Seeing Stars (26 page)

‘I love her like me own, duck,’ Gwyneth had confided. ‘She’s like a daughter and a granddaughter and a friend all rolled into
one. A proper gem.’

The proper gem, Zillah noted with a shard of middle-aged jealousy, had stood up and stretched unselfconsciously: slender in
her skimpy second-skin clothes, beautifully tanned now by the sun instead of that awful spray-on salon orangeness that she’d
arrived with, her untamed hair almost silver.

Zillah groaned at her own dimpled and wrinkled flesh reflected harshly in the mirror, and wearily accepting the unchangeable,
continued to dress in her long Indian print frock with the glass beads and sequins zigzagged through the organdie. Pushing
her hair into its combs and slotting in large multicoloured dangly earrings, she paused only for a quick final coat of mascara
and hurried downstairs.

There was just time for a cup of coffee and a whisper of Radio Two in the garden before the daily routine kicked in.

This morning the early morning ritual of communal cottage tea-sipping had been abandoned. Big Ida was spending a couple of
days with her godsons in Newbury, and Amber – free from Hubble Bubble duties for the day – was taking Gwyneth and Pike out
in the van for a picnic at Christmas Common.

Zillah was delighted to have some time alone to think. There was plenty to think about.

Fern was still at the pub, learning quickly, enjoying herself. Timmy, amazingly, seemed delighted with her. And with her company.
Timmy and Fern seemed to find any number of reasons to be in the cellar at the same time or grab the same beer pump, and grin
soppily at one
another. Timmy was revelling in it and Fern – well, Fern was like a teenager in love.

Surely, Fern didn’t reciprocate Timmy’s feelings, did she?

It was all most peculiar.

And – and, obtusely, Zillah still wasn’t sure if she was entirely happy with the situation or not – Timmy seemed to have forgotten
all about the sharing of the Fowey love-nest. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten that for years he’d been trying to persuade
Zillah to share every aspect of his life. True, he was still charming and warm and friendly towards her, and seemed ecstatically
happy. But he’d – well – sort of cooled towards her.

It was a relief not to be pursued so relentlessly, of course, but even so, a girl didn’t want to be totally ignored.

Lewis, when she’d told him, had laughed uproariously and told her she was still a crazy mixed-up flower-child who didn’t know
on which side her bread was buttered.

Oh – she sipped her coffee as Radio Two played something wistful by Bread – whatever else was wrong with her life, it was
lovely to be on laughing terms with Lewis again. The making-up, on that hot afternoon after Amber had talked to her outside
the pub, had been one of the most difficult moments in their relationship.

‘I was going to ring you later,’ Lewis had said, his voice weary, his eyes strained, opening the door to his Hayfields flat
to her for the second time that day. ‘Come in.’

Immediately after her chat with Amber, Zillah had decided to take the bull by the horns and apologise to her son. After all
if Lewis, who was usually so guarded with every aspect of his personal life, had unburdened himself to Amber, their row must
have hurt him deeply.

And yes, he’d said some awful things – patently untrue things – to her in the heat of the argument, but now, having had time
to mull it over, Zillah had realised the fault was
hers. All hers. If only she’d been honest with him years ago.

‘We’re just going to have dinner,’ Lewis had said. ‘Jem’s cooking something that might or might not turn out to be jambalaya.’

‘I don’t want to interrupt you. This won’t take long,’ Zillah stepped into the flat. ‘Hi, Jem – that smells lovely …’

From the kitchen, Jem had waved a wooden spoon at her in greeting. His smile was edged with Cajun sauce.

The living-room windows had been opened to the early evening sun, and Hayfields’ grounds undulated in tie-dye shades of green
and gold. Several of the Hayfields residents were having a noisy barbecue on the lawn.

‘Jem won’t bother us in here,’ Lewis had said. ‘He’s too immersed in his cooking.’

‘Shouldn’t you be watching him?’

‘You know he doesn’t need constant supervision. I’ve done the stuff he finds difficult – lighting the gas, lifting the pans
– he’s on stirring. Stirring is one of his favourites.’

‘As is tasting?’

There was a flicker of warmth in Lewis’s eyes then. ‘Yeah – he does tasting to Olympic standard. Anyway, I’m sure that discussing
Jem’s culinary prowess wasn’t why you came to see me … Would you like a drink? We’ve got some cans in the fridge.’

