Olivia’s Luck (2000) (38 page)

“Bit late now, isn’t it? You told me Henry came out like a human cannonball. Nearly knocked the midwife out.”

“Well, quite, so there’s no hope for me,” she said gloomily. She beamed, suddenly. “So back to you. Back, via birth canals, to Sebastian, in fact.”

“You are so disgusting, Molly Piper.”

“But didn’t you say you’d seen him recently?” she persisted, twisting round to face me.

I sighed. I had. More than once, actually. Twice, to be precise. After our supper I’d phoned him to say thank you, and he’d asked if I’d like to see a film with him later on in the week. Naturally that had led to supper in a little bistro afterwards, and then walking home, we’d spotted a poster advertising an open-air concert in the park, which naturally we’d gone to too, a few days later. (On both of these occasions incidentally – and inuch to Claudia’s horror – Maureen had stood in as baby-sitter. I could tell at a glance that nothing would get past those sharp eyes – particularly Lance and Nanette – and after a couple of evenings with Maureen, Claudia had become really quite proficient at needlepoint, which, I thought, on balance was better than oral sex.) But I digress. Yes, Sebastian liked me, that I could tell, and I don’t say that with any degree of smugness or insensate conceit, either. It’s just that I’m not the sort of girl men instantly fall for, so when it does happen it’s all the more apparent. And I liked him too, but not in the same way. I liked his dark, intelligent good looks, he made me laugh, he was droll and dry, and I liked the rather quizzical gleam he got in his eye when he was about to say something amusing. In fact I couldn’t fault him but, at the end of both evenings, I was left with that same hollow, empty feeling I’d had when I’d come back from his house that first night. After the concert in the park, I cried when I shut the front door. It was me, of course, I knew that. Not him. I never asked him in for a coffee because I felt it wouldn’t be fair, and he never made a move in that direction because he hadn’t been given so much as a smidgen of a sign that it would be acceptable. Lately, though, I wondered if I should, just for the hell of it. This wasn’t Lance, after all; it wouldn’t be
that
casual, would it? This was a man I liked enormously, but whom I just wasn’t in love with. Surely then, it couldn’t hurt? In fact, it might even help – might help me to fall in love, be better again. I so desperately wanted to be better. To be normal, not to be living in this ghastly limbo land, waiting to see what would happen next.

“Yes, I’ve seen him,” I sighed.

“And?”

“And…well, he’s very nice,” I said lamely.

“Thought so,” she retorted smugly. She sat up and pursed her lips. “Right, tell you what, why not bring him round for supper? Better make it sharpish, though, otherwise I really will have this baby on his feet. How about Friday?”

I turned to look at her properly. She was being suspiciously determined about all this. “Sure, I could bring him,” I said slowly. “But what’s the rush? Why the indecent haste?”

She was quiet for a moment. Put her sunglasses on, sat back and gazed out at the view, which, with the sun glancing off a riverful of floating water lilies, was carrying on like an Impressionist painting.

“They’re going away together, you know that, don’t you?” she said quietly.

I swallowed hard. “I…suspected,” I muttered. Johnny had indeed telephoned to say he was going away for a while and couldn’t see Claudia for a bit. He hadn’t elaborated and I’d foolishly hoped it might be a business trip, but since it fitted in quite seamlessly with the start of the school holidays, it seemed unlikely.

“Where are they going?” I said in a small voice. Molly was friendly with a few of the nursery mothers, so I knew she’d know.

“St-Jean-de-Luz.”

I sat bolt upright. “St-Jean-de-Luz! That’s where we went for our honeymoon!”

“I know.”

I breathed deeply, bit the inside of my cheek hard. “Tell me the worst, Molly. I know you know, and I deliberately never ask.”

She shrugged miserably. “I don’t really know much, actually, because apparently she’s very private, but Tessa Jarvis says – well, she says they’re very close at the moment. Nina’s told her how incredibly happy she is, how she never thought anything like this would ever happen to her, never thought she’d get someone like Johnny – ”

“OF COURSE NOT, BECAUSE SHE’S SUCH AN AVERAGE LITTLE TART!” I bellowed. “My bloody husband! Never thought she’d – “
get
” – my gorgeous bloody husband! How bloody
dare
she?”

“Breathe,” Molly commanded, reaching out and clutching my wrist. “Come on, you’ve gone all purple now, breathe – in…out…in…out…”

I sank back and obeyed. God, he had such a weird effect on me, it was like releasing demons. And my language became so exotic too, like that girl in
The Exorcist
. Next thing I knew my head would be rotating.

