The Best of Times (57 page)

Russell was delighted as well. Christine’s initial rejection of him had hurt him badly, and he felt rather proud that his own daughters were more generous-hearted than Mary’s. He still found Christine rather hard to embrace—both physically and emotionally. She had failed to say anything to him by way of an apology, and every time he looked at her rather self-satisfied, plump face he wondered at her dissimilarity from her mother.

The weather was most obligingly Christmassy, crisp and sunny; the entire party went to morning service on Christmas Day, came back for a vast lunch (with a break for the Queen’s speech), and then went for a short walk before having presents in the drawing room. After that everyone withdrew for a short rest and then reassembled for games and to sing carols round the piano. The piano had been Russell’s Christmas present to Mary, who had always longed for one ever since learning to play on her own grandmother’s when she was a small
girl, and had never been allowed one since. Rusty at first, by sherry time she was sufficiently adept to play “Jingle Bells” and “Away in a Manger.” Russell was a superb pianist and took over for the evening performance, finishing with a flamboyant, concert-style rendition of
Rhapsody in Blue
that reduced Lorraine’s mother and both Coral and Pearl to tears.

The party broke up at about ten, apart from Timothy and Lorraine and the Canadian cousins, who were watching an old Bond movie; Christine walked to the bottom of the stairs, then turned and went back to Russell and kissed him.

“It’s been wonderful,” she said. “Thank you very much for having us here today … and I’m very sorry about my … about … well, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re here. You’ve made my mother happier than I can ever remember. Since Dad died, that is, of course.”

At which Russell kissed her back and said, “Of course,” and added that he was proud to have succeeded someone who had clearly been so remarkable a gentleman as Donald.

Later, as they sat in bed, Russell leaned over and kissed Mary and said, “I meant it about Donald. I’m going to have a tough job living up to him.”

Mary kissed him back and told him he wasn’t doing too badly so far.

CHAPTER 46

She supposed she should have realised, really: if they squabbled as much as they did when they were living in different houses—and different cities, come to that—what hope for them when they were sharing the same room with no escape in any form, even into work?

Actually, and perversely, she had enjoyed the first part of the trip, the conference in Cape Town, a great deal more than she had expected. She had thought it would be tedious in the extreme, and it had actually turned out to be rather fun. Not least because she was quickly established as something of a star, certainly among the men, not just because of what she looked like and how she dressed, but because of what she did: a glossy, entertaining creature from another world altogether.

She had made two friends in particular, one a rather dashing neurosurgeon, who had actually first trained as a barrister; he told her life was too short to spend it in one discipline, as he put it, and asked her, his blue eyes dancing with appreciation at her very low-cut black velvet top, what she was going to do when she grew up. Linda told him she was going to be a lap dancer, and he laughed so much and so loudly that the entire dining room turned round to look.

The other friend was a part-time primary-school teacher called Martin, rather plain but very funny, accompanying his wife; he said he was quite used to coming on the spousal programmes.

“I don’t mind a bit, actually. I enjoy it all except the shopping. And the other wives are very nice to me. There’s usually more than one of us these days, but I can handle there being just me.”

He said he had always looked after the children, ever since his wife, an orthopaedic surgeon, had got her first consultancy. “I mean, why not? She earns squillions more than I ever could. She gets a bit tetchy if dinner isn’t ready when she gets home, but I can handle that.”

Linda laughed. Maybe that was what she needed—a house husband. It would be great to get home every night to find dinner cooked and the fridge stocked. Not to mention all her dry cleaning and laundry sorted, and the cleaning women organised. Wonderful …

But then, house husbands just weren’t very sexy.

On the second day the spousal programme took them up Table Mountain via the cable car. Linda walked round the top with Martin; they admired the views, the almost literally intoxicating air, and
agreed that they might both duck out of the visit to the township the following day.

“But Alex tells me they don’t like that,” she said.

“Oh, they don’t mind once or twice. I usually say I’ve got my period.”

Linda giggled.

“Your husband come on these things a lot?”

“My partner. We’re not married. Well, if you can keep a secret, he’s just my boyfriend. I dared him to bring me on this and he did.”

“I won’t tell a soul. Why should you need to dare him? Any normal red-blooded man would be dying to take you anywhere. Or is his blood a bit pink?”

“No, of course not,” said Linda, laughing. “And … it’s a bit of an in-joke, the dares. Anyway, he doesn’t approve of these trips. Says they’re thinly disguised bribes.”

“Quite right. Fortunately my wife doesn’t have such principles.”

And all might have been well, had he not brought his wife—a pretty girl with freckles and a Scottish accent, called Fiona—to meet Alex and Linda at predinner drinks and told Alex what Linda had said about the bribery, and how much he agreed with him.

“Frightful racket. Still, who are we to complain?” Martin asked.

“Well, you certainly don’t,” said Fiona. “I have to work very hard for it. Anyway, it’s not exactly true.”

“Of course it’s not,” said Alex. He glared at Linda.

“I call the spousal programme pretty hard work,” said Martin. “Linda and I are ducking out tomorrow, aren’t we?”

“Yes. Doing a heavy day at the spa,” said Linda, and then rather hurriedly, “And how was today’s conference session?”

“Very good,” said Fiona, “some really interesting ideas, didn’t you think, Alex?”

“Yes, not bad.”

“Well, if it isn’t the lap dancer. Not working tonight?”

