Kissing Toads (37 page)

‘He wants to give me away at the wedding,' I said.

‘Would it matter if he did?'

Yes. But I didn't say it – not to Mummy. Not now.

‘These big weddings are all about the show, not the real relationship. Excluding Roddy seems a bit petty. Besides, who else would you ask?'

‘I haven't decided,' I said, as if there was a short list of possibles. There wasn't.

‘There you are. It doesn't make any odds. Alex won't mind, will he? Roddy evidently approves of him, so I infer they got along.'

‘Sort of.' I didn't want to admit how betrayed I felt by Alex's attitude.

‘No harm in it then. Give Roddy the chance to be pleased with himself. It doesn't happen much any more. He's a part of you, Delphi, however you feel about him.'

‘I'd like to have his genes surgically removed,' I said with sudden violence. ‘That's what Pan told him. Good for her.'

‘Don't be silly.' My mother was unruffled. ‘You're you because of him. If he hadn't left, maybe you'd have grown up more like Natalie, spoilt and manipulative. In a way, his weakness has helped to make your strength. You should keep that in mind.'

I was pleased she thought me strong. I've never been sure how my mother sees me and it's always made me a little uncomfortable. All the same, I wasn't prepared to make concessions over the wedding. I said, ‘All right, but I still don't want him giving me away. I'm not his to give.'

I'd been so absorbed, I hadn't noticed the eyes on our table. Then a leading columnist wandered over, all smiles, probably fishing.

‘How are things at Dunblair?' he asked. ‘I hear there's been some trouble between you and Basilisa Ramón.'

‘Idle gossip,' I said sweetly. ‘You shouldn't believe all that you hear.'

When he'd gone, I filled Mummy in on the forthcoming divorce. (In a whisper, which must have maddened neighbouring diners.) She expressed mild interest.

‘He's one of the greats, Hot God,' she said. ‘You wouldn't understand: you're too young. Nowadays, pop stars are all packaging. The record companies find someone with the voice and the looks and mould them to fit the market. In the sixties, the stars made themselves. They didn't fit the mould; they broke it. No one cared what they looked like. Mind you, Hot God had sex appeal. I saw him twice in those days, three times later on. He had so much sex appeal I wet my pants.'

Mothers aren't supposed to say things like that. I tried not to be shocked.

‘Do you still think he has?' I enquired tentatively.

‘Lord yes,' she said. ‘Buckets of it.'

I suggested she came with me to see the Dress, but she declined: she was having tea in Harvey Nick's to talk to an old friend about azaleas. I got to Maddalena's by half three and, on an impulse, called Vanessa to see if I could grab a flight back to Scotland the same evening. She called back twenty minutes later to report that I was booked on a flight to Glasgow with a chauffeured car to get me to Dunblair. I would surprise everyone, I thought. I'd get another night with Alex before he left and be ready to shoot first thing in the morning. First thing for me, anyway.

‘You want to rush back to your lover,' Maddalena said. ‘That is romance. Something has happened between you –
posso vederlo
. There is a new sparkle about you. When you first come to me, it is all about the marriage, but not the love. Now, it is
in verità l'amore
. How I envy you! To have both the perfect wedding and the perfect man – it happen to so few of us.'

‘Yes,' I said, ‘Alex is pretty perfect.' In view of recent events, I couldn't think what she meant about the extra sparkle, but maybe it was just reflected off the Dress.

It looked incredible. My breasts swelled from the bodice, my leg nudged at the gap in the skirt. In multiple mirrors I saw the silk streaming out behind me, flowing into the train, and the glitter of iridescent embroidery (still incomplete) which made me look like a May queen dressed in snow blossom and sewn with rainbows. This was front-page stuff. I'd decided I wouldn't sell exclusives: I wanted to be a headline in every tabloid. Maybe even the broadsheets – after all, the
Telegraph
is always featuring pictures of Liz Hurley . . .

Alex would be stunned at the sight of me.

‘It's fabulous,' I told Maddalena. ‘Totally fabulous. You're a genius.'

