The Queen of New Beginnings (14 page)

“That wasn’t very gallant of me. I’m sorry. Does it muddy the waters, then, as far as your relationship goes, that this guy’s ditched you, professionally speaking, in favour of a big name?”

Without answering him, she went over to the oven. She slipped on a pair of oven gloves and opened the door. She pulled out the roasting tin of cooked sausages. “Pass me the bowl of batter mix, please,” she said. “No, not your attempt. Mine.” When he’d passed her the correct bowl, she gave the mixture a stir then poured it over the sausages and returned them to the oven. “Thirty-five minutes and we’ll be ready,” she said. She removed the oven gloves and found that she was being stared at. She suddenly felt irritated. What right did he have to ask her such an intrusive question? “Are you going to keep staring at me until I’ve answered you, is that it?”

He took a moment to reply. “Actually, I was just thinking how annoyed I was with myself for upsetting you. Especially when you’ve gone to so much trouble to salvage the evening. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve done a lot of apologizing this evening.”

“What can I say? It’s new to me. I’m trying to get the hang of it.” She smiled. “I’d say you’ve almost got it licked. And the answer to your question is that I had nothing but a work relationship with James. Typically for me, I misread the situation and thought there was more to it.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I’m doubly sorry in that case. Does that mean we get to spend part of the evening bitching about chummy-boy to make you feel better? We could go online and write some creatively cruel reviews about his books if you like.”

She laughed. “That won’t be necessary. I feel better already. By the way, he told me the other day that he had gone to the same school as you. He was several years below you.”

“What can I say? The school obviously turns out a nice line in bastards. How did my name crop up in the conversation?”

“It was him who pointed you out to me in the newspaper. In case you’re wondering, I didn’t let on that you were staying here.”

“Thank you for that. Right then, what can I do to help? Because so far, I’ve done nothing but my best to sabotage the evening.”

“I noticed a bottle of white wine in the fridge. How about you open that? If that’s not too presumptuous of me—I am only a guest, after all. Pass me that small pan, please.”

“A bossy guest,” he said with a small smile.

She took the pan from him. “You know, you’re a much nicer man to be around without the beard. The beard was definitely a bad influence on you. Now all you need is a decent haircut.”

“That’s the thing about women. They meet a man and all they want to do is change him.”

“But always for the better.”

“That’s what they always say.”

• • •

Clayton sat back in his chair. He raised his glass to his dining companion. “Alice, I can honestly say that was the best Toad in the Hole I’ve ever eaten. Thank you. Can I hire you to come and cook for me every day?”

She wagged a finger at him. “You had your opportunity when I was Katya, but you turned me down flat.”

“Oh, how I miss Katya!”

“Liar. You hated her.”

“No I didn’t. I was terrified of her!”

Alice laughed.

Clayton tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed making someone laugh. He’d also forgotten how infectious laughter could be. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in someone else’s company in a very long while. He couldn’t remember the last time when he’d found anything remotely amusing or experienced an emotion other than bitter regret. He and Bazza used to receive sack loads of letters from fans of
Joking Aside
, many of them from people who claimed the humour in the show had got them through a bad period in their lives. A shame that same humour hadn’t been able to do the same for him.

“Can I ask you something?”

Clayton opened his eyes. “Depends what it is.”

“Don’t look so alarmed. I was just wondering what it must be like to be such a hugely popular writer.”

“The first thing you have to understand is that writing is a compulsion. Maybe like acting is for you. The second thing is that as strong as that compulsion is, there’s no security in it. You’re living off your wits and if those wits pack up and leave home, you’re a goner. The compulsion then is to disappear into a great big black hole of nothing.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Will you write again, do you think? Do you even want to?”

He thought of last night, how his brain had felt as if it had momentarily rewired itself. “Tell me about the cherry liqueurs,” he said.

“Oh, yes, the cherry liqueurs. Well, how about we move to the sitting room so I can tell you the rest of the story in comfort?”

