Faces in the Pool (18 page)

Weddings? I hate confetti.

Not because priests keep on about it: ‘Confetti makes the churchwardens cross,’ like anybody gives a tinker’s. Confetti indicates hysteria. The reason is obvious. Confetti disguises the boredom. This wedding was no exception. At first.

A banquet buffet was laid in the dining hall. The top table was reserved for Laura and Donna da Silfa’s big six. Plus me. Sandy threw confetti from a maid’s gilded basket. Everybody was junketing. Those smiles got to me.

Today’s only difference was, this wedding was mine. I’d already given, one marriage being the moral limit per life. And here I was, a digamist, being applauded like I’d won. Sandy was in tears (‘So-o-o beautiful’) and Mel in a state because he was toastmaster, and everybody smiling like they were enjoying some stupendous joke. The mirth was aimed
at
me. And throngs crammed in. So many, though, and all Laura’s pals? She looked over the moon, really desirable, but that’s women and weddings. I only wanted
news of my impending divorce, please. We noshed, said how the wedding had ‘gone off’, like some monstrous firework.

After a bit, something else felt wrong. Numbers dwindled. Mortimer, fascist turncoat, had already evaporated, though he always did that. Daniella, too, had done a flit, to Hugo Hahn’s clear annoyance. And among the uniformed serfs I’d noticed Leg-Breaker, who’d driven me to the Beeches Hospital. Now he too had gone. Maybe I’d imagined things, the stress of all this happiness.

Another problem. Usually, wedding guests fall on the nosh. This lot merely picked at the grub. I reasoned, feeling more uneasy, that it was due to different cultural backgrounds, different languages – Portuguese, German, and something like Tagalog, French without that Parisian tongue-rolling. Maybe they were moving on somewhere else after? I was spooking myself.

People nibbled their way with indifference, just politeness. Laura was all smarm, trying to put her hand in mine. I smiled back with a cardboard face, feeling held by staples. People nodded in our (I hated that
our
) direction as the speeches were signalled. The gathering quickly moved into clusters, reminding me of overseas boozers where squaddies and matelots used to gather, troopers with their own regiments. These guests all knew their own, though they were in mufti and on the same side.

Hugo Hahn rose to toast the health of everybody present, significantly not the bride and groom. They were horrible words.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Serious celebrations, before the real
toast
of the evening.’

For some reason everybody went into paroxysms of laughter. People fell about, some even shaking hands. I kept smiling. Such merriment.

‘We must thank Lovejoy here for coming
hotfoot
to perform his final labours.’

More rolling in the aisles, people clasping hands boxer style.

‘You know the drill,’ Hahn went on, as Laura squeezed my hand. I turned to look at her, but she shone with what seemed to be pure love and I was moved. Except I’m always taken in. Females know the game because they set up the rules. I don’t. Then a thought came. Who were the divorce lawyers? Would they come in soon and say, ‘Let’s get down to business, sir. Here’s your millions. Sign and you’ll be rich and single…’

Hahn droned on. For the life of me I couldn’t get his witticisms. The guests could. One or two oldies were slipped in there, straight off pub graffiti, like, ‘What food puts a woman off sex?
Wedding
cake!’ Har-de-har.

‘Now the serving staff are gone, I take this
final
chance of addressing us
all
together…’ pausing for laughs ‘…and I thank you all for seeing the bride and groom
off
.’

Nudges and winks everywhere. All I could see was teeth.

‘Then Lovejoy will divvy our – your! – antiques brought to Somnell House from our ancient cultures. His divvying guarantees their authenticity. The six of us you elected will supervise. It will be recorded on film for international investors.’

Hahn raised his glass. He drank our health. Laura bussed me to applause.

‘Once the divvying is done, we shall celebrate as never before. No longer mere Faces, the “forgotten white tribes” the world pities. The world will be ours!’

The crowd went wild, pressing forward and shaking my hand. It was a riot. I would divvy their antiques, and the antiques world would join the spending frenzy. Yet I couldn’t help wondering why I was here. This could all have been done elsewhere. Every London auction house had antiques experts from front to back door. Was it a tax thing? Laura hadn’t asked about her ex-husband, either. Why, in fact, was I essential?

Thoughts of Tansy kept coming. And old Smethie, and Paltry. Amid the celebrations, a daft news item came to mind: a Tennessee prisoner broke out and stole some hamburgers, then returned and gave the food to his pals. True story. In clink he was a hero. Moral: a story depends on who the listeners are.

