The Marrying Game (45 page)

Without waiting for a reply, Rose thumped down into a chair, and began rummaging in one of her bags. ‘I got some arnica cream at Boots, fab for bruises, would you like some?’

‘No thanks. It’s not serious.’ Tristan shot a questioning glance at Rufa.

Rufa, however, could see that Rose’s sensors were switched off. Shopping did this to her – it was so long since she had had any money. Legitimate buying, with the small allowance Edward was giving her ‘to keep you out of my short hairs’, was the great delight of her life.

‘Liddy had a marvellous time yesterday,’ Rose said. ‘You sent her back looking absolutely adorable – when that man who runs the choir sees her, I daresay he’ll propose. I’m positive he fancies her.’

Tristan asked, ‘Did Linnet like the Spacehopper?’

Rose chuckled. ‘I would have brought her with me today, but that fucking Spacehopper is all she can think about. Rodge managed to blow it up with the foot-pump, and I left her bouncing madly all over the terrace. Hence the arnica, antiseptic wipes and novelty plasters. She’s already grazed one knee and bumped her head.’ She finally settled her bags to her satisfaction, and focused her attention properly upon Tristan. ‘I’m awfully glad to meet you. I can’t think why Ru hasn’t brought you over to Melismate.’

‘He’s meant to be too busy studying,’ Rufa said.

‘In this heat? Nonsense. Come over one evening, when Liddy’s cooking. You’d better look to your laurels, Ru – she’s turning into quite a rival.’

‘I’d love to see Melismate,’ Tristan said. Under the table, his knee brushed Rufa’s. She did not dare to meet his eyes. They could not possibly go to Melismate. For once in her life, her feelings were totally out of control. She did not trust them not to betray her.

Fortunately, Rose’s coffee and doughnut arrived at the table to distract her. Unfortunately, once the waitress had moved away, she said, ‘Well, how’s Edward?’

‘Fine.’ Rufa kept her eyes turned towards her plate. She had not spoken to Edward since the day before yesterday. It had not occurred to her to check the answering machine. She realized she should leave a reassuring message at his hotel, as soon as possible. She did not want to speak to him in person, and she did not want him to be worried. ‘He has to wait around a lot, while the court decides whether or not his evidence counts. He hasn’t given any yet.’

‘Poor man,’ Rose said. ‘Barely married a month, and he has to hang about pointlessly, miles from home. Do give him my love, when you speak to him.’

‘I will.’

‘It must be maddening for him. I know Edward can’t stand not being busy. He has to be running something. I’ve always thought a South American dictatorship would suit him.’

Tristan laughed – Rufa could see he liked Rose, which was both gratifying and alarming. ‘It would be a highly efficient dictatorship – no more lounging in the sun under enormous hats.’

‘Well, you know him,’ Rose said. ‘Luckily, Ru’s just the same. Forever making and mending, cutting and contriving.’

He smiled at Rufa, in a way that made Rose’s eyes quicken curiously. ‘Yes, Rufa’s a living reproach to the idle. That’s why I’ve got through so much work – my tutor will pass out with the shock.’

He was teasing her, wrapping her in warmth. Rufa smiled, for it felt lovely. ‘Thanks a lot. You make me sound totally dreary.’

‘Nancy used to call her Tin-Drawers,’ Rose said cheerfully, watching Tristan. ‘She said every time you sat down for a rest, you heard them clanking at you.’

They all laughed. The hands of Rufa and Tristan touched under the table, and Rufa ached to kiss him again. When they returned to the farm, they would make love. Her stomach lurched with anticipation.

Then Rose said, ‘I wondered if you’d look like Alice, but you don’t at all – you actually look rather like the Man.’

‘Oh, no,’ Rufa protested.

‘Oh, yes,’ Rose said, with a deep, remembering sigh. ‘As he was when I first knew him.’

Rufa took her purse from her bag. ‘We should go.’

Tristan jumped up. ‘I’ll pay for this.’ He went to the till at the counter.

Rose continued to watch him, her face thoughtful. ‘A young Apollo,’ she said.

‘Sorry?’ Rufa seemed not to have heard.

Rose’s eyes turned towards her. ‘Don’t forget to send love to Edward, will you?’

‘I won’t.’

