The Woman Who Knew What She Wanted (19 page)

I looked over at Cally. She had her back to the wall and looked very tranquil – not placid, but centred. She was a master jockey, who knew exactly when to give Greta her head.

My father came to the table with the bottle and four glasses. He'd already polished off his pint and his whisky chaser.

I was uncomfortable. As I've said, I am not an actor. I find it difficult to behave naturally when I'm in the company of a lover and I have to pretend that she's just a friend. Of course I know how I ought to behave. I should behave just as I am when I'm with Tracy or Michelle. I should be the lark, the gadabout, full of jokes and cheeky put-downs, and should have my foot firmly pressed onto the accelerator. I know how it's done. Yet when I am trying to treat my secret lover like a friend, it always comes out wrong. My voice becomes too loud or too soft. I clam up. My witticisms crash and burn. It all seems very hammy. To those that know me, I feel as if my love is writ large all over my strained face.

As my father sat down, his right hand automatically moved to his coat pocket and he produced a fresh packet of cigarettes.

‘Foul habit, I know.' He flicked off the cellophane. ‘Anyone like a cigarette?'

Cally and Greta both joined him, happily puffing their smoke all over me. In those days before the smoking ban, it was just seen as perfectly normal for us po-faced non-smokers to have to spend our evenings inhaling our companions' foul fumes. It would have seemed as weird and militant to have whinged about being a passive smoker. Cally tended to smoke when she was happy – when she was out riding, or out painting, or out drinking. I didn't much like it, though I never told her. Her smoking was just a part of her, as immutable as her looks or her horses.

My father was interested to hear about Cally's painting.

‘Are you excited by your exhibition?' he said.

She shrugged. I don't think I ever once saw her fazed. You could have stood her in the middle of the Pamplona bull run, being charged down by a dozen prime bulls, and she wouldn't have turned a hair. ‘I like deadlines,' she said. ‘I need a deadline, otherwise… otherwise nothing happens.'

‘And it's in August?' he said. ‘Where's it going to be?'

‘London.' She tapped her cigarette in the ashtray and twin fumes of smoke spilled from her nostrils. ‘Cork Street.'

‘Impressive,' my father said.

‘I don't know about that,' she said. ‘It'll be my last one. For a while.'

Cork Street; it shows how little I knew about the art world. I'd never heard of Cork Street, had no inkling that it was the very epicentre of Britain's art world. Although I knew that Cally had an exhibition that she was preparing for, it was just another facet of her life. It was neither impressive nor unimpressive, merely something that she did when she was not with me. But of course I should have known that just like her horsemanship and her love making, she was a complete expert.

‘What do you paint?' my father said. He was enjoying himself, had already tapped out the next round of cigarettes.

‘Animals,' said Cally, ‘movement, anything with life.'

‘When my first wife died, I had a stab at painting,' my father said. ‘I thought it would help. Took an art class. Water colours.'

‘What happened?'

‘I was outnumbered eight to one. The ladies saw me as some sort of catch. Not a class went by when they weren't offering to take me out for coffee or lunch or dinner.'

I'd never heard about this period in my father's life. ‘And did you take any of them up?' I asked.

‘A few,' he said. ‘It was quite a rich seam. I'd never realised that a widower in the army could be quite so attractive, but anyway… there you have it. Couldn't paint a damn thing, mind.'

‘Learning to paint is the very last reason why people go to art classes,' Cally said. My father laughed merrily to himself.

Greta had unbuttoned another button of her lilac shirt and I could see a glimpse of black bra underneath. She was drinking hard.

I felt something underneath the table. It was a foot that was worming its way up my calf and between my knees. For a moment I thought it was Cally, but quickly realised that it was Greta. She surveyed me coolly over the top of her wine glass, daring me, challenging me, to see what I would do next. I wasn't sure if she knew that Cally and I were seeing each other, or if she just fancied her chances.

I went to the lavatory. Darren was already there. He looked over at me. ‘You like them old, don't you?' he said.

‘I like them any way I can get them.'

‘They've got to be twenty years older than you.'

‘At the very least,' I said, before remembering Greta's probing foot. ‘You should have a try with Greta. She'd love you.'

‘Greta?' he said. ‘Why would I want to go with Greta?'

‘Might teach you something you didn't know.' I buttoned up and washed my hands. ‘Which probably isn't saying much, actually.'

Later in the bar, I saw him staring at us. Greta saw him, too, and gave him a little wave. I shuddered as the thought of Greta and Darren together floated across my mind. What an unholy alliance that would be.