People filed past congratulating me. I said ta. One old man told me, ‘God is love.’ I said ta. A slender gaucho spoke in Spanish. I told him ta. A lady gave me a kiss that was more than perfunctory. I told her a breathless ta. I told everybody ta. For what? A ranchified chap who looked sun-pruned told me in some Germanic accent, ‘Payment in full, hey?’ I said ta. He seemed in tears.

The parade went on, and people began to drift. I hate to drink before work. I honestly think wine is for slurping at home. Swilling is one-and-a-half glasses a night. Tea’s for quaffing in public. It’s a pity women expect wine when they’re out. I always think they want it to show other women that her bloke is giving it large.

One other thing was getting to me. At least a dozen 
mobiles will interrupt any ceremony, anywhere. During tender musicals, even sermons, for God’s sake, off go the jangling summonses and
Peter Pan
is ruined again.

Here, though? Not a single jingle.

For the first time, concern made me look at Hugo Hahn. Everyone shook his hand before they strolled to the exits. Note,
all
of them. Like he had pulled off something momentous, led them across quagmires to freedom. He was the hero. I was an incidental.

Nobody had expressed fervent thanks to me. The thanks were all for big Hugo Hahn. I was the one saying ta. They only said their God-bless and payment-is-due. And most looked away as they left. No eye contact.

Now, these people were carriage trade. I was once in Guadeloupe, then St Lucia, and more polite people you’ll never meet. Honest, it’s all through the Caribbean. Sri Lanka, same thing. I’d never been to Poland, but the Poles in East Anglia have meticulous manners. Namibia I didn’t know, but South Africans are the only ones in international sports who
always
say thanks to the umpires and referees.

Something was wrong, and I was it.

All life is a mess, I urged my frantic mind, so keep calm. Life’s mess is simply made up of hundreds of small errors. Sooner or later it becomes a final landslide, and over you go to perdition. I kept a brave face, stoically said ta and returned Laura’s hand squeeze.

The last of the guests left and we were alone, Donna da Silfa’s big six, Laura and me. I scoffed on, ploughing through the grub in case I didn’t get the chance later.

Sounds of the departing guests diminished. Distant slamming of car doors made me wonder where Ellen had
got to. I wanted to ask Laura when I might expect her legal eagles. She was busy reminiscing with Donna da Silfa while I asked after those ancient playing cards they’d been using when we’d all first met up. Does the ex-bridegroom get to keep the wedding presents after a divorce? I didn’t think so. What better antiques than antique cards?

The man seated next to me was the glitzy bloke, with those gold teeth that had impressed me. They’d been the valuable Goodall issue (the cards, not his teeth) for Queen Victoria’s jubilee. Elegant in his Confederate uniform, he sported a Dundreary moustache.

‘Those playing cards. Still got them?’

‘Always, sir.’ He tapped his coat pocket. ‘You aren’t suggesting a hand at this late juncture?’

‘No, er, Major. How much?’

He drew them from his pocket. Military uniforms are handsome, but useless for galloping in. I felt queasy. Genuine.

‘I keep them with me, sir. Family loyalty.’

‘No chance of a sale, then?’

‘Hardly, sir. Handed down, like faith in the Confederacy.’

‘OK. You don’t mind my asking?’

‘Hardly, sir. You’re an antiques dealer, after all.’

I realised all talk had ceased during this exchange. Hugo was staring along the table, Donna da Silfa also earwigging, as if they were scared Francisco Polk would let something slip. The tension eased, and they talked happily on.

‘Laura?’ I said quietly. ‘The lawyers?’

‘Do the divvying, Lovejoy, then we settle up. It’s in the old library.’

‘I can divvy forty an hour.’

‘Fine, darling. Go at your own pace. Then we’ll be done.’

That sounded a bit final, but was what we’d agreed.

‘Promise?’ I asked. She looked gorgeous. I’d not noticed her much until now. Stress again, maybe.

‘Promise, Lovejoy.’ She glanced at Hugo. ‘I keep my promises.’

‘Lovejoy?’ Donna da Silfa rose and the men stood together. Like I said, politeness rules among expatriates. ‘The place is now entirely yours. The staff are here if you need anything.’