‘Of course.' She accepted my praise as her due. ‘We need to take it in a little
qui
, to finish the embroidery
là
 . . . Also I must see your friends for the dresses of the bridesmaids. Brie de Meaux, and the lovely Ruth.'

‘Brie'll be back in town tomorrow. I'll get Roo down here as soon as I can.'

‘It is
molto importante
. Everything must be wonderful.'

‘It will be,' I said, pirouetting in the Dress again – as much as you can pirouette with a ten-foot train behind you. ‘It will be.'

By eight, I was back in the air on my way to Glasgow. The flight was slightly delayed so it was nearly ten when I got into the chauffeur-driven car and relaxed thankfully in the relative comfort of the back seat. It was a far longer drive to Dunblair than from Inverness, but with luck I would sleep on the road. I closed my eyes and did my best to close my mind, with only moderate success. Too many thoughts kept intruding: my father, Harry, even Elizabeth Courtney and the mystery I still had to unravel. I rehearsed conversations, envisaged scenarios. At some point I must have dropped off because when I awoke there was a full moon beyond the window and a vista of trees that parted to show the loch and the moon-shimmer on the water.

Home, I thought automatically. After all, the castle had been my home for months.

A startled Jules, on night duty, admitted us through the electronic gates. At the castle, he was there to let me in. Everyone else seemed to be in bed. I dumped my overnight bag, declined offers of tea or alcohol, and made my way upstairs to my room.

In the corridor, a small white tornado encircled my legs and resolved itself into Fenny, who must somehow have got shut out. I was surprised, because although the first flush of Alex's adoration had worn off, he still liked to sleep with the dog on top of the duvet. He must have gone to bed completely blotto, I deduced, unless he had decided to go home early since I wasn't there, which would be extremely irritating. But no – Alex had no PA to book flights for him; he invariably used Vanessa, and she would have told me. (Alex never did anything himself if he could find someone else to do it for him.) Anyway, I was confident he wouldn't rush away from Dunblair any sooner than he had to.

I opened the bedroom door very quietly. The curtains were drawn back and the moon shone in through the window, so it wasn't pitch dark. As my eyes adjusted I could see the bed was occupied. I picked up Fenny and stole softly across the room. Dimly, I made out the disorder of the pillows and the double hunching of the duvet. And two heads resting there.

Two
heads.

One was Alex. The other had a long spill of hair sprawled across the pillow, colourless in the moonlight. But I knew who it was without colour. Brie.

Just for a second I remember thinking: he's sleeping on the wrong side. He always sleeps on the left . . .

Stupid little thoughts that you think because you don't want to think the big thoughts – the thoughts that are going to destroy your life.

Then along came that awful draining sensation, only worse than ever before – total weakness, almost faintness, as if my body didn't belong to me,
I
didn't belong to me. Delphinium Dacres, Delphinium the star, beautiful and successful and beloved, didn't exist any more. My spirit shrank away to nothing; I just stood there, utterly silent, as lost and ineffectual as one of the castle ghosts.

My fiancé was in bed with my best friend (my
official
best friend). The ultimate cliché. I should have made a scene. I should have made the scene to end all scenes. I should have screamed and ranted and thrown a tantrum of nuclear dimensions. I couldn't speak, could hardly breathe. Somehow, I backed towards the door, still clutching Fenny. (Of course – they'd thrown him out so they could have sex without interruption.) In the passage I pulled the door to behind me, closing it with a shaking hand. I didn't know what to do, where to go. Tremors started to rack me; I held on to Fenny as if he was the only warm thing in the world.

Then there were footsteps. Harry. Harry bending over me, looking concerned because I was sitting on the floor.

‘Delphinium . . . Delphi . . . Jules told me you were back. I thought you might need something. You're ill . . .'

He was lifting me to my feet, putting his arms around me, not in desire but support. I let him. I didn't care. ‘What's the matter?' His face was all changed, not smug or taunting but sort of softened. As if he was really worried about me.

‘Al . . . Alex.' My voice stumbled on the name. I couldn't lie, not to save my life, not even to save my face. ‘In bed. With . . . Brie.' The words stuck in my throat.