My father gave me a lift back to the hotel. We'd said our goodbyes to the ladies outside the pub; my father had kissed them each on the cheek, very suave. I'd never really taken him for a ladies' man before, but after his tales of the art classes, I was looking at him with whole new eyes.

We buckled up and the cigarette was produced from the packet. He lit up one handed as we did a tight U-turn.

‘Nice girlfriend,' he said.

‘I'm not seeing Greta.' I wound down the window to try and clear some of the smoke.

‘Of course you're not,' he said. ‘But Cally… Cally is terrific.'

It was pointless denying it. ‘Cally is terrific,' I said. ‘How did you know?'

‘Not know when my eldest son has fallen in love? Not know when he's sitting opposite his girlfriend in the pub? Think I was born yesterday?'

‘Oh,' I said, very firmly put in my place. ‘I didn't know it was that obvious.'

‘As for Greta, what a trollop.' He tapped his ash out of the window.

‘Greta just gets a bit flirty when she's drunk.'

‘That would be most of the time, then.'

If my father had divined from one single session in the pub that I was seeing Cally, it did not take my colleagues long to follow suit. After all the hiding and secrecy, it was a relief to both of us when it was finally out there.

It was dinner time at the hotel, late July, and by now the Knoll House was in full swing, with families arriving for a week, two weeks, and with the whole operation so slick that every staff member had become battle-hardened. Even Oliver had managed to ameliorate his natural clumsiness and was no longer smashing more than a couple of plates a week. His party piece was the cuff flick, and usually occurred when he was gathering up either plates or menus. He would stretch over to pick up a plate, and as he did so, his cuff would catch a glass.

I once saw him upend a full champagne flute over a woman who was wearing a spectacularly clingy creamy cashmere dress. She was a young mum and she was revelling in having a dinner away from her children. Her husband was some corporate guy on holiday, wearing the standard blazer, chinos and natty blue deck shoes. The woman had come in to the dining room with a full glass of champagne, and had been sat down for all of one minute before Oliver handed her a menu. He knocked the glass into her lap, soaking her from her belly to her knees. The situation would have been quite hilarious if it had happened to anyone else, and if Oliver had not been so hideously embarrassed. But it all turned out all right. The lovely woman went off to change and Anthony brought them a bottle of champagne and the couple were soon laughing away and even chafing Oliver over his clumsiness.

On this night, the first person into the dining room, limping on a blackthorn walking stick, was my old adversary Major Loveridge and his wife, Jemma. Since the dry-run at the start of the season, Anthony had made sure that the major was never actually sitting at any of my tables, though I would always wave and say hello if I saw the man.

That evening, the major was seated just adjacent to my tables; Oliver was his waiter. Over the previous few months, I had discovered that he suffered from gout.

The major and Jemma had just sat down and were deciding which pie to have for dinner when I breezed over to the table next to them. I swept an imaginary crumb from the tablecloth.

‘Good evening, ma'am!' I said. ‘Good evening, Major! How is the gout today?'

He looked at me with weary eyes. He humphed.

‘My father suffers from gout,' I said chattily. I picked up a wine glass and began to polish.

The major perused the menu.

‘He swears by cherry juice,' I said. ‘My stepmother got him onto it. At first he was a bit sceptical.'

The major licked his finger and, without once looking at me, turned a page of the menu.

I held the glass up to the light, admiring its gleam. ‘Now you can't get him off the stuff! Cherry juice in the morning. Maraschinos at tea. Cherries on his cupcakes and cherries after dinner. He's even put in a couple of cherry trees in the garden, but they don't really produce very nice cherries. Bit bitter, you know? But there he is, still gobbling them down.'

The major's wife darted a look at me and then back at her husband, a wee timorous mouse peeping from its hole. The major was still stolidly reading his menu.

‘Oh, but there I am, prattling on about my dear old dad's gout when I'm sure it's the very last thing you want to talk about. May I recommend the sole? Catch just came in this morning.'

Off to the side, I saw Anthony greeting Cally and Greta. He kissed them both on the cheek.

‘My guests have arrived,' I said. ‘If you will excuse me.'

Cally and Greta were at their usual table, and though Cally was usually quite reserved when we were together in public, tonight she was almost brazen.