‘Come through, please.’ Delius flicked his giant cigar and wheezed forward.

They accompanied me into a drawing room off the main hall. The darkened room’s walls were covered with greyish velvet, as repellent as it sounds. In the centre was a chair, with a whist-drive table. I felt aggrieved.

‘You could at least have got me an antique.’

‘Mortimer left you the pen and ink set.’ Laura pointed. ‘He said it was the only one you always trust, Lovejoy.’

‘Fine,’ I said. I showed no trace of the dismay I felt, clapping my eyes on what Mortimer had left.
That
inkwell?
That
pen? The little sod’s final jeer.

‘We’ll give you ten minutes, Lovejoy. The staff have instructions to start bringing in the antiques any time after that. All right?’

‘Fine.’ I stared at the inkwell and pen.

‘Pad of paper to make notes,’ Laura told me.

‘Fine.’
That
inkwell,
that
pen. I felt ill.

‘Nothing else you’ll want?’ from Hahn.

‘Fine.’ Iller and iller.

‘The staff shall carry the antiques in one at a time through the far door. As you give each antique the nod, it will be carried out through this near door. Tell them if you want them to come faster or slower.’ Delius said that.

‘Fine.’ I was sickened.

‘Then we shall leave you.’ Donna da Silfa led the way out. A carafe of water and a glass, both modern, were on the baize table. I badly wanted a swig, but thought of poison. ‘Bye, Lovejoy.’

‘Fine.’ It was all I could say.

Laura came and kissed me. ‘This is more than a promise, Lovejoy, darling. It’s my moment. And yours, for everything you’ve done and are. You’re wonderful.’

‘Fine.’

‘We’ll be waiting in the main library. Just send the staff for anything.’

‘Fine.’

I managed to keep saying it. I’ll never know how. I couldn’t take my eyes off the inkwell and the pen.

‘By doing this for us, Lovejoy,’ she said, cupping my face in her hands, ‘you are rescuing whole races of people. We honour you for it.’

Saying fine was pathetic. ‘I understand.’

For one instant a cloud passed before her eyes. They say that if you can fake sincerity you can fake anything. In that instant I was faking for my life. I smiled.

Hugo Hahn paused in the doorway, then, reassured by my tone and Laura’s behaviour, moved out. Laura went too, turning at the door to give me a ripple of her fingers.

A footman came in, gave me a nod and withdrew, closing the door.

Alone and waiting. Everything was fine, just like I said. The inkwell was there, with the glass pen and the notepaper. Mortimer had sent those in deliberately for me to use. What had Laura said? Mortimer said they were my favourites that I always trust?

Voices receded. Feet clacked on marble flooring. Some door nearby opened and closed.

Silence descended in the room like a cloak.

I stared at the inkwell.

Now, there are inkwells and inkwells. Some are valuable, some not.

This thing was the brass head of a cat eating a brass mouse. Horrible. I’d seen it before. It was the only antique I’d ever thrown away, literally chucked out when Lydia wanted me to divvy it. I’d raged at her, demanding who the hell wanted to be faced with a tortured mouse murdered by a hunter? You lifted the mouse to reveal an ink reservoir in the cat’s gaping maw. Fine nineteenth-century German workmanship, sure, but who on earth wanted to see that bloody thing?

I’d lobbed it out into my wilderness of overgrown garden, and told Mortimer and the weeping Lydia never to let me see the sickening thing again. I’d told Mortimer: ‘If I see that thing again, I’ll run a frigging mile.’

There was a cheap glass pen beside it. No message on the writing paper. The Faces would have checked.

Listening hard, I looked round the room. No cameras. I was stuck, with Donna’s team and Laura supposedly waiting in the library with lawyers, and sundry serfs poised
to bring in all those precious antiques.

Quietly, I went to the door. Locked. The other door, also locked. Well, security is essential, right? No windows beyond the black drapes, which were there simply for effect. Solid walls. Putting my ear to the door, I strove to hear a single sound. Nothing. Could I smell smoke?

The glass pen was just that. You get them in any shop. It’s a modern glass stem with one end twisted. You dip it in the ink, and the ink dribbles down the grooves. Simple. The monstrous brass cat-head inkwell was only for ink.

No weapon, nothing to batter a door down with. The table and chair were light modern constructions, so useless. No windows to climb out of. Nobody within earshot. Was the whole place now empty except for me?