Campari for Breakfast (6 page)

Egham Hirsute Group

On passion

‘In my opinion Cinderella is the greatest story ever told,’ said Aunt Coral, once the entire group was finally sitting earlier on this evening. ‘So in this meeting of the Egham Hirsute Group, Benjamin O’Carroll and I will begin by asking you to think about, A, Myth, and B, Genre.’ (As you can see, we have settled on calling ourselves the ‘Egham Hirsute Group’. It started as a joke, but it seems to be sticking!)

‘How can a myth like Cinderella translate into the everyday?’ continued Aunt Coral. ‘And how do myths fit into genres? For example, Cinderella could be said to fit into the genre of romantic fiction.’ She tapped a finger against her notes. ‘We, as authors, should think carefully about genres. Although we must also remember that whatever our genre, whether we write thrillers or crime novels or travel books, the point is to write books that sell.’

‘Or dirty books,’ said Delia. ‘Sex is the best seller of all time.’

The Admiral chuntered into his pipe.

‘Yes, Avery, you may well laugh,’ said Aunt C, ‘but Delia’s made an interesting point – sex
is
the best seller of all time.’

This was not good news for me being so out of the loop on it. It’s a horrible truth, but I haven’t even been
properly
kissed, as yet.

‘But writing good books,’ Aunt C continued, ‘isn’t all in the genre or even in the story. There are other factors.’ She was in full swing, and I was furiously typing. ‘I don’t think Charlotte Brontë would have sold nearly so many books if on the back sleeve it had said she was born in Bognor. Not that she was born in Bognor, but what I mean is that a writer has to create for her or himself a character that’s marketable too. A certain panache to attract the reader. So even at this early stage, it’s worth considering what you might say about yourself, should you get that far.’

‘Sue Bowl was born in Titford and studied under Benjamin O’Carroll in Egham,’ I offered.

‘That won’t attract many readers,’ said Delia, ‘how about something snappier . . . how about Hampshire-born Sue?’

‘Hampshire-born Sue’ – I liked that. I could see myself in years to come, tending quietly a few pet sheep, wearing wellies, before returning to my typewriter by the Aga, with the hint of husbands in the photos on the wall, and a monogrammed table cloth, perfect for the writer of romantic fiction.

‘Malaysian-born Delia Shoot,’ said Delia, ‘has been having sex every night for the past sixty two yea—’

‘Good, good’, said Aunt Coral, ‘you’re getting the idea.’ But then suddenly she threw down her notes. ‘Departing spontaneously from my plan, as Benjamin O’Carroll encourages gurus to do, why don’t we use sex as our exercise for this session, and write a few lines inspired by our passions?’

I had the strong inkling that Aunt Coral was seizing the unprecedented opportunity to get the Admiral to do sex exercises, using the Egham Hirsute Group for her purpose. Clever girl.

Just then Mrs Bunion came into the conservatory with a tray of nibbles. ‘I’ve put you up a tray, Miss Coral, would you like me to ring the gong before I go?’

A small bow followed her question. She’s the only one who calls Aunt Coral, ‘Miss Coral’. It’s because she thinks it’s the correct way to refer to the mistress in this size of a house. Though they have known each other since 1968, and Aunt Coral wouldn’t mind being called Aunt Coral.

‘Thank you, Pat, we’ll have it on our knees,’ said Aunt Coral. She is the only one who calls Mrs Bunion ‘Pat’. As far as the rest of us are concerned, Mrs Bunion was born Mrs Bunion.

Mrs B laid out the nibbles on the table, and gave a finale bow as she closed the conservatory door behind her, taking great care to avoid the creaks. I wondered whether to own up to the fact that my ideas about passion were only imagined and how unqualified I was to write about it. Delia and the Admiral were both engrossed, but I felt like a fraud.

‘Sue?’ said Aunt Coral, with uncanny telepathy, ‘Have you a problem?’

‘I’m not very clued up on it,’ I said.

The other members of the group stopped writing and stared, but Aunt Coral salvaged me.

‘What about your imagination Sue? I’m sure you must have felt passion, if only the yearning.’

