Olivia’s Luck (2000) (20 page)

As he slept, I gazed, uninhibited now, on those fine features; that straight nose, full lips, the dark lashes brushing his bronzed face. Of course, I reasoned, if one was going to have an affair, this was exactly the sort of man to do it with. Single, uncomplicated, just a spot of undiluted fun to get the blood coursing through the veins, make me feel vibrant and sexy again. But that wasn’t what I wanted.

I turned my face back to the sky and shut my eyes against the scorching rays. No, it wasn’t what I wanted, not right now. I felt the sun on my eyelids, my skin soaking up this heat. Unlike Lance, worries I most certainly had, but the eighty-five degrees were getting to me now, making me drowsy. I mustn’t drop off, though, I thought sleepily, my skin would absolutely scorch out here. Just two minutes, then I’d get up.

Some time later, I was woken by the doorbell. It was ringing and ringing. I opened my eyes and sat up, startled. Lance was still kipping deadly beside me, snoring away. It rang again, then again, sharp, and insistent.

“OK, OK!” I muttered, staggering to my feet. I weaved sleepily up the garden, through the French windows – hanging on briefly to the doorframe for support – then propelled myself towards the front door. When I reached the hall, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My face and chest were a livid red, and my hair, wet and sweaty, plastered to my head. I groaned. Oh no, how could I have fallen asleep like that? With my skin? The bell went again.

“I’m bloody
coming
!” I shrieked, as I reached for the doorknob. I swung it back with irritable emphasis.

There, on my doorstep, stood Johnny.

“Johnny!” I gasped, taking a step back. I wrapped my arms protectively around my bare midriff.

“Hi, Liwy.”

“Wh-what are you doing here?”

He frowned. “What d’you mean?”

“Well – did you – forget something? Come back for something?”

“Come back? No, I’ve just arrived. Sorry, I suppose I am a bit late, but the traffic was appalling.”

“Late for what?”

“Well, I’ve come to collect Claudia, of course.”

I
stared at him, aghast. “But – you came earlier!”

“What?”

“Didn’t you come earlier?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Well – someone came!”

“To collect her?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t speak to him!”

“So who did?”

“Lance! He’s my – my cabinet-maker.”

“Your cabinet-maker?” He blinked. “Blimey, exactly how rarefied are these builders getting, Liwy? You’ll be telling me you’re employing gilders next. OK, so where’s Claudia?” He peered behind me.

“Oh! Oh no, she’s not here!”

Johnny paled. Stared at me. “You mean…you let her go? With this person? This person who came to the door, spoke to your cabinet-maker and – and handed over my
child?
”

“No! God, no.” I pushed my hands desperately through my sweaty hair. “She’s at Lucy’s, you see. She stayed the night there, and I meant to ring you and tell you, Johnny, but – well, I forgot.”

His eyes widened with comprehension. “Ah.” He nodded. “Right. So…I’ve just sat on the sodding Ml for two hours, in greenhouse conditions, when you could have made a quick phone call, is that it?”

“Well I
meant
to ring, of course, but I’ve been so busy, you see!” God, this was desperate. All I’d done was make him angry.

“Clearly,” he said drily. “Well, don’t let me hold you up any longer.” He glanced behind me, through the French windows to the garden beyond, where Lance was spread-eagled on a towel, mouth open, snoring loudly.

“I take it that’s the master craftsman?”

“Yes,” I hesitated, “that’s – Lancelot.”

He snorted. “Lancelot! Blimey, that’s a good one. So – let me guess – you’re Guinevere? Lots of ‘Aye, my lord, and wither my wimpole? Chase me round the Round Table’?”

I regarded him for a moment. He looked totally irresistible, of course, this love of my life, this ache in my tubes, this short fuse to my heart. Tall, tanned, his blond hair sun-bleached, standing on my doorstep in his ancient shirt and shorts that I knew so well, had washed, hung out, and ironed so many times. After a moment, I folded my arms and raised my chin at him.

“Johnny, do I poke fun at your relationship? Do I make derogatory remarks about your fluffy, winsome, bosomy little teacher? Or do I make an effort to be as pleasant and as civilised as possible about this horrific situation I find myself in?”

He looked suitably chastened. Nodded. “No, no, you’re right. Sorry, that was cheap.” He scratched his head sheepishly. “Sorry, Liwy. You’re behaving very well. Much better than I am.”

Oh, this was worse, far worse. A lump came to my throat, and as his blue eyes apologised, I wanted to throw myself on him, hug him to bits, smell that shirt, his hair, his skin, say, “But I don’t want bloody Lancelot! I don’t want to be standing here going through the motions of this ridiculous charade. I just want you!” But I didn’t. Because isn’t that the truth? There’s always something to behave about.

