in the first place, which was namely to use Ivan the Terrible’s shadowy “Eastern Star Recruitment Solutions” business.
Sophie is of little help. I finally persuaded her to dust all the bedrooms yesterday, but in doing so she managed to knock the pottery hedgehog that Rupert made for me when he was in prep school off the windowsill, breaking off several of its prickles. In despair, I dropped the following note at Reginald’s, to include in the parish newsletter:

Ironically, Natalia herself would fail to meet the requisite standard.

  
FRIDAY, AUGUST 1

Where did July go? I have been so preoccupied with Sophie’s escapades, Ivan the Terrible’s arrival, and Natalia’s departure that I have hardly noticed the time pass by. And now, according to my Cottages of the Cotswolds wall calendar, it is already August, and just one week before my fifty-fourth birthday.

I am still none the wiser as to what Jeffrey may, or may not, be planning. He certainly doesn’t act like a man struggling under the strain of an extravagant and covert present-buying initiative. In the morning he eats his toast with his usual calm concentration, occasionally supplementing it with one of Ivan’s pickles, then either drives to the station or, if Ivan is going into town to look
after his mysterious business affairs, shares a lift in that horrible man’s tacky ego extension of a car. In the evenings he takes Ivan to The Plucked Pheasant or sits in his usual chair with
The Economist
and a glass of scotch. There is no indication in any of this as to what sort of present he will buy me.

Not that I am obsessed with gifts, you understand—I am quite capable of buying myself whatever odds and ends I fancy—and yet I find that, to a certain extent, birthday presents are a useful bellwether as to the state of one’s marriage. I still have the hand-carved wooden lovespoon that Jeffrey brought back from a rugby tour to Wales the first year we were married. It has an anchor to represent stability, a horseshoe for luck, and entwined leaves for growing love. I suppose the Welsh need their symbols as they still don’t seem to have mastered the alphabet. In any case, given the eventful nature of the past few months, I can’t help but wonder what Friday morning will bring.

I will organize a simple family dinner in our local French restaurant for the evening; given the current lack of domestic staff I can’t even begin to think about organizing something at home. All I need to do is call Rupert and Harriet, and forewarn Mother. Jeffrey has many fine qualities, but planning social gatherings is not one of them. I still haven’t entirely forgiven him for booking that belly dancer for my fortieth.

  
SATURDAY, AUGUST 2

Today I picked the first apricots from our tree—Randolph has been tending it well—and baked a tart to take to Tanya. I tried to get Sophie to help, but she was too busy trying to tan her tummy. I will give her one more week before I raise the subject of Cats in Need.

When I got to Tanya’s, she was a little out of spirits. At almost eight months pregnant, she opened the door wearing a vast
stretchy red maternity dress, with a good five inches of cleavage protruding from the top.

“I’m fed up now, Connie!” she said, sitting amid the Idle Hands boxes in her open-plan living room, which was looking markedly less slick than when they first moved in. Mark has taken over most of the day-to-day running of the business. “My back hurts, my feet hurt,” she said, sighing. “I’m too hot all the time and I look like John Prescott, with Jordan’s tits.”

I comforted her as best as I could, reassuring her that I had started to resemble a beached porpoise by the time I had Sophie. She picked at her fingernails, which, for once, were unpolished.

I decided to distract her by asking if she and Mark had decided on a name. She said that if the baby was a boy it would be called Mark Junior, and if it was a girl it would be Pinot, Shariah, Coleen, Tiffany, or Ivanka. I successfully suppressed a shriek of horror by pretending that I was choking on an apricot kernel. Then, to change the subject, I invited her to my birthday dinner. I know it was supposed to be a family-only gathering, but she looked like she needed something to look forward to. I’m sure everyone will get along fine, as long as Mother doesn’t drop anything in Tanya’s cleavage or ask about baby names.

  
SUNDAY, AUGUST 3

Wonderful news! Oh, wonderful news! How long I have waited for this day. To think that only a few months ago I was desperate enough to consider putting him on
Telegraph
dating.