Golden Hour (27 page)

“I'm not here to push you into any tough decisions. I'm here to make you feel better.”

“You've done that. You're great.”

They refill their glasses with wine and move onto the only couch to get more comfortable. Andrew feels all loosened up inside. There are things he wants to hear himself say, so he can find out what he feels about them.

“Do you think maybe I'm just the wrong guy for Maggie?” he says.

“I don't see why,” says Jo. But not with much conviction.

“Remember Nigel. He wasn't at all like me.”

“No. He was a total prick.”

“But she was with him quite a long time.”

“Too long.”

“So maybe she likes pricks.”

Jo looks at him with her head on one side, like she's trying to make him out.

“But you love her.”

“Yes, I do. But it takes two. No good me loving her if she doesn't love me.”

“Jesus, Andrew. I don't know what to say.”

“Well, I suppose what I'm asking you is, what do you think?” He's discovering what it is he wants to say only as he says it. “You know Maggie well. What I'm asking you is, do you think she'll get over this panicky feeling?”

Jo nods. Not an unexpected question, it seems. Their glasses seem to be empty again already. Andrew gets the wine and refills them.

“Do I think she'll ever love you the way you love her?”

Andrew takes a big gulp of his wine. The bluntness of her words comes as a shock. But yes, of course, this is exactly what he's asking.

“I don't know how to answer that,” she says. “I wish I did.”

“Does that mean the answer's no, but you don't want to hurt me?”

“No,” says Jo, wrinkling her brows, trying to understand what it is she does think. “It means I really don't know. I can't really understand Maggie's problem. I mean, if it was me I'd just open my arms and say, Come on in.”

“Oh, Jo. You're doing me the world of good.”

They clink glasses and drink some more. The alcohol is doing him the world of good too.

“To be honest with you,” says Jo, “I can't help thinking she doesn't deserve you. I mean, where does she get off with her I-don't-know-if-he's-the-one stuff? Let's get real here. She's over thirty and you're gorgeous and solvent and actually not a prick. What's not to want?”

Andrew has taken in only part of this.

“Is that what she said? She doesn't know if I'm the one?”

“Oh, we all say that. It doesn't mean anything. I don't mean
to slag Maggie off. She's lovely, but honestly there are times when I want to slap her.”

“She's the one for me,” says Andrew quietly.

“Oh, stop it, Andrew. I can't bear it.”

“If I'm not the one for her. . .”

He feels the tears returning. He shrugs and shakes his head, to drive the self-pity into his body. He doesn't want to cry again.

“It takes time,” says Jo.

“How long? We've known each other for four years. We've been going out for over a year. How much longer does it take?”

“You're asking the wrong girl, honey.”

“If she's not sure now—if she's not sure I'm the one—if she's not sure—”

He can't hold back any more. He feels a heaving in his chest, and the sob breaks in his throat. He leans back against the couch and lets the tears flow.

Jo is overcome with wine and sympathy.

“Oh, sweetheart! Don't cry! No, don't cry!”

She puts her arms round him and he lets himself sink into her soft warm embrace. She rocks him in her arms and whispers to him like a mother comforting her child.

“You're a lovely, lovely man. Any woman would be proud to have you. If she doesn't see it, then she's just a silly little fool. Don't cry over her, sweetheart. If she doesn't want you, then to hell with her. There's others that will. Any girl would want you. You're one in a million. Let her go back to the nasty pricks who make her miserable if that's what she wants. Why should you let her make you miserable? Life's too bloody short and there's enough misery to go round as it is. People should love each other. People should want to make each other happy. There, that's better. No more crying. There, you feel better now, don't you?”

“Yes, Jo,” he says, holding her close. “You're wonderful, Jo.”

“Well, I'm the same as you, aren't I?” she says. “We all want to be loved.”

She gives him a little loving kiss on the cheek and he gives her a little kiss. Then suddenly they're kissing for real, mouth to mouth, with great intensity. He feels her body press into his, and knows that she wants him, she's hungry for him, and being wanted awakens the desire in him. They slide down on the couch until they're lying body to body, holding each other tight.

