The Next Best Thing (37 page)

When Rupert rang, she was deliberating about how best to mix up the guests. Should everyone be forced to mingle, or was it better to keep people on tables with people they knew?

‘What do you think, Rupert?’ she asked him down the phone. To be honest, I think we should keep separate tables, don’t you? Don’t you? Hallo?’

He had gone silent on the other end. Eventually he spoke.

‘It’s no good, Lyd.’

The flat tone of his voice told Lydia all she needed to know.

‘I should have done this earlier,’ he went on. ‘It’s my fault, entirely my fault, I just couldn’t seem to find the right way . . .’

‘Stop it right there.’ Lydia’s defence mechanism was fully engaged now. Somehow, she knew, she’d been expecting this. Her mind was racing ahead, but Rupert wouldn’t
be stopped.

I think we’ve been too carried away by the plans,’ he said. ‘We haven’t thought through the reality . . .’

‘No. You don’t know what you’re saying, Rupert, you’re not thinking properly.’

There was a pause.

‘You’re tired, that’s all,’ she said. ‘And it’s not doing you any good rattling round down there by yourself. Come back to London, you’ll feel
differently then.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘You will, I promise. I know you’re fed up with your job, but you can leave it. I didn’t realise it was getting you down so much.’

‘It’s not just the job . . . Oh, Lydia, T feel so awful . . . I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’

Lydia put down the phone and stared at the piece of paper in front of her. Two hundred and fifty names, written in pencil in her neat handwriting. Slowly she scrunched the
paper into a ball, then threw it across the room, towards the bin. She didn’t cry. She’d managed to hold it together pretty well on the phone, she thought. Her head throbbed as she
tried to get to grips with what had happened. Her future had just been entirely erased, she was looking at a blank canvas again. She’d have to cancel everything, of course, but nothing that a
few phone calls couldn’t fix. She wasn’t angry, and she wasn’t sad. What she was feeling, she realised with surprise, was relief.

‘So, you blew him out!’ said Will admiringly later that clay, when Lydia had joined them for drinks in the galleria. ‘Very sound move, if you don’t mind
me saying so. Nice-enough guy, in his way, but not right for you, darling.’

Jane topped up their glasses with caipirinha, a potent cocktail of limes and sugar-cane brandy. It was what they drank in Brazil, to work them up into the carnival spirit, but it wasn’t
having that effect on her.

She listened to Lydia’s account of ending the engagement. Rupert must have rung her this afternoon, just after they had spoken. He’d been putting it off, but her call to him must
have spurred him on. She had proved that you could deliver bad news down the phone. If you were going to break someone’s heart, you didn’t need to be fussy about how you did it.
Although Lydia didn’t appear to be too heartbroken.

‘It just wasn’t adding up,’ she was saying, waving her glass. ‘He seems to be going through some kind of midlife crisis, all this talk about becoming a gardener, clearly
a cry for help. And I didn’t feel like being the one who picks up the pieces, does that sound awful?’ She knocked back her drink, pleased by how convincing she sounded. She almost
believed it herself, now, that she had been the one to call it off.

‘Better now than just before the service,’ said Will. ‘You’re a bit old to play the flibbertigibbet bride, changing her mind at the eleventh hour.’

‘I’ve got to call everyone tomorrow to cancel,’ said Lydia, ‘then it’s back to the drawing board. Out there alone in the big wide world. You two don’t know
how lucky you are, with your cosy little set-up.’

Though even as she said it, Lydia was thinking how exhilarating it felt to be back in the field; already she was tuning in to the exciting scent of possibility.

‘I do like your hair, Will,’ she added, ‘it’s so . . . virile.’ Will smiled and caressed his shaved head. He’d had it done yesterday after spotting the
beginnings of a bald patch. He’d never been able to imagine himself without a ponytail, but he loved his new look. Thrusting male, Hollywood A-list.

Jane glanced across at Will and tried to feel grateful for her cosy little set-up. It was too soon. Next week, next month, certainly by next year, she would be glad she’d made the right
decision. But at this moment she fell like walking downstairs and jumping into her ear and driving non-stop to Rupert’s house in Provence, It would only take her twelve hours and 58 minutes,
and £46 in motorway tolls; she had checked on www.viamichelin.com this afternoon while she was pretending to work.