It was the neurosurgeon. Linda reached up to kiss him.

“Hi. Not yet. I don’t usually start until after dinner.”

“I’ll look forward to it. Come and rescue my wife, will you? I’ve told her about you; she’s longing to meet you, and she’s stuck with some gnome from R and D. Can you spare her, Alex, old chap?”

“Yes, of course,” said Alex. He smiled at the neurosurgeon. Linda knew that smile. It came with great difficulty. She winked at him, said she’d soon be back, and followed the neurosurgeon across the room.

Mrs. NS was rather fun: a doctor herself, a GP from Ireland. She was extremely grateful for the rescue—“I really thought I’d pass out with boredom in a minute”—and asked Linda who her husband was.

“Ah, yes,” she said, squinting across the room, “very sexy, I thought. Touch of the Heathcliffs.”

“That’s exactly what I thought the first time I saw him,” said Linda. “And the resemblance doesn’t end there. Very dark and brooding, he can be. Not that full of sunshine right this minute, actually. I think he’s cross because I’m ducking out of the programme tomorrow.”

“I might join you in that. Hate the idea of it. What are you doing instead?”

“Beautifying myself in the spa.”

“Sounds good. Well, see you there, maybe. We’ve got to go in to dinner.”

Alex scowled at Linda as she sat down beside him.

“Linda, how dare you go round telling people I regard these things as bribery. It’s outrageous.”

“But you do. You said so.”

“That was a private remark. Passing it on here is rather like telling your hostess you don’t like her cooking. I can’t believe you can be so socially inept. Not to mention rude.”

“Sorry,” she said, slightly alarmed at his anger. “I really am. You know, I’m truly enjoying it all; it’s a bit like being back at school.”

“Well, try not to behave as if you actually were.”

“Oh, do stop scowling at me, Alex; I’ve said I’m sorry. And you should be glad I’m enjoying myself.”

“I’m afraid not. Or rather, not the way you’ve chosen.”

“Oh, God,” she said, putting down her fork, “you really are a miserable bastard, aren’t you? First sign of a bit of a laugh, and you’re down on everyone like a load of shit. I’m glad I don’t work at that hospital of yours.”

“Linda, you know perfectly well what I mean. It’s very discourteous, setting yourself up in some rebel group like this. You wanted to come and—”

“Oh, fuck off!” she said, and turned her attention to the man the other side of her.

“Shall we go to the bar?” she said, finally turning back to Alex.

“I’d rather not. I’m tired. I’m going upstairs. You can join me if you like.”

“I’ve had more promising invitations,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”

She had one drink with Martin and his wife, and then said good night to everyone and went up to their room. Alex was in bed, reading.

“Good book?”

“Very.”

She pulled off her clothes, slid into bed beside him.

“Let me distract you from it.”

He turned away slightly; she snatched the book from him.

“Oh, Alex. You’re so sexy when you’re cross.”

Against all the odds he laughed. “I must be sexy a lot of the time, in that case.”

“You are. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Mrs. Neurosurgeon was saying how sexy you were.”

“Oh, Linda,” he said, switching the light off, taking her in his arms. “I’m sorry. You’re a very generous woman.”

“I am?”

“Yes. Sam would never have told me some other woman thought I was attractive. Are we friends again?”

“I never wasn’t,” she said.

She managed to behave after that more as Alex would have wished: went on the obligatory shopping trip—not exactly a hardship in the delicious bounty of Cape Town stores—and went on the other major outing, down the winding coast road to Chapman’s Peak, an incredibly beautiful promontory carved out of the cliffs, and then on to Cape Point.

They were heading north after that, to do a few days’ safari: travelling on the Blue Train for the first leg to Pretoria, where they were picking up a small private plane to Kruger National Park.

The Blue Train was her idea, and her contribution to the trip.

“If you think I’m going on an ordinary old plane for two hours when we can do the same thing in total luxury in twenty-four, then you’ve brought the wrong woman.”

The Blue Train was sheer indulgence, an excessive, elaborate treat that made her feel, she said, like Lauren Bacall in
Murder on the Orient Express
. She and Alex had their own private suite: a drawing room that converted into a bedroom, complete with immense double bed, and an absurdly elaborate bathroom in which you could take a deep, hot bath and enjoy the landscape at the same time, a peculiarly heady, sexy pleasure. They also had their own butler; all the suites did. Alex didn’t approve, was hating most of it: Linda didn’t care.

They had the first squabble before lunch, as she tidied up the suite for the third time.

“Linda, do, for God’s sake, stop that; I can’t stand it.”

“Well, I can’t stand the mess!”

“Just sit down and watch the scenery!”

She sat there, watching the incredible mountain ranges go past, sipping a glass of very nice Sancerre, and felt better tempered; by the time lunch was served she was feeling very sleek and told Alex so.

“I know what that means,” he said, grinning at her.

“You do?”

“Yes. Some considerable activity a little later.”

“You’re being very presumptuous.”

“Sorry. Am I wrong?”

“No, Alex,” she said, closing her eyes briefly and smiling at the intense sensation that quite literally swept through her, leaving her almost dizzy, “no, you’re not wrong.”

“Thank Christ for that. I was beginning to think I’d never say the right thing again.”

“I’m not terribly interested in what you say,” she said, reaching under the table, gently massaging his thigh, “not just now. More what you do.”