“So,” he scuffed his Docksiders on the doorstep, “it is a relationship, then?”

Ah, so he’d picked up on that. Gone after that little word I’d tossed him like a dog would a bone. Even sounded a mite territorial about it. Good. I gave a dismissive little shrug.

“I’m not sure yet. It’s still early days.” Play it cool, Liwy, dead cool.

He nodded. “Right. Well, anyway, it’s none of my business,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll be away.”

“You don’t want to – ” I stood aside to let him in – “get a drink or anything? I mean, if you’ve been in the car for ages – ”

“No, no,” he said quickly, glancing at Lance. “No thanks.” He gave a wry smile. “I don’t think I’d be quite as civilised as you, Liwy.”

I smiled back, tears filling my eyes. “It doesn’t come naturally, I can assure you.”

He nodded. “I know.” As he turned to go, he glanced back. “Incidentally, I should put something on that chest. You’re going to be as raw as hell in the morning. And give Claudes my love. Tell her I’ll see her next week.”

I nodded. Couldn’t speak now. He walked to his car and raised his hand in a final salute as he got in. I waved back, watched as he drove off, then sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and burst into tears. Damn him. Damn him for being all I’d ever wanted.

After a while I wiped my eyes and blew my nose violently. Get a grip, Olivia. I peered in the mirror again. God, I couldn’t have looked more awful, though, could I? I thought with awe. Bright red skin, sweaty hair – I hardly presented a seductive spectacle, and actually, I felt a bit cold and shivery now. I grabbed a cardigan from the banisters, threw it on and went out into the garden. Lance wasn’t exactly looking his best either, I thought ruefully, snoring away like that, mouth open, catching flies. Shame Johnny had had to see him like that, but then again, if he’d met him at the door, it appears he might have resorted to some uncivilised behaviour, which was something, anyway, I conceded grudgingly. But then – oh God! Who
had
met Lance at the door? My hand flew to my mouth. I hastened across the lawn to wake him.

“Lance! Lance!”

I crouched down and shook him hard. “
Lance!
”

He came round sleepily. “Hmm? What?” He raised himself up on one elbow and peered blearily at me. “Christ,” he muttered, “what time is it?”

“Almost twelve. We fell asleep. Listen, Lance, you know the guy who came to the door?”

He sat up and yawned widely, scratching his head. “Johnny?”

“No! No it wasn’t Johnny! Johnny’s just been. He got stuck on the Ml!”

“Oh. Really?” He frowned, looked bewildered.

“Yes, really, so what the hell did he look like?”

“Who?”

“The other guy!”

“Oh.” He peered into the middle distance, trying to remember. “Well – quite tall, I suppose, longish dark hair, and sort of…yes, slanty eyes.”

I stared. Sat back on my heels. Tall…long dark hair…slanty – “Oh God!” I clutched my mouth.

“What?”

“Oh no, I think I know who that is! Did he look slightly…not quite there?”

“He looked completely not quite there, especially when I gave him the baby oil bit.”

I groaned. “Oh no! Oh God, Lance, I think that was Sebastian, from down the road! And there you were, socking it to him in graphic detail, telling him I was recovering from a monumental seeing-to and douching away upstairs! Didn’t he try and stop you?”

Lance shrugged. “I suppose I didn’t give him much of a chance. I was giving it plenty of verbal, see, and all the time, hopping from foot to foot, getting ready to dodge in case a fist came flying my way, although,” he paused, “I must say, he didn’t seem inclined to do that. He just gazed at me sort of – ”

“Vacantly?”

“Well, speechlessly, anyway. Blinked a bit, too.”

I stuffed my feet into my deckshoes and groaned. “Oh God! Now I’ll have to go and bloody
see
him, won’t I! Have to explain, apologise, do
something
otherwise it’ll be all round the flaming neighbourhood – how the abandoned wife at Orchard House spends her Sunday mornings. Nanette will have a field day!” I stood up and chewed my lip thoughtfully. “I know, I’ll say you’re my brother or something, and – and you’re staying here, and that your wife’s just had a baby – hence the oil – and that the reason I was soaking in the bath in the middle of the day was because – oh, because I’d been doing some heavy gardening. Digging. Something like that.”

He shrugged, locked his hands behind his head and lay back. “Could do, but I don’t know why you have to bother. What does it matter if he thinks you’re a goer? It’s no bad thing.”