Harry said: ‘Oh
shit
,' as if he meant it. His arms tightened around me and suddenly I was glad of them, glad he was there, squeezing me and Fenny against his chest. I didn't think I could have stood up without him.

‘He's an arsehole,' he said presently. ‘He always was. And she's a cheap little bimbo on the make. They suit each other. You have to make allowances for the attraction of identicals.'

Alex had called her a bimbo, back in the days when he couldn't stand her. Cheap,
ordinaire
, on the make. And now he was fucking her . . .

‘What d'you want to do?' Harry said. ‘I can throw them out for you – all the way out, if you like. It would be a pleasure.'

‘Roo,' I said. ‘I want Roo.'

‘Okay.' He scooped me up in his arms, holding me huddled against him with Fenny on top. At Roo's door he set me down, leaving an arm round me in case I fell. Then he knocked, calling her name. No response. He knocked and called again. After a minute or two the door opened and Roo's face appeared in the gap, sleepy-eyed and squinting because she'd forgotten to put on her specs.

‘Yes?' And then: ‘
Delphi?
You're back early . . .'

‘Look after her,' Harry said, pushing me gently into the room. ‘She's had a bad shock.'

‘What is it? What's wrong?'

‘Alex . . .' I tried to say it again. Failed.

‘What's he done?' Roo must have switched on the table lamp when she got up. She led me to the bed, sat me down, stroked my hair back off my forehead. ‘He hasn't . . . ?'

‘In bed with Brie,' Harry said tersely. Filling in for me.

‘Oh God, no. Delphi – oh Delphi –'

‘I don't think she's up to doing anything about it right now,' Harry went on. ‘I found her on the floor outside her room, hanging on to the dog like a child with a favourite teddy. Can you keep her here for tonight?'

‘Of course.' Roo was already unzipping my boots.

‘I'm going to fix some tea. I'll be back in a minute.'

I was in bed when he returned. He gave me the tea himself: it was sweet, which I hate, and had a familiar peat-bog tang which didn't belong to Earl Grey.

‘I don't take sugar,' I said. ‘It's fattening. Or whisky.'

‘You'll take both and like it,' he ordered. ‘Never mind about your figure. Sugar's good for shock, and the whisky will help you sleep. Specially if you're not used to it.'

‘He's right,' Roo said. And to Harry: ‘Thank you. If I could afford a butler, I'd want you.'

He laughed the kind of laugh people give when something isn't funny. Later, I'd remember it. ‘Try to get some sleep, both of you. Call me in the morning, before you come down. Then we'll decide what to do.'

‘Thanks,' I said, as he got up to leave. It was the first time I'd ever really thanked him.

When he'd gone, I lay down with Fenny in my arms. Roo got in beside me. I didn't talk or cry. After what seemed like hours the whisky took effect and I slipped into an uneasy sleep, riddled with ugly dreams.

  

I faced that Wednesday with a hangover and a sense of impending doom. Of course, the two could well be connected: a hangover
feels
like a sense of impending doom, transmuted into nausea and headache and a mouth like the inside of a kettle, both gritty and furry. At some point I would have to face HG, possibly Basilisa – and Ash. Not to mention work.

Once Delphi had gone, I despatched the actors and others involved in the re-enactment to the airport and got back to the garden. It was time for final decisions about the location of the maze, with Morty, Russell and Nigel all putting forward different theories. As our resident expert, Nigel's opinion had more weight, but Morty claimed years of horticultural experience had given him a ‘gut feel' for such things, and Russell said (fortunately only in an aside) that as neither of them could find their backsides with both hands, sorting out the maze was clearly beyond them. HG was naturally included in our confabulations, and, although we could hardly discuss anything personal in front of the others, he gave me that special smile (the one with the eye-wrinkles) and a murmur of reassurance, though I wasn't certain about what.

In the late morning there was a huge flap when Basilisa left, taking the cream-coloured Ferrari and followed by Sandy in the Range Rover loaded down with even more suitcases than Delphi boasted.

‘That's just her hand baggage,' Harry explained. ‘The rest goes later, in a fleet of container lorries.'