The Ex-Wives (30 page)

‘Don't be so heartless!' said Popsi. She ruffled his hair. ‘You poor old sausage. Shall I light you a cigarette?'

Jacquetta gazed at him vaguely. ‘You should centre your spinal fluid,' she said.

The room was so crowded it was difficult to move without bumping into somebody. Tobias and Bruno were jammed between the sofa and the bookshelves; like all adolescents, they seemed to take up more space than fully-grown people. They were sorting through Lorna's pile of cassettes.

‘Rough!' said Bruno. ‘It's all bleeding opera.'

‘You can thank me for that,' called out Buffy. ‘I taught all these women to love opera.'

‘No, actually,' said Lorna. ‘
I
taught
you
.'

‘Oh, oh, he's re-writing history again,' said Penny. She looked down at Buffy. ‘He's good at that.'

‘I am here, you know,' said Buffy. ‘You can address me. I'm here, I'm in pain.'

Eleven people were squashed into the room. Some of them had never met before; most of them had never met Lorna. Summoned from their various Christmases and thrust into this cottage, miles from anywhere, they still wore a dazed look. But they were starting to settle down. Quentin and Nyange sat in the window seat. He was holding a skein of her hair as she demonstrated how to plait cowrie shells into it.

Penny gazed at the brown-skinned girl and the homosexual, sitting side by side. ‘Very Channel 4,' she remarked. ‘All we need is somebody who is physically challenged.' She stopped, and looked down at Buffy. ‘Whoops! Forgot. We've got one. In fact, looking back on it, he was frequently physically challenged.'

‘Just what do you mean by that?' demanded Buffy.

Penny laughed. So, disconcertingly, did some of the other women.

‘Sherry?' asked Celeste, handing round glasses.

‘I'm dying for a pee,' said Buffy. ‘I've said it about eight times. Will somebody please carry me to the lavatory?'

There was a silence.

‘Come on!' said Buffy. ‘Who's going to volunteer?'

‘Not me,' said Penny. ‘No fear.'

Popsi said: ‘Last time I carried you, remember, when you were drunk? I did me back in. And – well, pet, there's a bit more of you now, isn't there?'

Penny looked around. ‘Any offers? Jacquetta?' But Jacquetta didn't seem to hear.

‘For God's sake!' cried Buffy. ‘After all these years. Is it a lot to ask?'

‘Yes,' said Penny.

India got up from the floor. ‘We'll do it. Come on, Celeste.'

All over Britain, families were sitting down to Christmas lunch. In Buffy's flat, George had found the turkey. The fridge door hadn't closed properly for months; the dog had simply nudged the door open with his nose and dragged the turkey out. Half-chewed portions of it were strewn over three rooms.

In Celeste's flat the rabbits had found the vegetables. Bits of carrots and Brussels sprouts lay scattered over the carpet. The rabbits sat there, munching; they vibrated to the trains below and the thumps of the music above.

The fire blazed in the grate. Penny, sipping her
sherry, was looking with interest at the other women. ‘Isn't this fascinating! We're like a reunion of old girls who've been to a particularly ghastly boarding-school.'

‘Thanks!' said Buffy, who was back in position on the floor.

Popsi laughed her gravelly laugh, and ended up coughing. She was wearing a gold lurex sweater, cut perilously low. She had sprayed glitter onto her hair; she called it her Christmas decorations.

Penny gazed at Popsi. ‘I always wondered what you looked like,' she said, ‘but you were so much before my time. You were just a lot of crossings-out in Buffy's address book.'

‘Oh, the places I've lived,' said Popsi. ‘Gypsy isn't in it. Had two husbands after him, Terence and Ian, but he was the nicest.' She lifted Buffy's head and inserted a cigarette between his lips. ‘You were, you know. Course you were slimmer then.' She lit the cigarette for him. ‘But so was I.'

She sat back in her chair, panting. Whenever she moved, glitter scattered.

Jacquetta waved her hand. ‘All this smoke . . . She vaguely batted it away.

Lorna and Celeste, the hostesses, refilled glasses. ‘Sorry there's only this,' said Lorna. ‘I'm sure there's some Twiglets somewhere. I wasn't expecting
company, you see. I was supposed to be going up to London, with Celeste. After we'd done some planting. We were going to go up to London and give Buffy a surprise.'

‘Oh, you've done that all right,' he said.