And Zillah had declined the drink and plunged in and apologised, a lot, and said it was her fault for making such a huge mystery
about Lewis’s father, but – and then Lewis had interrupted and apologised for jumping to conclusions and for saying the things
he had which he’d had no right to say, especially to her, and they’d talked over one another, and apologised again, and eventually
laughed.

‘So,’ Zillah had finished, ‘I don’t blame you one bit for flying off the handle. We’ve always been such good friends
and always been open with one another.’

‘Except about this,’ Lewis had said, but his tone had lost its harshness. ‘Oh, look, Ma – you must have your reasons for keeping
it quiet. I just hope he wasn’t some serial killer or something like that. My guess is that he was already married? God –
you’re bloody inscrutable when you want to be! Oh well, I’ve spent almost thirty years with “father unknown” on my birth certificate
– I suppose I’ll spend the rest of my life in the same state. Get over yourself, as Fern would say. You’re not going to tell
me, are you? Not even now?’

Zillah had shaken her head. ‘No point, love. Truly no point. I wouldn’t know where to begin – and no, he wasn’t married but
he will be by now and he’ll have another family and, even if we could trace him, he’d probably die if you turned up on his
doorstep wreaking havoc in his nice, settled, orderly life.’

Lewis had stood up and walked over to the window, his back to her.

The spicy scent of the jambalaya and the shouts of laughter from the barbecue hovered on the stifling air.

Then he turned round and looked at her. ‘Please answer me one question, then. Did you love him?’

‘With all my heart. And I still do. And I always will.’

After that, Zillah thought as the morning sun moved round Fiddlesticks and the garden grew ever hotter and she drained her
coffee, it had been more than OK and she’d cried and Lewis had hugged her and so had Jem and they’d all been covered in Cajun
sauce. And she’d stayed to dinner and then they’d joined the others on the lawn and all got quite merrily drunk as the misty
lilac dusk spread up from the river.

The radio was still warbling softly as she stood up to face another day.

‘Superstar’ by the Carpenters.

Zillah was just too late to stop the first, poignant line
– about an old love – echoing deep, deep into her heart. She slammed her hand on the off button and burst into tears.

Lovelight in the Starlight

‘Excuse me,’ Amber tapped the woman chattering in the massive arched and studded doorway of Winterbrook’s Masonic Hall gently
on the shoulder. ‘I wonder if we could have a word with – um –’ she looked down at Freddo’s scribbled note on the passes in
her hand ‘– Joyce or Brian? Just to check if they’ve been told we’ll be here?’

Lewis had been all for them bluffing their way into the ruby wedding party and taking the consequences, but Amber
had
to see the JB Roadshow in order to persuade Fiddlesticks to pay for them, and didn’t want to risk the embarrassment of being
thrown out before she’d heard a single note played.

The woman in the doorway broke off her conversation and peered at her.

‘Oh, you just go along in, dear. They’ll be delighted to see you. You must be Joyce’s friend Cissy’s daughter’s girl. But
what on earth have you done to your voice? You didn’t used to speak like that, did you? Have you had electrocution lessons?
My, but you’ve really grown, dear – but then you must have been only six or seven when I last saw you. Can’t believe they’ve
been married forty years, can you?’

‘Er – no …’

‘And we all said it wouldn’t last, didn’t we?’ The woman chortled. ‘Especially with Brian’s little
problem.’

Amber trilled with laughter too. She didn’t dare look at Lewis who was standing behind her. However, Jem, who was holding
her hand, joined in silently, his body shaking with glee.

‘Bless him,’ the woman glanced down. ‘Young Arty always enjoyed a good joke. You haven’t changed at all, Arty, love. Well,
have a good evening – no doubt we can catch up on all the family gossip later.’

‘Oh, no doubt,’ Amber smiled, praying they never bumped into one another again. ‘Through here, is it?’

She shoved Jem, who was showing every sign of wanting to continue the Arty discussion in his own inimitable flamboyant gesturing
language, ahead of her with a warning glare. ‘Don’t. Please don’t. We’re not supposed to be here, remember – so if anyone
calls you Arty you just smile and nod and be nice. OK?’

Jem poked out his tongue and winked.

‘She thought I was someone called Simon. Married to Lorraine. Divorced after eighteen months. Left her with two kiddies and
another on the way,’ Lewis grumbled as he caught them up in the elaborately stuccoed vestibule and they pushed into the main
hall. ‘Sounds like I’m a bit of a loser to me.’