“I’ve discovered a wood pile in one of the outhouses; why don’t we make a fire, but in the room with the turret? I like that room.” Clayton’s face was suddenly animated, his voice eager.

Alice smiled. “A bedtime story round the camp fire? Is that what you want?”

“It’s what everyone wants, isn’t it?”

• • •

Ten minutes later and Clayton was clearly in his element. Give a man the opportunity to play with a fire and he was transformed. Alice’s mother used to say that you could take the caveman out of the cave, but you couldn’t take cave out of the man. Alice’s father had never been able to resist the lure of a log fire.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Alice watched Clayton, fascinated and amused. All his concentration was focused on building the perfectly constructed fire. How different he was from the dishevelled, short-tempered, grumpy man she had met just a short time ago. He had mellowed beyond belief. She couldn’t put her finger on it exactly, but there was certainly something about his character that she was warming to. Now that the beard was gone and she could see his face properly, she could discern his features more clearly. To her surprise, she liked what she saw.

He probably wouldn’t ever be described as classically good looking, but his eyes were a soft hazel colour, and his mouth had an appealing lopsided curve to it. Unlike her, he hadn’t been forced to wear a brace when he had been a child and two of his front teeth were slightly crooked. It seemed to reinforce her view of him, that somewhere along the line he had got bent out of shape. He had a tall, rangy build with broad shoulders; she doubted he was the kind of man who favoured working out at the gym. Maybe he burned the calories off with nervous energy.

Still observing him in profile, she watched him strike a match and hold it carefully against a screwed up ball of newspaper and kindling. She wondered if he’d picked out the pages of the paper in which he had featured. As the flames flickered and grew and his expression became even more absorbed, his face was illuminated with a golden light and his eyes turned to amber. He seemed so contentedly untroubled now and she found herself hoping that the crisis he was currently going through would soon be over, that he would be able to find a way to be happy again.

During supper, and although she was itching to know more, she had deliberately not pressed him on the exact details of his winding up here at Cuckoo House. He in turn hadn’t asked her anything about her childhood, not until they’d finished eating and he’d raised the matter of the cherry liqueurs. Prior to that, he’d told her some anecdotes about working with the American studio that had made the U.S. version of
Joking Aside
, how, before they’d flown over to meet everyone, Clayton, who had gone down with a bug the night before, had been sick during a conference call. The Americans had been too polite to say anything and had carried on with the conversation while Clayton had retched into a wastepaper bin. Only when Barry had started to sing “Everything’s Coming up Roses” did anyone break stride and enquire whether everything was all right.

He hadn’t only spoken about himself, he had also asked her about her work and she had enjoyed showing off her catalogue of voices—Marge and Lisa Simpson, Victoria Beckham, Cheryl Cole, Davina McCall, Katie Price, Anne Robinson, and some of the absolute stock in trade Hollywood greats such as Zsa Zsa Gabor, Katharine Hepburn and Bette Davis. He had particularly liked her imitation of Sharon Osbourne as a foul-mouthed flight attendant. “I swear she served me on the last internal flight I took in the States,” he’d said. He was a good audience and that was something she had never been able to resist.

“There,” he said, swinging round to her and wiping his hands on his trousers. “Now we’re all set for story time.”

“Not quite,” she said. She passed him his glass of wine from the tray she’d brought in with her. “
Now
we’re ready.”

Alice had kept her promise to Rufus not to tell anyone about them. She hadn’t even told Tasha. But in truth, there wasn’t an awful lot to tell. Very little had actually changed since that day he had kissed her and walked out of Cuckoo House, vowing never to return, not unless her father apologized to him. Alice knew her father would never do that. Just as she knew Rufus would never admit that he had overreacted.

