Love Falls (11 page)

Caroline raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, the poor husband certainly looks exasperated by her. Shouldn’t wonder he was trying to drown his sorrows. Very pretty the young girl, though.’

Lara looked over the top of her magazine to see her father put his head on one side, unconvinced. Good, she thought, but she couldn’t erase the image of Allegra, her wide rose mouth, her honey-coloured hair falling forward as she watched Kip leap out of the water.

‘And as for Andrew Willoughby . . .’ Caroline stretched.

‘Yes,’ Lambert agreed. ‘Always was a shit.’ And a shadow fell over his face.

Lara took the newspaper up to bed with her and studied the painting of Lady Diana reproduced on its front cover. It had just been unveiled at the National Portrait Gallery –
The first royal woman
, it said,
ever to be immortalised in trousers
. The artist, apparently, was poised for flight, having once before been forced to go into hiding for three weeks when his painting of Princess Margaret failed to meet approval. Royal or public, it didn’t say. On the inside page was a photograph of Charles and Diana at a garden party, posing under umbrellas in the torrential rain with a quote from Diana saying she didn’t mind anything at all, but it mustn’t rain on Wednesday. It mustn’t rain on the day of the wedding. It just absolutely had to stay dry. Lara got up and looked out at the night sky. She could hear the music again, waltzing, catching on the current of the wind, and as she watched, she saw the bright flickering of a fire. Was it a code? she wondered, when after a minute or two it went out and then flickered on again, and she opened the window further and leant out.

Lara wasn’t the only one to fall in love on the bus. A teacher from Birmingham become besotted with a stained-glass maker from Kent and before they’d even crossed the channel they’d already asked their neighbours if they wouldn’t mind moving so that they could reorganise the seats. That first night when they stopped to camp – in ex-army surplus tents provided by the bus – they sneaked away from the fire where supper was being prepared, and when they came back they were bleary-eyed and weak. They hardly ate, and all the next day they sat together, stroking and kissing and whispering in each other’s ear.

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Cathy shook her head, but Lara, whenever she got the chance, just stared.

That night, when everyone had settled down to eat, they heard a thudding, juddering noise coming from the abandoned bus. ‘What is it?’ At first they were alarmed but then they realised it was the lovestruck couple having sex in the boot. It was hard to ignore it, the clanking of the suspension and the odd eerie echo as they moaned, but it went on so long that eventually a guitar was tuned and voices raised and within a week, although they started spending whole nights in the boot, no one bothered to mention it at all.

‘Strangely quiet tonight,’ Lara and Sam would joke if there happened to be silence, and they’d set off to explore the town, invariably heading for the market to buy coloured thread with which Lara had taken to decorating people’s clothes. She embroidered flowers and leaves and rows of children holding hands and in exchange the passengers gave her Coca-Cola, or failing that, soapstone carved into religious charms.

Kip didn’t call for her the next day. Lara never really believed he would, but all the same she got up early and spent much of the morning in her room listening for the sound of him, slouching across the gravel in his trodden-down shoes. Eventually, just before eleven, she wandered downstairs to where Lambert was working and Caroline was writing some kind of list and asked if anyone else was thinking of going over to Ceccomoro to see the wedding.

‘My dear.’ Caroline looked amused. ‘I thought you were entirely uninterested.’

Lara hesitated, remembering how only a day or two ago she was. ‘Well, I sort of promised.’ She blushed, and Caroline with a slow smile went into the kitchen where Ginny was peeling the thin bubbled skin from roasted peppers and asked if she wouldn’t mind giving Lara a lift.

Ginny was quite skittery with excitement. She climbed into the 2CV, forgetting at first to shut her door, then stalling the car as she attempted to reverse, so delighted was she to get a chance to talk about the wedding.

‘It’s like a fairy tale,’ she breathed, and Lara saw that she was close to crying.