The hall, midnight dark with the curtains pulled against the brilliant evening sunshine, but fortunately massively air-conditioned,
was awash with everything ruby. Candles, streamers, balloons, little table lanterns, hearts and flowers all glowed the colour
of congealing blood.

‘Looks like a satanic mass,’ Lewis said. ‘And that table must be the sacrificial altar. Mind you, they’ll be hard pushed to
find a virgin in Winterbrook.’

‘And whose fault’s that?’ Amber smiled sweetly.

Lewis and Jem both poked out their tongues.

The white-clothed table, admittedly overdone with red roses and candlesticks, stretched along an entire side of the
vast room. Waiters and waitresses whizzed backwards and forwards with dishes covered in cling film. Amber felt sincere professional
sympathy at the size of the catering task ahead.

Jem tugged at her hand and pointed at the food.

‘Not yet, gannet,’ she laughed. ‘You’ll have to wait. Look, there are loads of little tables to sit at – shall we go and find
one while they’re still free?’

‘Near the bar, the food and the exit for preference,’ Lewis grinned at them both. ‘This could turn out to be a long night.’

Tugging at Amber’s hand, Jem headed immediately for the circular tables dotted round the outskirts of the sumptuously linen-folded
and gilded room. He chose the one nearest the stage, beside towering banks of Marshall amps and speakers. If the JB Roadshow
were as good as Freddo had promised, she probably wouldn’t be able to hear herself think later, Amber reckoned as she pulled
out Jem’s chair for him, let alone speak.

There were further ruby candles and roses on each table, along with wonderfully generous heaps of deep-red star sequins randomly
scattered across the white cloths.

Delightedly, Jem started to gather them together and spread them into small celestial ruby drifts.

Joyce and Brian’s official guests, hundreds of them and mainly all of an age, were clustered at least eight-deep round the
bar.

‘Shall we?’ Lewis raised his eyebrows.

‘Why not, seeing as neither of us are driving,’ Amber nodded. They’d decided to indulge in the luxury of a taxi in case the
whole affair became very boozy towards the end. ‘I’ll have a G&T, please, seeing as this is a posh occasion.’

She watched Lewis move with his easy, confident stride towards the bar. It was the first time she’d seen him wearing anything
other than the tight faded jeans and T-shirts. She smiled. Even dressed smartly, as Jem was, in
black trousers and a baggy white shirt, he still looked like a beautiful fallen angel.

Jem, having organised the sequins to his satisfaction and now transfixed by the splendid banqueting hall, was pointing at
everything with delight. Beside them, massive dark-red velvet curtains were pulled in towering tightly-closed dusty folds.

At the appropriate moment, Amber thought, the stage would be revealed. And the JB Roadshow. Hopefully.

A banner – hand painted on a double bed sheet – above the stage read: ‘Joyce and Brians Ruby. Congrat’s Mum and Dad. Hears
Too The Next 40’.

Amber flinched and averted her eyes. Lynne Truss would probably have demanded a rewrite.

As Lewis edged his way closer to the bar, she and Jem continued to take in the rest of the grandeur. Oh, bugger … there was
a table piled high with cards and presents. She hoped no one would have noticed that they’d arrived empty handed.

Oh – and over there, propped beside a glittery twin-deck disco, ‘Frank’s Funk Machine’, was a huge blown-up photo of Joyce
and Brian on their wedding day. How sweet they looked, how in love, how very young: Joyce in her sticky-out lampshade wedding
dress with a short veil over her Cilla Black hair, and Brian in a collarless Beatle suit with a pudding-basin fringe. And
eight, no nine, bridesmaids all back combed and white lipped in rigid nylon frocks, not to mention two small pageboys in kilts
and the best man who clearly had a severe squint.

Jem leaned across the table and grinned as he pointed at the tiny wooden pentangle round Amber’s throat. The colours of the
various veneers went perfectly, she thought, with her short brown and gold strappy layered dress rescued from one of her Moth
Cottage bin bags and carefully aired and ironed. It was probably over two years old – she’d only worn it once, and no one
back home would have been seen dead in anything so outdated. Amber hadn’t
given any of that more than a fleeting thought.

‘I told you I’d always wear your star –’ she smiled at Jem ‘– and I will. It really is gorgeous.’