‘Tell him to come home soon.’

‘There’s no point in being impatient,’ Rufa said.

‘Come over to see us, my love.’ Rose briefly stroked Rufa’s forearm. ‘The old place misses you. So does my
little
Linnet. I don’t like to think of you rattling about in that farmhouse.’

‘I’m not rattling. Tristan keeps me company.’

Rose said, ‘Yes, well. Take care of yourself, anyway.’

Chapter Six

THE BARBER’S WAS
a deeply unprepossessing shop. There were tufts of hair on the dirty checked lino. Black and white photographs of common-looking men, sporting various antiquated hairstyles, leered around the yellowed walls. The barber stood behind one of the two vinyl chairs at the mirror, clipping the sparse locks of a balding pensioner. Heaven only knew why Ran had insisted upon coming to this place, when there was a perfectly adequate, if rather naff, hairdresser’s round the corner.

The barber was not pleased to see Ran. He gave the pensioner’s head a final polish, and whipped the nylon bib from his shoulders. ‘Yes?’

Polly firmly pulled Ran into the shop, shutting the door behind them. ‘I’m sorry, but there seems to have been a slight misunderstanding.’

‘Eh?’

‘We wanted a haircut.’

‘But I just cut his hair!’

‘I’m afraid you didn’t do it properly.’

The barber looked belligerent. He was a thin, sour individual. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Well, it doesn’t look any different – I can’t see that he’s had a haircut at all. He came out exactly the same as
he
went in.’ Polly picked up a lock of Ran’s glossy, shoulder-length hair. ‘I thought I explained what he wanted. And frankly, I think it’s a bit much to charge him, when you haven’t actually done anything.’

The barber put his hands on his hips. ‘Look, I only did what he asked for, right? He said to only take a bit off. He said just tidy the ends. Tell her, mate.’

He turned to Ran, who shrugged helplessly.

‘There must have been a mistake,’ Polly snapped. ‘I thought I made it quite clear that he wants it short at the back and sides, with a long bit on top – well, I don’t suppose the name Hugh Grant means much to you.’ She swept a contemptuous glance across the gallery of photographs, and singled out the least offensive. ‘Rather like that one, only without the gel. Tell him, darling.’

‘I don’t want it that short,’ Ran muttered. ‘I’ll look like a dick.’

‘No you won’t. For the last time, your hair looks perfectly absurd like that. Only motorcycle messengers have ghastly long hair.’

‘But this is me,’ Ran said, with the beginnings of petulance. ‘This expresses who I am.’

‘Rubbish. You weren’t born with it, for God’s sake.’ Polly faced the barber. ‘Cut it again, please. Obviously we’ll pay again.’ Satisfied that the matter was settled, she sat down on a small and wobbly plastic chair in one corner, flicking open her new copy of
Vogue
.

The barber looked doubtfully at Ran. ‘Well?’

Ran stood, his hands balled in the pockets of his new black linen trousers, miserable and defeated. ‘Yes, all right. I mean, thanks.’

‘Sit down, then.’ The barber gestured at the vacant chair. ‘I’ll be with you in a second.’ He produced a large
wooden
brush, and whisked it around the shoulders of the pensioner, as if he would have swept all of them right out of the shop.

With a long, tremulous, poignant sigh (which did not have the smallest effect upon Polly), Ran sat down in front of the mirror.

The pensioner paid his bill and left. The barber picked up the scissors, and took up his station behind Ran. ‘OK, let’s start again. How much off?’

‘Like she said,’ Ran muttered. He winced as the blades hovered over him.

‘I’m not a bloody mind-reader,’ the barber said. He was also muttering, mindful of the implacable blonde head bent over
Vogue
. ‘Next time, you’d better bring a note from her.’

‘Next time? Oh, God.’

‘Well, hair grows, doesn’t it?’

‘I suppose so. Oh, God.’

‘Shut your eyes, mate. We’ll do it quicker.’

Ran scrunched his eyes shut. Deftly and neatly, but with no very good grace, the barber attacked his hair. He snipped close to the back of Ran’s skull, and reached across for the electric clipper. When he switched it on, Ran bleated pitifully. The barber hesitated.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Polly said.