Once he was back in London he wrote to her, but the letters were always a disappointment. Whereas she couldn’t stop herself from opening her heart to him, he never spoke of his feelings for her. “I’m no good with putting my emotions down on paper,” he’d written in one letter, “but you know in your heart how I feel about you.” She hung onto that and veered from euphoric delight whenever she recalled their first kiss to desperate misery that she couldn’t see him. Every time she mentioned in a letter that maybe they could meet in London, as he’d suggested, he would write back saying he didn’t think that was a good idea, not with him sharing a house with two other medical students. “If you come and stay with me, I know we’ll end up in bed together and I don’t want our first time to be like that, not with Neil and Andy listening to our every move. I want it to be special for us, a moment we’ll both remember for the rest of our lives.”

At Cuckoo House things were becoming increasingly difficult between Alice’s father and Julia. Upset that Rufus was refusing to come home, Julia begged Bruce to make good the damage he had done. “The damage
I’ve
done,” Alice and Tasha heard him shout incredulously at Julia. “You have to be joking! Your son is nothing but a spoilt brat. It’s time he woke up to the fact that money doesn’t grow on trees. It has to be earned.”

The arguments escalated until they were no longer conducted behind closed doors. Alice was reminded of the days when her mother had been alive and she and he had rowed at the top of their voices, both deriving some kind of perverse pleasure from the exchange. But Julia was nothing like Alice’s mother. She was no match for Bruce’s vociferous outbursts; she would break down in tears and accuse him of bullying her. Alice knew that tears were anathema to her father. He simply couldn’t tolerate them. He saw them as an easy way out for a woman. He would walk away from Julia in disgust whenever she cried. Something that was happening more and more.

The worst of it was that this newfound hostility put a strain on Alice and Tasha’s friendship. Predictably Tasha took her mother’s side and described her stepfather as a heartless tyrant. When Tasha did that, Alice would rush to defend her father. One day she blurted out that Tasha should be grateful for having such a generous stepfather, that if it hadn’t been for him, they wouldn’t have anything. “What do you mean by that?” Tasha had demanded.

“Nothing,” Alice had said, snapping her mouth shut. She had promised herself she would never let on to Tasha that she and her family were as poor as the proverbial church mouse, that all those stories Tasha proudly told of her father—what a clever and successful man he’d been—were untrue. As the days and weeks passed, and Bruce made himself yet more unpopular in Tasha’s eyes, she began to mention her dead father more frequently and would proudly show Alice the many photographs she had of him, pointing out how alike she was to him. Knowing how she felt about her own father, Alice couldn’t bring herself to tell Tasha the truth about the man she clearly idolized. Instead she had to put up with Tasha complaining how unfairly her brother had been treated and how he’d bravely taken a stand against her horrible stepfather.

Alice had never kidded herself that things had been perfect at Cuckoo House, but for the first time in her life she didn’t look forward to going home for the school holidays. Everyone who mattered most to her—her father, Tasha and Rufus, especially Rufus—was drifting away from her and there seemed nothing she could do about it.

One day, during the summer holidays, she pleaded with her father to write to Rufus and say he was sorry and that he’d reconsidered. “Nothing doing, Alice,” her father had said, “and do you really want to know why I’m not going to reconsider?”

“You want to teach Rufus a lesson?” she said.

“There is that, but more crucially, the truth of the matter is that, since you mother died, money has not been as plentiful as it once was. I’m not getting as many photographs published these days and those overseas trips don’t come cheap. The bottom line is, I don’t have enough to go splashing around on smart cars for a spoilt brat.”

“Rufus isn’t a spoilt brat,” Alice said, quick as always to defend the man she loved. “And I’m sure an ordinary car is all he wants.”