‘Kim!' She was pleased to see me. I'd not seen her for a couple of days and she stretched out her hand and cupped my arm. But she looked tired, too. I didn't really know what preparing for an exhibition entailed, but it was certainly gruelling. Every time she returned from London, she always looked a little more weathered; though it might have been the smoking. I think she smoked a lot in London and this tended to exacerbate the lines around her mouth and her eyes.

I kissed both the ladies on the cheek. ‘How goes the exhibition?'

‘Fraught.' She stroked my arm again and smiled up at me, and there was almost a look of relief in her face as if she was once again back in calm waters after weathering the storm. ‘I'll tell you later.'

Greta gave her an arch look. I realised that if she hadn't known about us before, she most certainly knew about us now.

I fetched them their bottle of champagne.

A man had come into the room with his family. In the traditional confines of the Knoll House dining room, he looked bizarre. He was a desperate mid-forties man, in black leather trousers and cowboy boots, and a striking silk waistcoat in canary yellow over a crisp white shirt. I was not at all sure that the waistcoat worked with the leather trousers.

At first I thought that the man was accompanied by his three daughters. But when I looked at the girls more closely, I saw his hand lingering on the older one's waist and realised that she was his lover. With his clothes and his much younger girlfriend, I thought he looked ridiculous.

I should have realised that something was up when Anthony escorted the group to one of my tables, next to the major and his wife.

After the four guests had sat down, I went over to the table and went through my spiel. The man's lover was about my age and very pretty, as all trophy girls must be. She had light freckles on her nose and a healthy tan and sun-kissed hair, and was altogether way too wholesome and too lovely to be mixing with this middle-aged man in his too-tight leather trousers.

The girls seemed pleasant enough, the man perhaps a little condescending; there was some strange vibe about the table, though I was not able to place it.

‘Are you regulars at the hotel?' I asked.

‘The girls have been coming here for years,' said the man. He turned to his girlfriend and stroked her bare shoulder. ‘But it's your first trip, isn't it, darling?'

‘So how are you enjoying the show so far?' I asked, hands clasped lightly behind my back.

‘I like it,' she said simply.

‘Have you heard of the nudist beach?' the man said.

‘Dad!' the elder daughter said, scandalised.

‘There's been talk of a nudist beach,' I said, ‘but we don't need permission, we just do it.'

‘You've skinny-dipped here?' the girl said.

‘Just this morning. It was brisk.'

‘Fancy a go?' said the man to his girlfriend.

‘I might do,' she said.

‘You let me know what time you're going down.' I doled out the menus. ‘I'll see about getting the beach cleared.'

I thought no more of it until I returned to the central station. Several waiters were agog to find out what I had been talking about with my new guests.

‘Nudist beaches, or something like that,' I said to Tracy. ‘What's up?'

‘He's such a hunk,' Michelle said.

‘Him?' I said. ‘Are you joking?'

‘He's not as tall as I thought he'd be,' Tracy said.

‘The guy in the leather trousers?' I said. ‘Why? Who is he?'

‘He's Pat McNamara,' said Tracy. ‘You know, the soap star. I didn't know he'd split from his wife.'

‘Must have been quite recently,' Michelle said. We watched as Pat stroked his girlfriend's knee. ‘But that's definitely a new girlfriend.'

‘How do you know so much about him?' I said. ‘When do you have time to watch TV?'

‘Don't you read the papers?' Tracy said.

‘Sometimes,' I said.

‘You mean the
Telegraph
,' Michelle said. ‘All that boring shit about Gorbachev and Perestroika!'

‘And let's not forget Glasnost,' I said.

‘Yes, and Glasnost, whoever he is when he's at home.'

Tracy weighed in. ‘Well, if you ever sank your toffee little nose into one of the red tops, you might learn something new.'

By rights I would have responded in my usual acidic fashion, but I held my tongue. ‘Maybe you're right,' I said. ‘I'll give it a go. I might learn something new.'

Nothing much happened until about an hour or two later. The major and his wife had had their starter and their mains and were now readying themselves for the main event, the pudding. The major beckoned Oliver over.

‘You couldn't get me some pudding?' he said. ‘This gout…'

‘Certainly,' said Oliver. ‘What would you like?'

‘Trifle,' said the major. ‘Couple of brandy snaps. Some strawberries.'

‘And some cream?'

‘Lots of cream,' he said. ‘Fill it to the brim.'

Oliver took the major at his word. At the puddings table, he spooned in a mound of trifle, placed a brandy snap on each side and then topped the whole lot off with thick Dorset double cream.