It is true I have been feeling the yearning over Icarus. Perhaps passion isn’t just the end result and the communion of two people, but the bits before as well. I’d never thought of it like that. Aunt Coral was brilliant to see it.

‘And,’ she continued, ‘I believe that imagination is actually far superior to real life, an opinion that I am sure Benjamin O’Carroll would concur with. Perhaps you might write to him direct and get his reassurance on the matter? For example, I have heard you describe the Pacific Ocean as blue and yet you’ve probably never seen it. It’s the same thing with the intangible emotion: you know, even when you don’t know.’ She took a swig of her Bombay Sapphire.

I must admit she lost me a little, but maybe Mr O’Carroll’s thoughts
would
be helpful, that is, if he ever corresponds with his fans.

Suddenly and without any warning the Admiral stood up and scraped back his chair and, without even being asked to, prepared to read aloud his passion. Aunt Coral had to really gather herself together because she was so shocked and delighted.

‘On yearning,’ he said, and took a deep breath. ‘I stand at your gate and there do I wait, for the moment you bid me draw nearer. Oh! Come let me lead you through woods cool and shady, thou pearl amongst corals, thou dear tiny lady.’

Well! Aunt Coral nearly fell off her chair and her cheeks boiled, exactly as mine did when Icarus asked me out. But was his use of the word ‘coral’ deliberate? Or was it a cruel, cruel flewk? But Aunt Coral is only five foot two so, surely not.

Aunt C was for the first time ever rendered speechless. I thought she might even collapse. What a dark horse he is!

‘That was beautiful, Avery,’ said Delia, salvaging Aunt C. ‘And here is mine, which I have been longing to do since our group’s beginnings.’ She cleared her throat and stood up, holding her handbag for security.

Dear Ralph,

You are such an outrageous bastard I don’t know where to begin. From one end of the day to the other my rage knows no end. You loathsome wastrel, I rail against the injustices you have caused me to suffer.

Leaving me for a twenty-five-year-old is a kick in the teeth, but leaving me with insufficient funds is the meanest, lowest, dirtiest trick in the book. On the former it would be less of an insult if she were a raving beauty and not such a great lump. Obviously the fact that she is young makes you feel young too, but you look shameful next to her with your new tattoo and your cut-off jean trousers. You don’t fool anybody you ugly, smelly, rancid old bastard.

You could make some amends by sending me more money, so that I can at least get my knees done and keep Loudolle in nice dresses.

Miserable conceited wretch that you are, I hate you with all my heart.

D.

Delia was shaking when she had finished and Aunt Coral had to step in.

‘There is real passion in Delia’s letter, and it is so much better out than in,’ she said, as she offered Delia some humus and carrots for comfort.

‘I’m fine thank you,’ she said. ‘In fact I feel much better.’

Once again shock and silence rained on the Egham Hirsutists, so we all leapt into the humus as it seemed the natural thing to do.

Then I decided to read out my assignment, even if it did sound stupid. After all, I was amongst friends, two of whom had already exposed themselves.

They met at four and went to the hotel. He ordered champagne and they had sex for thirty-six hours and then went shopping. He took her relentlessly, telling her off on the floor. She had always wanted a dress in a box and he gave it to her, though it was a terrible price, and then they went back to the hotel and ordered more champagne from the room people and had sex again without stopping.

It was in parting that the pain of being without him even for a single instant got to her, and they had to have sex one more time.

What was it with the silences at our group this evening? If I hadn’t known Aunt Coral better I’d have sworn she was crying. Obviously my writing had affected her. It was a huge compliment. That’s why I want to do it.

‘Excellent Sue, really excellent,’ she said. ‘Well done, and so full of longing, oh, how they go hand in hand, the yearning and the passion, it’s practically mathematical. Sometimes as writers we must share the things we’d rather imagine in private. Excellent, really excellent, well done.’

I knew her praise was a little biast, though my piece was not without punch.

‘What about yours?’ asked Delia.

‘Gurus don’t do the exercises but oversee them and make remarks,’ Aunt C said, her eyes full of warning.

‘But I saw you writing—’

‘Right, I think that’s enough for this evening, I’m sure we’ve all got a thousand things to do. If anyone would like to join me in the drawing room later, Pat has laid a fire, excuse me I must go and telephone Dean Martin.’