Liberty came upstairs with a bowl of Japanese rice crackers, bumping her way up on her bottom, dragging her leg behind her. Jane smiled at the sight of her.

‘Look at you,’ said Lydia as she was offered the bowl, ‘aren’t you a good girl? Here, I’ve brought you some makeup samples.’ She pulled them out of her
bag.

‘Thank you,’ said Liberty. ‘We’re going to Brussels.’

‘School trip,’ said Jane, ‘me too. I’m an accompanying mother.’

Lydia pulled a face. ‘Rather you than me.’

‘We’re going to get lace. Mummy had to come because of my leg, otherwise they said I couldn’t go.’

There goes my free week,’ said Jane. ‘Still, it’s a good excuse, isn’t it? A week away with my lovely daughter.’ She was hoping the break would do her good, help
her to get herself together.

‘Can I be a bridesmaid when you marry Rupert?’ Liberty asked Lydia. ‘My cast will be off by then.’

Jane intervened. ‘Lydia’s not getting married after all,’ she said, comforted by the thought.

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’s not.’

Liberty nodded thoughtfully, then look herself off to experiment with the make-up samples.

Will was still fretting over the idea of himself and Jane as the prototype steady couple. ‘When you talk about our “cosy little set-up”, Lydia, I hope you’re not seeing
us as . . . stuck. Because we’ve always prided ourselves on standing apart from all that, reinventing ourselves as we go on . . .’

‘Have we?’ asked Jane.

‘You know we have! We’ve always refused to go by the rule book.’

‘I know you’ve always refused to marry Jane,’ said Lydia, ‘but there’s nothing special about that, just you being mean.’

‘It’s a state of mind,’ said Will, ‘being open to possibilities. In all aspects of life. It was in that spirit that I resigned from my column today.’

It was the first Jane had heard of it. ‘You did what?’ she said, astonished.

Will poured himself a top-up. ‘I was going to tell you,’ he said evasively, ‘but I wanted to do the deed first.’

‘You’ve been writing that column for as long as I’ve known you,’ said Jane.

‘Exactly. Time to move on, don’t you think?’

The question hung in the air.

‘What did they say?’ Jane asked. ‘Did they offer you filthy amounts of money to stay?’

Will had assumed they would, but in fact they had seemed rather relieved. Kept telling him he could go as soon as he liked, they wouldn’t stand in his way. If he hadn’t got the other
thing up and running, he might have felt rather put out.

‘It’s not a question of money,’ he said grandly, ‘I need to prioritise my serious writing, and this film project brought the whole thing into perspective for me. Grubby
little business, journalism.’

‘Shall we eat?’ said Jane. ‘It should be ready by now. I’ve done a Cajun recipe, think New Orleans.’

They went down to the kitchen and Liberty burst in like a midget from Versailles in one of Jane’s old nighties, her face dusted white with talcum powder, a bright smear of red lipstick and
eyes luridly painted with Lydia’s make-up samples.

‘You look scary,’ said Jane, ‘that talcum powder’s not supposed to go on your face, I don’t think.’

Liberty scowled beneath her mask. ‘Where is it supposed to go?’

‘Anywhere else, just not your face.’

‘That eyeshadow looks gorgeous on you,’ said Lydia, ‘I’ll bring you some more next time I come.’

Flattered, Liberty hoisted up her nightdress and sat down beside her.

Jane had correctly predicted that the stiffness of the cocktails would prevent Will from noticing that her Cajun speciality was in fact takeaway Kentucky Fried Chicken, removed from its
cardboard box and arranged decoratively on a bed of salad. She watched him pick over it, enthusing about the exotic blend of spices and invoking the unique combination of French and African
influences that informed the cuisine of the deep south.

‘Marvellous, Jane, very unusual,’ he said. ‘You sec what I mean, Lydia, about us insisting on an adventurous spirit, in food as in everything else ‘

As Will and Lydia started to talk about the paper, and who might take over his column, Jane thought about Rupert. What was he thinking right now? She should be there to help him through all
this, it was unbearable to think of him by himself. He might be in his garden now, the roses would just be coming into bloom.

Will and Lydia had moved on from work and he was quizzing her about Rupert, about why she had changed her mind.

‘You don’t think he was seeing anyone else, do you?’ he asked.

‘Rupert? Come off it, Will, he’s hardly Casanova, is he now?’