All the way along the road, past the stone lions and along the chalky drive, Ginny talked about her admiration for Lady Di. Lara kept quiet, her lips pressed together, fearful that she might betray her own ambivalence, wishing she could offer Ginny her place. But Caroline would miss her when lunch was to be served, and what would the Willoughbys say if she invited her in? Eventually they pulled up in the yard.

‘You know something?’ Ginny said. ‘I nearly didn’t take this job. I was planning to be there. To camp outside St Paul’s Cathedral, but I couldn’t afford to, not really, turn down a whole month of work.’ Ginny smiled and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I would have done it though, if I could, for her.’ And, sniffing with emotion, she waved Lara away and began to turn the car around.

The television room was dark, the stone floor covered in rugs, cushions from the sofa pulled down to make extra seats. Everyone looked up as Lara pushed open the door, some smiling, some startled, others as if they’d never seen her, or if they had, never expected to set eyes on her again. Carefully she stepped over lounging bodies, searching out a space, until she came upon a spare cushion, the empty flank of a sofa behind. It wasn’t until she sat down that she realised her shoulder was leaning up against Andrew Willoughby’s leg, and beside her, the nearest body was Kip’s. He looked at her and nodded, smiling just minutely, and then he turned and glanced at the doorway, where Lulu stood, staring at the space Lara had just filled.

‘Oh.’ She struggled to get up. ‘I’m sorry.’ But everyone hissed at her to shhhh and Lulu shrugged and kicked at Roland to move over so she could drape herself across the arm of his chair.

Lara wasn’t late. Italy was an hour ahead, and the Prince and soon-to-be Princess were still to enter the cathedral. It was a beautiful day in London. Thank God, she thought, laughing at herself for getting so drawn in. But just the sight of London, of Buckingham Palace and St Paul’s, made her nostalgic and she found that she was missing her mother, as if she might be somewhere in the crowd. Unlikely as it was, she scanned the faces of the people waving their Union Jacks, enlivened with happiness and patriotic fervour, almost hysterical with the luck of a fine day.

‘His Royal Highness’ – a voice cut through the babble of the crowd – ‘Charles, Philip, Arthur, George, Prince of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Crick and Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles and Great Steward of Scotland, will shortly be married in St Paul’s Cathedral to . . . Lady Diana Frances Spencer.’

Lara thought how inadequate Diana’s name sounded beside his. Couldn’t she have more, an extra title or two, just for today? Baroness of Nursery Schools, Hairstyle Trendsetter to the Outer Nations of Knightsbridge and World’s End. Earlette of Sloane Square, Loafer to the Court of Sunday’s
Mail
. Princess of the Pure and Hopeful, Beloved Especially of Ginny.

Just then they caught sight of the royal carriage. Prince Charles was arriving, the shape of his head unmistakable from above, even in his hat. His hair, Lara was sure, parted for the occasion even further to one side. But where was she? It was Diana the crowd wanted to see. Will she be late? She’ll have to be. Three minutes. Is that the traditional time allowed, before everyone gets jumpy? Charles was inside the cathedral, as were the Queen and the Queen Mother, both in blocks of colour, the same from top to toe. There was Prince Philip, Princess Anne, the Princes Andrew and Edward.

The camera scanned the crowds, and then there she was, in her coach, her face veiled, her father redder than ever beside so much white. ‘As commoners,' the commentary informed them, ‘they are not entitled to a military escort but must make do with police on horseback.' But the crowd didn't care about the uniforms of the Spencers' escort. What they longed for, even more than a sight of Diana, was a sight of Diana's dress. The coach was stopping. They were going to see it. There was an intake of breath in the room as Diana uncurled from the carriage. And there it was. Hideous. More hideous even than anything dreamed up by
¡Hola!
. Lara shot a quick look round, but everyone was transfixed by the fairy-tale sight of someone transformed from shy and awkward into a princess. Diana was moving now, ignoring her train, leaving her bridesmaids to do battle with it, attack it like an unruly sheet. She pulled away, determined, gliding up the steps, disappearing through the doors of the cathedral, her train following finally until it was out of sight.