Her father scoffed. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba! Look, Alice, I think it’s time I told you something important. I was going to wait until your birthday, but now is as good a time as any. Most of the money we have came from your mother’s side of the family. It was your great aunt Eliza who had all the dosh. She left it in a trust to your mother when she died and when your mother died, a new trust was invoked which meant I would be paid a regular allowance to take care of you, but the bulk of the trust will pass to you when you turn eighteen. You see, your great aunt Eliza never trusted me when it came to money; she thought it would slip through my fingers like water. She also wanted to safeguard it, in the eventuality of me surviving your mother and remarrying. She was determined that you would inherit the bulk of everything she had, which is why this house isn’t in my name. When your mother died, it became yours. Well, strictly speaking it does when you turn eighteen. For now, it’s wrapped up in a complicated trust, of which I have little understanding.”

Alice was astonished. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

He waved a tired hand around his head as if ridding himself of a tiresome fly. “It all seemed such a bore to me. Plus I didn’t want you growing up with the burden of it. Because these things can become a burden. And I’d strongly advise you not to tell anyone about this conversation. Especially not any young men you might become entangled with.”

Wondering if her father was thinking of a young man in particular, she said, “Would I be right in saying that Julia has no money?”

He nodded. “Of course, I’ve known all along that that was why she agreed to marry me. She thought I was the answer to all her problems.” He smiled. “She had a nasty shock when she realized her mistake.”

“Why did you marry her, Dad?”

“Good question, Alice. Maybe I was lonely. Maybe I thought she’d make a good mother to you. Has Julia been a good mother to you?”

“I don’t really know. She’s not like Mum was.”

He smiled ruefully at this. “Your mother was your mother. She was unique.”

“Do you miss her?”

“God, yes. It’s not till you lose someone that you realize how important they were to you. Life was hell at times with Barbara, but it was never boring. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t miss her wit and her scathing put-downs. Julia has none of the qualities your mother had.”

“If Mum meant so much to you, why did you…” Alice faltered but then forced herself to ask the question she had always wanted to ask her father. “Why did you mess about with all those au pairs?”

Without a flicker of hesitation or embarrassment, he said, “Neither your mother nor I were saints, Alice, but no matter what we got up to, we always felt connected to each other. We always came back to each other. Some relationships are made that way. But let’s not dwell on any of that. There’s something else I want to discuss with you. In September, you’ll be eighteen; I want you to have a party. A real do. A marquee on the lawn affair. A disco. The full works. Invite all your friends from school.”

She looked at him doubtfully. “Can we afford it?”

He rolled his eyes. “Now you see, that’s exactly why I never told you any of this nonsense about money before. You’re going to waste time and energy worrying about it.”

“You can’t protect me for ever, Dad.”

“I will if I can,” he replied, his expression suddenly stern.

• • •

On the day of the party, Cuckoo House was crammed to the rafters with guests. Most of them were staying for the weekend. Brooking no argument, her father had laid down the ground rules—the girls got to sleep in a bed (if they were lucky) or had to make do with a sleeping bag on the floor, and the boys, mostly brothers of the girls from school, were relegated to sleep in the marquee in the garden when the party was over. Mrs. Randall, whose services were now only required during the school holidays, had supervised the caterers and waitresses and her nephew was providing the disco. Mr. Randall would be in charge of the bar. It was going to be the perfect party, so Tasha kept telling Alice.

The two of them were alone in Alice’s bedroom getting dressed. For some weeks now there had been a truce in place between them; this was mostly down to Alice—forever the mediator searching for a way to keep the peace—who had suggested that she and Tasha have a combined eighteenth birthday party.

Tasha was wearing a strapless, ankle-length dress that had a ruched bodice. It was white and showed off her flawless olive skin. She looked stunning with her hair cascading down her back like a sheer black waterfall. Alice had chosen not to smooth out her hair as she usually did, and had decided to go with the natural curl and wave of it. She had spent the last hour fiddling with a pair of curling tongs and was pleased with the results. She was pleased with her dress, too. Made of red silk, it was long and strapless like Tasha’s. She had never worn silk before and it felt as sheer as a whisper against her skin. Tasha had done her make-up for her, making her eyes look dark and sultry. She had insisted Alice should wear lipstick the same colour as her dress and despite having worn red lipstick many times before on stage, worn like this, Alice felt quite different. She couldn’t make up her mind whether it made her look sexily alluring or just plain tarty.