“Anyway,” I snarled, simultaneously breathing deep, “Tessa Jarvis doesn’t know her arse from her elbow, she’s got a huge mouth on her, and
her
bloody husband is the pits! Pinches bottoms at school fêtes, and I should know!”

“Well quite,” she agreed hastily, “she’s a terrible old gossip, but I’m just telling you what I’ve heard, that’s all. Because I think you should be prepared.”

“For what?” my heart stopped.

“For…any serious developments.”

I stared at her. There seemed to be two of her. Two pairs of sunglasses. Two curly heads. I couldn’t speak for a while.

Then, at length: “She came to see me, you know.”

“What, here?” Molly whipped off her glasses, aghast.

I nodded. “But I wasn’t in. She hasn’t been back since and I’ve avoided her at school. Obviously, though, she had something to tell me. Something…burning.”

Molly nodded thoughtfully. “I’d say you might be right,” she said quietly. “And maybe Johnny didn’t want to be the one to say it. Or couldn’t say it.”

A long silence prevailed. Eventually, I took a deep breath.

“Molly, we’d love to come.”

She frowned, miles away now. “Hmm?”

“To dinner, Sebastian and I.”

“Oh good!” She brightened. “Friday then?”

“Perfect.”

“Spag bol in the kitchen, I’m afraid. It’s about all I can manage these days. Oh God, is that all right?” She looked suddenly alarmed. “He’s probably not used to that sort of thing, is he?”

“No, Molly, he only dines at the Connaught. Don’t be ridiculous, he’s perfectly normal, he even picks his nose like the rest of us, he just happens to be good at music, that’s all.” I got to my feet. “Gin and tonic?”

She consulted her watch and blinked. “Lord, Liwy, it’s only ten thirty for God’s sake!”

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” I said evenly, as I marched inside, crossed to the sideboard, and with a shaking hand, poured an extremely large one for myself.

S
upper on Friday began somewhat inauspiciously. Having assured Molly that Sebastian couldn’t be more relaxed, I did actually sneak him a sidelong, nervous glance as we stood for what seemed like an eternity on the doorstep of the Pipers’ little flint cottage, getting absolutely no answer at all from their cranky old bell. Finally we tried the door, pushed tentatively through, and happened upon a sitting room that looked for all the world as if it had been burgled. We glanced at each other, startled. There was an astonishing lack of sofas, chairs, tables – or indeed any sort of furniture at all – and all that remained on the rather grubby carpet were piles of books and magazines, a few mouldy coffee mugs, one of Molly’s maternity bras, and a brace of apple cores festering quietly on the fender. Neither Molly nor Hugh was anywhere to be seen.

“Looks like they’ve moved out,” muttered Sebastian, gazing around. “The thought of me coming for supper was clearly too much for them, they’ve done a runner, put their possessions on their backs like Kurdish refugees and fled. We’ll probably find them halfway down the road, wild-eyed and desperate, dragging an astonished donkey and making a break for the border.”

“Either that or the bailiffs have been,” I said nervously. “Which, believe me, is entirely possible with Molly and Hugh. They’ve clearly forgotten we’re coming, anyway. Come on, let’s go.” We turned hastily back to the door.

“Well, bugger off, then, oh ye of little faith!” cried a voice behind us and we swung round to see Molly, sweeping through the French windows in a billowing maternity smock, like a ship in full sail, a plate of garlic bread poised in her hand.

“We’re out here in the garden, and we’ve got no garden furniture to speak of so we dragged all our stuff outside.” She threw her arms around her barren sitting room. “Welcome to
Lifestyles of the Poor and Disgruntled!
Makes a refreshing change, don’t you think? You don’t mind being outside, do you? We thought we’d have a barbecue so Hugh can wear stupid clothes and do macho things with tongs and baked potatoes.” She grinned and kissed me on both cheeks, then beamed up at her guest.

“Ah, Sebastian, what must you think of me? Did I behave
quite
appallingly the other night?” She twinkled merrily at him.

He grinned. “Quite appallingly, but with remarkable aplomb and presence of mind too. You’re obviously a dab hand at rescuing damsels in distress from sticky situations. I only wish I could stash the big-with-child card up my sleeve to deploy in similar circumstances.”