‘This is much more fun,' said Penny, holding out her glass. ‘I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Better than going to visit Colin's father in Nantwich. I've got a feeling he's just like Colin, only more so.'

It was a crowded little room, even with no people in it. Plants and old sheeps' skulls crammed the window ledges. Holly had been thrust behind picture frames. The curtains were closed against the cold grey day.

Quentin fingered the fabric. ‘Damask would be super here. Gold and russet, can't you see it?' He turned to Lorna. ‘I can get you some with my discount. I work at Harrods.'

‘Harrods?' replied Lorna. ‘Last time I saw you, you were in your pram. I just sneaked a look. You were a lovely baby.'

‘Wasn't he just!' said Popsi. ‘When was that, dear?'

‘I was meeting Russell in a tea shop,' said Lorna, ‘and he was looking after him.'

Popsi looked down at Buffy. ‘You never looked after Quentin.'

‘Of course I did!' said Buffy. ‘I looked after him all
the bloody time, while you were off with your fancy men. Now who's re-writing history?'

Nyange ran her finger along a beam. ‘I've always dreamed of a place like this. A little cottage. A place with roots. Mum and me, we've been all over.'

‘Emotionally rented accommodation.' said Quentin. ‘Join the club.'

‘Don't blame me,' said Buffy. ‘Blame your mothers. There's two sides to this, you know. You've never heard mine.'

‘Yes,' said Nyange, ‘because you were never there.'

‘Whose fault was that?' demanded Buffy.

Popsi raised her glass. ‘He's here now. We all are. Better late than never.'

They drank. Jacquetta gazed around. ‘This house has an incredibly strong sense of history.'

Popsi said: ‘We're history, aren't we? All of us.'

‘You're my history,' said Buffy.

‘That's it in a nutshell,' said Penny, ‘the Russell Buffery World View.'

‘Oh, shut up!' he said.

‘Did you colour wash these walls?' asked Jacquetta. ‘I'm thinking of getting the builders back in. I've just found a marvellous decorator. He's called Kevin. I thought I'd get my kitchen done.'

Lorna looked around. ‘That's not colour wash,' she said. ‘That's patches of damp.'

Penny turned to Jacquetta. ‘I had the cottage repainted, after you. I was so jealous.'

‘Really?' asked Buffy. ‘How gratifying!'

‘Oh, it didn't last,' said Penny. She looked at the women. ‘Funny old harem, aren't we.'

‘A roomful of women, what bliss,' said Buffy. He tried to raise his head, groaned, and relapsed onto the cushion. ‘Wouldn't it be wonderful if you all started fighting over me.'

Penny nodded. ‘Like, last one to leave has to take you home.' She took another sip of her sherry. ‘Three wives, one for each decade. A sixties one, a seventies one and I suppose I was the eighties one.'

‘Don't you dare write a piece about it, you bloodsucker,' said Buffy. ‘This is Christmas. A sacred day. A private, family occasion.'

‘Ex-family, thanks very much' said Penny.

‘Not for me,' said Buffy. ‘I've found a daughter!'

Penny laughed. ‘I know. The way you've been going on, anyone would think you'd given birth to her yourself.'

‘It's a miracle. A miracle birth!' Weakly, he patted the carpet beside him. ‘Come and sit here, Celeste. Can I call you daughter? Budge up, everybody.' Celeste sat down beside him, wedged in. ‘Look at
this beautiful young woman,' he said. ‘A new slate, a clean broom. We're starting today, from scratch.'

‘Yes. And you won't have to go to all the trouble of traumatising her childhood,' said Jacquetta. ‘Running off with other women –'

‘Me?' shouted Buffy. ‘What about you? Rushing off to Tunisia with your art teacher, creeping off to Egypt with that asshole Austin, shagging your shrink when
I
was paying for the sessions, know how much they cost – ?'

‘Children, children!' said Popsi. She turned to Lorna. ‘Go on, lovey, show it to us again.'

Lorna had been sitting beside the fire, feeding it with logs. There had never been so many people squashed into this room. She had been turning from one to another, her head swivelling as if she were at some marital Wimbledon, the ball of blame flying to and fro. She felt oddly detached from it all; so used was she to being alone that she needed to be by herself to catch up with it all. Though she had changed into a skirt for these ex-rivals or whatever they were, though she had tidied herself up for the arrival of these various sort-of-siblings of her own astonishing daughter, she was still wearing a lot of clothes. She reached down inside her sweater, inside the layers of thermal underwear; she rummaged
around and pulled out a chain. Hanging from it was a little gold fish; it glinted in the firelight.