Then she's pushing herself away from him.

“This is not a good idea,” she says. “This isn't what's meant to happen.”

But Andrew is feeling the exact opposite, he's feeling the resurgence of the simplest desire of all. This is sexual power in action, making whole what has been broken. Jo is in his arms and she wants him. People should want to make each other happy. He takes off his glasses.

“Don't think about it,” he says. “We're drunk.”

“Drunk and incapable,” says Jo, sinking back into his arms.

Thursday turns out to be overcast, with the threat of rain.

“Wouldn't you know it?” says Henry, dressing for the garden party in a light summer suit. He's also wearing a tie, which he very rarely does. “My neck's got fatter.” He tries irritably to button the top button of his shirt. “When did that happen?”

Laura tests her flower hair-clip in front of the mirror, both for position and for security. She gives her head a vigorous shake. The flower stays on. Then she smoothes the skirt of her dress, which is navy blue with white polka dots, tight-waisted, long-sleeved.

“Do you think the Queen will mind me wearing a vintage dress?” she says.

“Why would she? And anyway, who cares what she thinks?”

“That was supposed to be your cue to say how lovely I look.”

“Well, you do.”

Most of the women at the garden party will be wearing high heels. Laura can't face three or four hours standing in high heels.

“I'm going to wear flatties. After all, it is on grass.”

“We owe them nothing,” says Henry. “A dysfunctional family from Germany with the style and culture of footballers' wives.”

Henry has been in a contrary mood for days now, ever since coming home from his meeting on Tuesday. Laura feels sorry for him and irritated by him at the same time. She ponders
which earrings to wear, then remembers her ring, which is waiting for her finger to heal.

“I hate not wearing my ring,” she says.

For now the ring rests in the pretty Moroccan box on her dressing table where she keeps redundant items of jewelry, broken necklaces, single earrings. She remembers buying the ring so well, in a little shop in the Lanes in Brighton. She remembers sending it away to have it engraved with their initials.

Henry finishes tying his tie. He looks at himself in the long mirror, frowning with dissatisfaction, then looks away.

“At least Nick Griffin should stir things up a bit.”

“You're suspiciously excited by the prospect of Nick Griffin, Henry.”

“Anything for some action. We're going to be so bored.” He looks out of the bedroom window at the clouds. “And so wet.”

“Take an umbrella.”

“Damn right I will.”

“Oh, God!” says Laura, looking in the mirror. “This flower just looks ridiculous.”

“Then take it off.”

“I have to wear something on my head.”

Of course it's all ridiculous, but the fact is they've decided to go, and once there she does not want to feel out of place. What she wants is to be, in her own quiet way, more stylish than the rest, while remaining respectful of the conventions of the occasion. This isn't for Henry. It isn't even for the Queen. It's for their fellow guests—their fellow female guests—who she knows will be judging her appearance as critically as she will be judging theirs. There's a fine line between distinctive style and posturing for attention.

She repositions the flower hair-clip and decides it'll do. Then
she gives a last touch to her make-up and goes downstairs. Carrie is in the kitchen having a late breakfast with Toby.

“We're off, darling. Should be back by seven or so.”

“You look sensational,” says Toby. “Is that a real Jacques Fath from the real fifties?”

“Yes, it is, actually,” says Laura, surprised. “How on earth do you know?”

“The Queen will envy you.”

“Oh, shut up, Toby,” says Carrie.

They seem to be getting on better.

“Okay if I borrow the Smart?” Carrie says.

“Who's going to go with you, darling?”

“Toby.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.” Laura doesn't really believe Carrie can drive yet, given she hasn't passed her test. “You will take care.”

“No, Mum. I'll drive straight into a tree.”

Henry appears clutching a fold-up umbrella.

“Come on if you're coming.”