“Here, have some of this,” Tasha said. She passed Alice a bottle of vodka.

Alice put it carefully to her mouth, not wanting to ruin her make-up. She took a sip. Then another. And another. She wasn’t planning on getting drunk, but she did want to drink enough to take away the pain and disappointment that Rufus wouldn’t be at the party. She had begged him in numerous letters to put aside his differences with her father and to come home for the weekend. “If you really care about me, you’ll do this one small thing for me,” she had written two weeks ago. She knew she was taking a risk—emotionally blackmailing him—but she was desperate to see him. The risk had backfired; he hadn’t replied to her letter. He hadn’t even sent her a birthday card. She was devastated. She had pushed him too far. She had lost him. In the days that followed she had tried to be angry with him, to convince herself that he wasn’t worth loving, but it hadn’t worked. She loved him and that was all there was to it. Perhaps they had the same kind of relationship as her mother and father had had. No matter how many ups and downs they went through, their love would always pull them back to each other.

• • •

Alice was dancing with Jessica Lawton’s brother. His name was Magnus and he was studying politics up in Edinburgh. He looked good in black tie. Very James Bond with his top button undone and his bow-tie hanging loosely around his neck. A shame his breath smelled of champagne and cigarettes. He wasn’t a bad dancer, if a little forceful, and as he spun her round to the music on the springy dance floor, Alice’s vision blurred with a swirl of silk and taffeta like sheets flapping on the washing line. When he stopped spinning her round, she saw her father and Julia helping themselves to plates of food over at the buffet table. She hoped they were having a good time. Over by the bar, she spotted Tasha snogging Emma Carter’s brother.

“The question I’ve been asking myself all evening,” Magnus yelled in her hear, his hands creeping around her waist and towards her chest, “is why a girl as beautiful as you doesn’t have a boyfriend.” His thumbs had almost made contact with her breasts. She shrugged and reached out for a glass of champagne from one of the waitresses circling the marquee. She took a gulp and nearly sneezed as the bubbles shot straight to her nose. Flirting didn’t come easily to her, but she’d had sufficient to drink and now thought what the hell? Rufus didn’t love her; why shouldn’t she have some fun? It was her eighteenth birthday party; if she couldn’t have fun tonight, when could she? She owed Rufus no loyalty. None whatsoever. She leaned into Magnus and said, “Maybe I was waiting for the right person to come along.” She gave him what he hoped was a meaningful look.

He grinned. “In that case, how about we put that to the test?” He took the glass from her hand, put it to his lips then kissed her. Champagne flooded into Alice’s mouth and because she hadn’t been expecting it, her reflexes kicked in and she gagged, spluttering champagne back at him. “Oh, my God,” she shouted above the music, “I’m so sorry.”

He wiped his face and laughed. “I can see I’ve got a lot to teach you.” He drained her glass in one long gulp, ditched the glass on a nearby chair and took her in his arms again. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go somewhere quiet so I can give you my full attention.”

She allowed him to lead her outside into the dark and round to one side of the marquee. “Now then,” he said, “here’s your first lesson of the night.”

“And what lesson would that be?” said a voice directly behind Alice. She spun round.

“Rufus!”

He smiled. “Looks like I got here in the nick of time. Whoever you are,” he said to Magnus, the smile gone from his face, “hands off. This one’s mine. Go on, piss off before I get really mad with you.”

Magnus dissolved into the night.

“Rufus,” she said again, her voice full of disbelief as she took in how wonderful he looked dressed in black tie. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s your birthday; did you really think I wouldn’t come?”

“But I asked you…I wrote…and when you didn’t reply. I thought—” her voice trailed away.

He stepped in closer to her. “You thought what?”

“That I’d pushed you too hard, that you didn’t care about me anymore.”