‘Don’t ask me, you can’t expect me to have an opinion. Let’s ask Jane, come on Jane, what do you think, was Rupert seeing someone else? Is that why he’s gone a bit
funny?’

‘A bit funny?’ Jane repeated, avoiding the question.

‘You know, all this life-change thing that Lydia was talking about.’

‘No idea,’ she shrugged, ‘it seems to be something you’d know more about, with all your exciting new plans.’

‘You’re right there,’ Will said, just you wait, this film deal is going to be huge.’

‘Big changes for both of us,’ said Lydia. ‘Just you, now, Jane. What have you got up your sleeve?’

‘Oh, you know, just more of the same,’ said Jane, passing round bowls of
mousse au chocolat
which she’d made from a packet, ‘I’ve got plenty of work on, and
looking after Liberty, of course.’

Poor thing, thought Lydia. I may have been unexpectedly dumped, but I don’t envy Jane her life, not one little bit.

The next morning, Jane was packing for the school trip, reading from the list provided by the teacher.

‘Funny place to go, Brussels,’ she said to Liberty, counting out six tee shirts, ‘famous for mussels, beer and lace, none of which is that interesting for a class of
seven-year-olds.’

‘And chocolate,’ said Liberty. ‘Miss Evans said they had delicious chocolate.’ She was playing with her dolls on the bed, Barbie in a bridal gown, all gleaming white
satin and lace, and prince Ken in a turquoise tunic, silver crown and anachronistic preppy haircut. Liberty kept pressing a button on his back to make him deliver his smooth-talking lines in a
clean and deep American accent.
‘I love you . . . will you join me at the ball?’

‘It’s a shame Lydia’s not marrying Rupert,’ said Liberty. She pressed the button on Barbie’s back which set off ‘The Wedding March’, tinkling around the
room.

‘Yes,’ said Jane insincerely.

‘I like Rupert.’

‘Me too.’

Liberty picked up Barbie and stuffed her under a pillow, trying to drown out the sound of the music.

‘Why doesn’t she want to marry him any more?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Jane, ‘but it’s better to find out now rather than later.’

‘Otherwise she’d have to get divorced.’

‘Or else, not be very happy.’

‘It’s a good job they haven’t got any children.’

‘Rupert and Lydia?’

‘Because when people have children, they have to stay together, don’t they? Even if they don’t like each other any more.’

Jane wondered if this was directed at her. ‘Do they?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Even if they’re not married.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘Of course!’ Liberty abandoned Ken and turned her attention to the Sylvanian Families she had assembled neatly on the floor. Mummy and Daddy bear and their bear children, Mummy and
Daddy dog and their dog children. All dressed up in skirts or trousers, mimicking their human counterparts.

Jane had forgotten how reactionary children were. More resistant to change than the stuffiest old Tory. Put them in charge of the world and there’d never be any progress.

‘But what if, say, the wife was mad and kept attacking her husband?’ Jane asked. ‘You couldn’t expect him to stay with her then, could you?’

Liberty gave her a clear-eyed look, letting her know she was missing the point. ‘If she was mad, she would be put in hospital, or else in prison.’

‘I see. But they might just be two ordinary people who didn’t get on any more. Or think they made a mistake . . .’

They shouldn’t make a mistake, they’re grown-ups.’

Liberty made Atilla the Hun look liberal.

‘The mummy must make sure the home is nice and that she looks pretty,’ Liberty went on, picking up the toy lady bear and smoothing down her headscarf, ‘then the daddy
won’t want to leave.’

Steady on, thought Jane, this is getting onto very dodgy ground. ‘The thing is, Liberty,’ she said, ‘you’re only a child and there are lots of things you don’t
understand . . .’

Jane stopped herself there. She was sounding like an apologist for divorce, employing the very arguments she so adamantly opposed. Instead, she should be looking to the future, to the time when
her present unhappiness would be a dim memory. Her fling with Rupert would be accorded its proper status as a dizzy episode in an otherwise uneventful life. Maybe one day she might tell Liberty
about it, when she was old and grey. While the grandchildren were having tea, she might draw Liberty aside and show her a photo, tell her what very nearly happened, how she came within a
hair’s breadth of being brought up in the South of France. Liberty would thank her, she would be grateful that her mother had taken the view that parents should stick together come what may,
that she had prized her daughter’s happiness above her own.