“Isn’t it?” I gasped.

“Of course not. Contrary to what you might think, us men like girls with a bit of oo
mph
, with a bit of weh-hey about them. Listen,” he sat up, “up to now he’s just thought of you as yet another up-tight housewife from down the road. He’ll probably look at you in a completely different light now!”

“Lance,” I hissed, lowering my face to his, “I do not wish him to see me in any other light than that of a neighbour, OK? He’s the local oddball, for heaven’s sake! In all probability he’s as mad as a meat-axe. The last thing I want is some nutter turning up on my doorstep looking for a bit of ‘weh-hey’!”

“Is he?” he frowned. “A nutter? Blimey, he looked all right to me.”

“Oh, what would you know?” I snapped as I buttoned up my cardigan. “You think all single women should behave like prostitutes, have a bit of oo
mph
about them – except your wife and your mother, I presume, who you’d no doubt like strapped into their pinnies and welded to the stove. It’s the classic madonna-whore syndrome. You’re probably as barking as he is!”

“Right. Sorry I spoke,” he muttered, settling back and shutting his eyes again.

I ignored him and marched off round the side of the house, out on to the road. I strode off along the cobbles, needing to go while I still felt brave, while I was still fired up, and practising my apology as I went. Happily it didn’t matter that my face was the colour of a tomato since I was about to blush heavily anyway. How about if I started with something like, “Sebastian, good gracious, what must you think? Do let me explain. You see, my brother and his wife are staying and – ” Oh, I don’t know. Something like that, anyway.

I climbed the steps to his tall, elegant town house, peering first into the basement below, which in Nanette’s house was the kitchen. No lights on, no sign of life. I rang the bell and gazed for an inordinately long time at the red front door. I was just about to go away when his mother opened it. Just a fraction. She peered at me around the two-inch crack she’d conceded, almost as if she’d come up from the bowels of the earth and hadn’t seen daylight before. I’d never seen her close up before, and I nearly gasped. She was sensationally ugly: her upper teeth protruded and were slightly pointed, making her look like a small, anxious rodent, and her steely grey hair was tied back in a bun so tight, it pulled her eyebrows up, giving her a startled ferret expression.

“Yes?” she whispered.

“Oh! Um, hello!” I smiled brightly. “I’m Olivia McFarllen, from down the road. I’ve, um, seen you around, but we’ve never actually been properly introduced!” I held out my hand matily. She glanced at it, shot out a white hand and almost touched my fingers. Almost.

Oh God, had he told her already? Was I a Scarlet Woman in her eyes? Not to be touched? I flushed.

“Well, I really came to see Sebastian. Is he in?”

“No, he’s not.”

“Ah, right. Will he be long? D’you think?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m going out myself now, though, so if you’ll excuse me…” She made to shut the door.

“Oh, well, it’s just that he knocked on my door. About an hour ago. And I just wondered – what he wanted.”

She frowned. Opened the door a bit wider. “You didn’t answer it?”

“Um, someone else answered.”

“But didn’t come and get you?”

Not so stupid, this old bag. Superior thought processes were apparent. “Er, no. You see, I was very busy. Very involved.” Oh, no, not
involved
, Olivia!

“Well, I wouldn’t worry. I don’t suppose he specifically wanted to see you. He was out delivering leaflets.”

“Oh, leaflets! Lovely!” I enthused. “Getting out and about then?”

She narrowed her eyes at me suspiciously, declined to answer. No, quite right. Probably fiercely protective.

“Well,” I hastened on, “when he comes back, perhaps you could just say – that I’d love to have a chat? When he’s around?”

“I’ll give him the message.”

She shut the door and left me staring at the paintwork again. God, what an old harridan, I thought as I turned and went slowly down the steps. Poor old Sebastian. Heavens, it was no wonder he was like he was with a mother like that. She probably smothered him as a child, hadn’t let him play with any rough boys, probably hadn’t even let him go to school. I’d hazard a guess she still ironed his pants for him, tucked his pyjama top into his bottoms at night. It was years since I’d seen it, but she reminded me of that nutty mother in
Psycho
, the one at the top of the house in the rocking chair, which I suppose made Sebastian the creepy son…although now I came to think of it, hadn’t the son dressed up as the mother? Yes, that’s right, there hadn’t been a mother at all. I glanced back nervously. Could that have been – Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Olivia. She’s half his size! None the less, I thought with a shiver, no showers for me until I’d safely explained away Lance’s sexual marathon story. I didn’t want him thinking we were poking fun at his own sexual inadequacies; didn’t want him meat-cleaving his way round to my place.