We all filtered out of the conservatory and off to our respective rooms, all contained in that gargantuan house, with so much yearning beneath its bludgeoning roof. So it seems that it never stops, it would appear that you never grow out of it. Oh, love, love, I am so ready to know you. Come to my aid and let me live in your sunshine.

Saturday 14 Feb (St. Valentine’s Day!)
3.45pm

Mum and I always sent Valentines to each other, in case we didn’t get any. I’ve never had one from anyone else. (Although one year I received two. That was the year she eventually confessed she got carried away.)

I have spent hours going over and over my plans for tonight, and today has seemed to last weeks. Funny how being in love can alter your time frame.

In order to escape dinner early enough to have any kind of quality time with Icarus, I have persuaded Dad and Ivana to book the dinner table much earlier than they wanted, at five o’clock. They couldn’t rearrange coming for another night because they are flying to Venice early tomorrow morning. So Aunt C suggested that I tell them that I had a ‘prior engagement’, which they eventually accepted after a telephone battle.

This is the plan of action which Aunt Coral has cooked up: the Admiral will collect me from the restaurant at 6.30pm prompt, and then take me on to the party for 7.00pm. This will give me approximately three hours with Icarus for the loving. Meanwhile Aunt Coral will entertain Dad and Ivana back at Green Place. Then the Admiral will pick me up again at 10.00, leaving time for cognacs with everyone in the drawing room at 10.30 before Dad and Ivana leave for their flight. On paper at least it looks fluid.

I’ve been so worried about my wardrobe that at one point I nearly decided not to go. I considered spending decadent sums of money on a fabulous new dress, but Aunt Coral urged me not to.

‘Young men are piglets and you should find out if he’s worth it before you spend your pennies,’ she said.

Icarus Fry a piglet?
As if she’s any kind of judge, for heaven’s sake – she fancies the Admiral!

In the end I decided on my most devastating pinafore with a pair of Aunt Coral’s jazzy high heels, though I’ve had to leave wet potatoes in them all night, which Aunt C told me would stretch them. Delia has helped me with my hair and face. I just hope Icarus will see through the packaging.

Sunday 15 Feb
Morning

At four o’clock yesterday, I went down to the drawing room for an apairoteef with the others. I couldn’t decide which feeling was worse, the thought of seeing Dad and Ivana again, or my nerves about how I would come across to Icarus. How I would look, how I would walk, how I would sound, whether I’d be sweating, all the things a girl considers when faced with a potential future husband.

I kept thinking about how my mum would have been so good at all this. Her absence was galloping. She used to send me to school with an embarrassing ribbon in my hair, but I never took it off after she’d gone, because she put it there. It was the mark of her. It was the same yesterday evening with Delia’s coiffure. She had put my hair in hot curlers and combed it out to look poof, signing it with her friendship. Normally I have just my home bob that I’ve had since I was young. I keep meaning to grow it into glamour locks, but it gets hot on the back of my neck. I don’t normally do much to it, Aunt C says it dries like I’ve just been swimming, and so to be honest Delia’s styling was somewhat bigger than I enjoy.

As I entered the drawing room, it was like a beautiful dream. The Admiral stood up and the ladies caught their breath.

‘Oh Sue!’ said Aunt Coral, and she rushed to the side board to fetch her camera.

‘You’re a knockout,’ said Delia.

‘A smasher,’ said the Admiral and he went to the bar and fixed me a Pimm’s.

Funny how two old ladies and an old boy can make you feel great, much more than anyone in youth can, although I am not so unwordy as to not know that Aunt Coral thinking I look pretty and Icarus thinking I do are subtly different matters. And this was no childish party, this was a big late night adult party with boys and a bar. This was what all the poets went on about. Oh, love, love.

The only thing I still hadn’t resolved when I left the house was what I would say to Joe, but I decided to cross that bridge when I came to it.

At 4.45 when the Admiral took me into Egham it was already dark. The trees whisked past the Bentley window so dark and glossy. The sky was damp, but I could smell the summer coming, and in the magical twilight the early stars were just showing off in the gathering evening sky.