‘Pisces,' said Jacquetta. ‘Mutability and magic.'

‘Your little fish, and her little fish,' said Popsi. ‘Separated at birth. Go on, tell us again. It makes me cry.'

Lorna smiled. In the firelight she looked younger. For a moment they could glimpse the resemblance between mother and daughter – the wide cheekbones, the tapering face – though the lines of her pointed chin were heavier now. She threw another log on the fire.

‘I was on tour in Greece, playing Juliet, when I found out I was pregnant. At first I just thought my costume had shrunk. Then I realized.'

‘Why didn't you tell me?' demanded Buffy.

‘Ssh!' said Popsi.

‘I knew it was Russell's, of course. But he was older than me. He was married.'

‘Sort of,' said Celeste.

Popsi nodded. ‘Sort of.'

Lorna felt she was giving a speech. Until Celeste had knocked on her door, ten days ago, she had never even rehearsed it. Now, however, the words had sorted themselves out into some kind of order. This small segment of history had become solid, by repetition; beyond it lay the unknown years that so
far belonged only to Celeste. ‘When I got back to England I didn't know what to do. It was different in those days, my parents would have been appalled. My father was running the Institute of Statistical Research.' She turned to Celeste. ‘That's where you get your head for figures, I forgot to tell you that. He was frightfully old-fashioned. He'd always been against me going on the stage in the first place. And Russell –'

‘I adored you!' cried Buffy. ‘If I'd known –'

‘I knew it wouldn't work, honestly,' she said. ‘Even that young, I could tell. You could tell too, I'm sure you could. We'd had the best of each other. Well, I'd certainly had the best of you –'

‘All three inches of it,' said Penny.

‘For God's sake!' yelled Buffy.

‘She's only joking, love,' said Popsi, patting his knee. ‘We all know it's three and a half.' She and Penny started giggling.

‘Is this the way women talk when they're alone?' asked Buffy.

Celeste turned to Lorna. ‘Go on.' She nearly added
Mum
, but she couldn't quite say it, not in front of everyone. She didn't know if she quite
felt
it, yet.
Kidderpore
was something she would have to get used to. She had already practised it in the mirror,
Celeste
Kidderpore, Celeste Kidderpore,
like a girl does when she is going to get married.

‘Are you sitting comfortably?' asked Lorna.

‘Not with this great porpoise hogging all the space,' said Penny. ‘I've never known anyone take up so much room.'

‘I'm in pain!' Buffy cried. His feet were wedged against the fire grate and his chest was sparkling with glitter from where Popsi had been leaning over him.

‘So I didn't tell anyone,' said Lorna. ‘When she was born I was offered Electra, in Glasgow. I desperately wanted to do it.' She gazed into the flames. ‘I was very ambitious then. I suppose you'd say liberated and independent but it all boiled down to egocentricity. Actors are the most ruthless people in the world. They have to be, to do their job. That's why they make such awful parents.'

‘Hear hear,' said somebody.

‘Shut up,' said Buffy.

Lorna turned to Celeste. ‘So I put you up for adoption. They took you away very quickly. All I gave you was the little fish, my other half, because you were Pisces. And I called you Celeste, just because I loved the name. And that was that.'

There was a silence. Outside, dusk was already
falling but nobody had noticed. Lunchtime had long since come and gone.

‘Any more of that sherry?' asked Popsi, the tears sliding down her cheeks.

Celeste emptied the bottle into her glass. There was a silence. Even the boys were listening. They sat hunched beside the fire; in their ears, the rings and studs glinted. Bruno had rolled up some newspaper and shoved it into the flames. All that news, all those words, history now, they burned as brightly as the logs. Old wood and old words, they both gave off heat and brought a flush to people's cheeks. What did it matter, the cause of the heat, when it was warming them now?

Celeste had heard this story by now, of course – many times, during the past ten days. She had heard a lot more from this woman she was slowly trying to recognize as her mother. The main events were taking on the glazey feel of a fairy story, a myth for others to repeat during the dark winter evenings. Buffy lay on the floor like a silent radio, waiting to be switched on. He would be telling the story soon, embellished with his own indignant and colourful punctuation. With that honeyed voice he would make it history. His voice was so authoritative, it had such power and resonance and seduction in it. It existed independently from his own muddled life,
and soon she was to become part of his repertoire. This gave her a warm, swelling feeling of importance.