As Oliver walked back to the major's table, he held onto the bowl with both hands. As if in slow-motion, Oliver glided up behind the major, concentrating hard on not spilling a drop. At that exact moment, Pat moved his chair back to go up for a second helping of pudding. He slammed into Oliver. The tall German tottered. The bowl arced.

A brandy snap spattered onto the back of the major's neck. The bowl, brimming with cream, trifle and strawberries all ended up going down the front of Pat's canary yellow waistcoat.

For a second, the three of them just stood there, marvelling at the chaos.

‘You bloody idiot!' Pat shouted. ‘Look at me! Look at me!'

I looked at him. The whole dining room looked at him. The better part of his waistcoat was covered in cream and lush trifle. A stray strawberry lingered on his trousers. On the pointed toe of his cowboy boot were the remains of a brandy snap.

‘I'm very sorry, sir,' Oliver said, mopping ineffectually at the yellow waistcoat. The cream smeared deeper into the brocade.

The major, meanwhile, remained in his seat, ignoring the brandy snap on his shoulder to take a leisurely sip of his wine.

‘Get off me!' Pat slapped Oliver's hands away. ‘Get off me!'

The two girls must have been used to their father's rages and were staring at the table, but Pat's lover was shocked.

She stretched a hand to him. ‘It's all right,' she said. ‘It's okay.'

‘It is not okay!' said Pat.

I was enthralled. I wondered if he was actually going to hit Oliver.

Anthony bustled over. ‘I am so sorry,' he said. ‘Oliver, go and clean yourself up.' He beckoned to me and to Roland. ‘Kim, clean up this mess. Roland, help the major. Take him to the cloakroom.'

‘Don't trouble yourself,' said the major. ‘Though a brandy might be in order.' He looked over his shoulder, saw the brandy snap and plucked it off his coat. He took a leisurely bite before having another draught of wine, paying no attention to the cream that was still on his coat.

Nothing much more happened during the meal. Greta had gone off to powder her nose and I was talking to Cally.

‘Can I see you later?' she asked.

‘I'd love that.' I removed the two pudding bowls. She'd had trifle and clotted cream, while Greta, forever dieting, had had a small spoonful of fruit salad.

‘Will you take me to your room?'

I laughed. ‘My room?' I said. ‘It's not what you think it is, I can tell you! It's about a quarter the size of your beach hut, the walls weep when it's wet and the mattress is probably the most uncomfortable thing you've ever sat on.'

‘It sounds charming.' She was tipsy and she giggled. ‘Where shall I meet you?'

I looked round the dining room. We were down to the last handful of tables. ‘In your car in thirty minutes?' I said.

‘Perfect.'

Minutes later, I was kissing Greta and Cally goodbye. As soon as Anthony had released us, I flew back to my room, because although it may well have been small, it was also grubby. I only slept there once or twice a week, when Cally was away in London, so I hadn't actually cleaned it since I'd started working at the Knoll House.

I pushed the door open, switched on the light and looked at my room with an unflinching eye.

Clothes strewn everywhere, bedclothes that hadn't been changed in ages, various stains on the tiled floor, and all overlaid with a general hum of pheromones and sweat.

I threw open the window and the door and bundled my clothes into the laundry bag. These included all the colourful, luxurious shirts that Cally had given me. She never showered me with presents in the true toy-boy tradition, but the one thing she did like to do was buy me new shirts with cuffs and full collars. She had bought about five of them, stripy and floral and paisley – all different but every one of them pulsing with colour.

I made a trip to the laundry for fresh bed sheets. There was no air-freshener to hand so I sprayed the room with aftershave. Removing the floor stains – the mud, blood and assorted bits of scum – proved more difficult. I didn't have a brush, so I attacked the floor with a wet towel. I was like those ladies by the Ganges who scrub their clothes away to nothing on the rocks by the riverbank.

It wasn't great, but after I had borrowed a candle from Oliver the worst of it was indistinguishable in the shadows.

I put on a fresh shirt and trousers and went up to the car park where Cally was already waiting for me in the twilight. It was quite still that evening, not a breath of wind, and the pines were heavy with scent and sap.

I kissed Cally and led her back to my lair. She had a bottle of champagne. We went round the back so that there was less likelihood of being spotted. We tripped and sprawled in the darkness and ended up rolling around on top of each other, kissing and making out in the grass and the weeds.

Above us, not eight yards away, we could hear Janeen arguing with Darren. She was angry; he was placatory.