‘Fuck.' Tabitha's voice yawned up from the sofa. ‘Help me up, someone. I need a wee.'

Roland stayed where he was but, once his wife was on her feet, he watched her go, moving precariously through the crowd of her family, swaying as she reached the door.

‘Piers,' Roland hissed, and when Piers turned round, he winked at him. ‘You'll be next.'

Piers turned back to the screen where Charles and Diana were now standing side by side, Charles, scrubbed and gleaming, Diana hiding in her shroud of white.

‘Yes,' Piers murmured, refusing to be drawn in, and he squeezed May's hand.

There was silence again while the marriage ceremony began and not a word was said until Diana was asked to repeat the list of Charles's names and managed to mix them up.

‘Noooooo,' they all shrieked, and they heckled her, giggling and smirking, relieved to have someone to break the tension for them. By the time everyone was quiet Charles and Diana were married.

‘Well.' Andrew Willoughby yawned and stretched. ‘He's gone and done it now.' And giving Pamela a pinch on the bottom as she stood up, he said that was enough of Great Britain for this summer; he didn't want to hear another word about it until next year at least.

One by one everyone stood up and wandered outside. Lara wasn't sure what she was to do without the official right to be there bestowed by Caroline, so she followed the others out, walked towards the car park, stood in the stone doorway, peering out as if she owned a car. She looked back, thinking she should at least say goodbye, or thank you, when Kip came out of the house and called to her, ‘You'd better stay for lunch or there'll be trouble.'

‘OK,' she agreed, and seeing her puzzled look, he came closer.

‘She thinks everyone hates her, that's all.'

‘Who does?'

‘Pamela. The big P. I mean we do, but it's too hot for a row today.'

They stood there looking out over the countryside, over the dark clumps of trees, the dry stone walls that edged the fields, the steep slope of them, falling and then rising into hills.

‘Where's the short cut?' she asked. ‘If I wanted to walk home, I mean?'

‘Oh that.' He grinned. ‘You mean the sexy path?' and blushing unexpectedly he seemed to forget what she had asked him and ambled off towards the pool.

That afternoon everyone was subdued. It was as if the sight of Britain had made them self-conscious, reminded them of who they usually were. Lara lay on the sun terrace, feeling the stone scorch into her skin, listening idly to the lull of conversation. Piers was asking everyone where they would choose if they had to plan a honeymoon, and the answers came back Scotland, a floating palace in India, Egypt, Bali, Devon. Charles and Diana were spending three days with the family of Lord Mountbatten, killed two years before by an IRA bomb, and then, as if to erase the memory, they were off for two weeks on a Mediterranean cruise.

‘If you come to LA, you could visit me,' Lulu said languidly and Andrew, who was reading in a deckchair, asked when she was deserting them.

‘Darling!' Pamela looked hurt. ‘I've told you already. She's going tomorrow. I'm taking her to the plane. So
I'll
be gone all day.'

Andrew pulled his hat further down over his face and humphed. He looked tired, his nose bobbled and red, his legs almost comically thin under his plantation-owner shorts. ‘Well,' he said, ‘who's going to cheer me up when she's gone?' He flicked his magazine irritably, and his eyes lighted on Lara. ‘Miss Riley,' he said, ‘I'm relying on you. You can keep us amused.'

‘Me?' Lara smiled, hopeful that she'd misunderstood, but Andrew held her gaze, as if waiting, right then and there, for her to come out with something witty. ‘I'll try,' she said, because she had to say something, and seemingly satisfied, Andrew Willoughby went back to his paper, while Lara searched her memory for the existence of even one amusing thing.

‘Lara.' Someone was prodding her with their foot.

‘Yes?' She sat up, her vision blurred with so much squinted worrying at the sun.

‘What do you say?' It was May, her tawny hair pulled up into a topknot. ‘Supper in Siena to celebrate Lulu's last night?'

They were all looking at her expectantly, everyone except Lulu who was lying reading on her stomach, one bare leg stretched out a little at an angle, just lapping over on to Kip's towel.