The rain holds off until they're on the train. By the time they reach Gatwick there are puddles on the platforms, and a thin rain is streaking the windows. By Clapham Junction the sky is blue again.

They walk from Victoria Station to the Palace, having decided to enter by the front. The map they've been sent offers a choice between the Grand Entrance and the Grosvenor Place gate into the back of the palace gardens. The garden entrance is nearer but humbler.

“Might as well experience the full horror,” says Henry.

A crowd of guests has already formed outside the railings. The guests are not hard to distinguish from the tourists. The
female guests wear feathered fascinators in colors that match their dresses. The male guests wear suits, with a smattering of men in morning dress. The long tail coats give the gathering a comical air, as if a wedding has been recently canceled and the guests left with time on their hands.

Beyond the ornate black-and-gold railings the wide palace forecourt is almost empty. Red-coated guards stand by their sentry boxes wearing their enormous bearskins even on this warm July day. The palace itself presents its familiar foursquare façade with stoic dignity, resigned to acting as backdrop to a million photographs. To Henry, who looks with the historian's eye, it speaks of the nation's past: Armistice Day 1918, and the crowds in the Mall; the King appearing on the balcony on VE Day, while the teenage princesses slipped incognito into the cheering throng; Charles and Diana on the same balcony, in color now; the Jubilee concert, when the palace became the screen for laser-beamed brightly colored images. Our national canvas, onto which we daub our fantasies.

And we'll be entering the palace. Going through those doors to be swallowed by our own myth. And there will be the little old lady known as the Queen. How old is she now? Eighty-something? Not a real person, of course. An outline, to be filled in as each of us desires; a cartoon, two-dimensional, absurd, but in no way threatening.

Without quite meaning to, Laura and Henry find themselves taking their place in a vaguely defined queue of other garden party guests. The couple immediately behind them are both in late middle age: she large and dressed all in red, he small, in a gray suit too big for his spare frame. The woman in red is too excited to be shy, and anyway, simply by being dressed up when all the other tourists are in shorts forms the basis for companionship.

“I wish my mum was alive to see me now,” she says. “Did you hear? Michael Winner is coming, with his girlfriend.”

“And Nick Griffin,” says Laura.

“He's had his invitation withdrawn. Didn't you hear?”

“That's a shame,” says Henry. “I was hoping for some good old-style British aggro.”

Joan and her husband Peter are from Bangor. Joan is the one who has been invited to the garden party, in recognition of her forty years working for Bangor's Library Service. She has researched the garden party on the Internet.

“They say the drink is terrible but the food is wonderful. You're allowed to go to the tea tent twice.”

“Have you just come down for the day?” says Laura.

“For the day! If only!” Joan laughs merrily. “You know what this trip has cost us, all in? Seven hundred pounds! Train fares, two nights in the Travelodge at Waterloo, all you can eat at breakfast, mind! He's small and don't eat much, but I'm not and I do! Then tickets for the show, and a taxi here as a treat, he didn't cheat us, it was ten pounds. Seven hundred, it's cost us, hasn't it, Peter? All in.”

Peter is gazing at the sentries in red jackets and bearskins.

“Welsh Guards,” he says. “My dad was one of them.”

The couple behind Joan and Peter have heard the mention of Nick Griffin being disinvited. They're from Leicester. Jaspal introduces himself. He's the President of the Leicester Association of Asian Businessmen. His wife is very beautiful, and wears a white and silver sari. Jaspal introduces her, spelling out her name, Sukhjit, which sounds like Suki. She alone has no hat or decoration in her dark hair. Instead she has a vertical line of tiny jewels on her brow.

“He used his invitation for personal political purposes,” says
Sukhjit, meaning Nick Griffin. “That's why he's been told he can't come.”

“Quite right too!” says Joan indignantly.

“When I was a girl,” says Sukhjit, “my dad used often to come home with cuts and bruises. My mum said, what happened? Oh, I got caught in the car door. I slipped on the pavement. But really he'd been getting into arguments with the National Front. He was a real old-time socialist.”