The clipper whirred. Ran’s hair was shorn around the back and sides, sleek and smooth as a seal’s. One thick lock fell romantically across his forehead. Polly closed her magazine, to watch intently.

‘All done,’ the barber said. ‘You can open them now.’

Ran opened his eyes, met his new self in the mirror, and let out a long groan. ‘Shit!’

‘Yes, that’s excellent – and it didn’t hurt a bit, did it?’
Polly
was on her feet, digging in her handbag. ‘Exactly what we wanted.’ She paid, adding a handsome tip, and led Ran out of the shop.

He said, ‘I look like an arsehole.’

‘Darling, don’t be silly. You look stupendous.’ Polly was jubilant. She could hardly believe how beautiful he was now: sensitive, with just a seductive hint of tousling. Dressed in the new linen trousers and white linen shirt she had bought him, he was utterly mouthwatering. She surveyed their reflections in the window. This was just how she wanted to appear before Justine and Hugo that evening. Justine had been at school with Polly, and she had telephoned to say they would be coming into darkest Gloucestershire to stay with Hugo’s mother. Naturally, though she had fed Polly all the formalities about missing her, Justine was desperately curious to get a good look at Ran. She would rush back to London to report to the rest of Polly’s circle, so proper presentation was essential. Semple Farm was not yet fit to show off. Polly had arranged to meet Justine and Hugo at a concert, and take them to dinner at a country house hotel afterwards. She was now able to look forward to this, confident that Justine would be riven with envy.

If only Ran would cheer up. He shook Polly’s hand off his arm, and mooched gloomily along beside her. Deliberately ignoring this, she took the latest list from her bag.

‘I saw a rather fascinating little shop, with some adorable hand-painted cabinets. And some lovely tapestry cushions, which might take the newness off the sofa covers. I want a sort of organic, antiquated look.’

He did not reply. Polly, however, was used to this. Bless him, he did not like changes, and tended to react
by
sulking – as if that bothered her. He was, at last, learning that she always got her own way in the end.

Just before they turned into the main street, Ran halted. From the back pocket of his trousers he pulled a knitted Peruvian hat, with earflaps and a tassel at the point. He put it on.

Polly snatched it off. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘My head feels naked.’

‘Rubbish. It’s boiling hot. And even if it wasn’t, I refuse to be seen with anyone who goes around in a pointed hat, like some enormous elf.’

‘Come on, Poll!’

‘And don’t call me Poll. I’m not a parrot.’ They were near a waste bin. Polly threw in the hat, with a shudder of disgust.

‘Hey!’ Indignantly, Ran darted forward, sank one arm into the bin and rescued his hat. It emerged with an ice-cream paper stuck to one flap. ‘You’re not even trying to understand. This hat means a lot to me. Not just because it’s my style – it was a gift from a real shaman. He’d seen the village where it was made.’ He pulled the hat back on.

Polly whipped it off again, and shut it inside her orderly handbag. ‘Let me make myself plain, Ran. I don’t care who gave it to you, or where it comes from. You look perfectly stupid in it.’

‘Stupid?’ He was wounded. ‘This is a piece of my past!’

‘Perhaps you can frame it. Because it has nothing to do with your present.’

She made an effort to hold on to her temper. Delicious as he was, Ran was becoming increasingly stroppy. His air of lost-boy wistfulness covered a
worrying
obstinacy. He kept taking back things she had thrown away. The attic at Semple Farm, which Polly had privately earmarked for a future nanny, was crammed with rubbish. Did the idiot not realize she was doing him a favour? More to the point, did he not realize how much money her plans were going to cost her?

But he had stopped fighting now, as he always did in the end. Yet again, Polly was melted by his beauty. She reached up to caress the back of his shorn head. ‘Please don’t be cross, darling one. I’m trying to make the whole world see how divine you are.’

Their eyes met. The current of mutual desire crackled between them. Polly slowly ran the tip of her tongue round her pink lips. This was their private code for oral sex – though she had not cared for this sort of thing with Berry, she could suck Ran by the hour. He smiled, his blood heated as predictably as a pan of milk on a stove. All resistance was at an end, for the time being. Polly slipped her hand into his. He squeezed her fingers lovingly. Securely wrapped in their unquenchable passion, the two of them sauntered into the main street.