She chuckled. “Ah yes, privilege of my gender, I’m afraid, and I do like to make the most of my fecundity. It has very little else going for it, believe me. Now,” she linked both our arms with a squeeze and turned us gardenwards, “come and meet the man responsible for my condition. You can’t miss him, he’s the one in the vest and the shorts who thinks he looks like Bruce Willis in
Die Hard
.”

We strolled outside with her where, sure enough, scattered about the long, unmown grass and the daisies, was the sitting-room furniture – a sofa, two armchairs and a coffee table – all looking a bit tipsy and off balance, and slightly embarrassed to be outside. And in the middle of this al fresco furniture showroom, was Hugh, in what looked like his underwear, behind a wall of smoke, fighting desperately with a furious, flaming, spitting cauldron that was more reminiscent of Sputnik than a barbecue.

“Remember these, Moll?” he cried, waving a huge pair of barbecue tongs. “I borrowed them from the maternity ward. They’ll be needing them back when you go in!” He clamped them to an imaginary head and pulled hard, rolling his eyes maniacally like Doctor Death. “Oooh, aahhh!”

“
Au contraire
, my darling,” she sang, “they’ll be needing them back for your vasectomy, for when I have your balls off. Sebastian, this is my husband, Hugh, who you met very briefly last week. He’s an out-of-work actor, and as the evening wears on, you’ll appreciate why.”

“Not at all,” smiled Sebastian, shaking Hugh’s hand, “I thought your performance in the supporting role of ‘tense father’ the other night was masterful. It was method acting, I take it?”

“But of course,” grinned Hugh, taking a deep bow. “There’s always method in my madness. No offence taken, I hope?”

“None at all,” smiled Sebastian.

“Excellent! Now – a drink! Good God, Molly, call yourself a hostess? These good people haven’t even got a bevy!”

A jug of Pimm’s was discovered lurking under a table, the flies were ceremoniously picked out of it, then Hugh poured four huge, lethal tumblers, and the evening slipped happily along. And as we sat, laughing and chatting, slumped in their comfortable old chairs with the springs bursting out of their arms, in their tiny, magical cottage garden, surrounded – more by accident than Molly’s design – by hollyhocks, flocks and lupins, our toes in a daisy-strewn lawn, we gazed on to a veritable Constable scene of traditional English haystacks in the fields beyond. As Hugh waved his tongs in a final triumphant flourish we then ate our traditional English barbecue: charred spare ribs, sausages that were black on the outside and raw in the middle, vast baked potatoes that were as hard as bullets but no one seemed to mind, and a salad, that much to everyone’s mirth, I insisted on rushing to the flowerbed to decorate with borage and nasturtiums, as meanwhile, the drink and the conversation flowed on.

Molly and I discussed the chaotic state of her garden, as was our wont, with her promising to put into practice all my handy hints, and me, knowing full well she wouldn’t, whilst Sebastian and Hugh chewed the arts long and hard, alternately eulogising or rubbishing every single play, film, festival or concert they’d ever been to, disagreeing as much as they agreed, and enjoying themselves hugely.

“So what sort of thing do you do yourself then, Hugh?” asked Sebastian finally, picking the charcoal from his teeth.

“When you’re not poisoning your guests,” I added, flicking raw sausage off my plate.

“Oh, quite a lot of telly, you know, that type of thing,” Hugh said airily, waving his arm about vaguely.

“He does sanitary towel ads,” said Molly grimly. “If we’re lucky.”

“Sanitary – but surely…?” Sebastian looked perplexed.

“Wrong gender?” Hugh offered brightly. “No problem. I change sex; after all, I am an actor! No, seriously, dear boy, I am, as my wife so kindly reminded me, in the current ST ads, but I don’t wear them myself. No no, I’m the fresh-faced lad playing volley ball with our padded heroine on the beach. Voila!” He jumped up to demonstrate, punching an imaginary ball, a frozen smile on his lips. He held the pose. “Recognise me?”

“Er, well…” Sebastian smiled.

“I’m the gorgeous young buck she bounds confidently up to in her skimpy white shorts – for thanks to Panty Pads, our lass
can
wear skimpy white shorts – and whose shoulders she playfully straddles – for our lass
can
straddle shoulders with no embarrassing repercussions – and whose hair she playfully ruffles. I’m the git who lollops across the sands with the silly cow’s arse wrapped round my neck, like so.” He turned to show us his hunched back. “Recognise me now?”

“It’s all coming back to me,” grinned Sebastian as Hugh staggered about under a colossal imaginary weight, like the hunchback of Notre-Dame.

“And, um, when you’re not doing important feminine hygiene ads? Dare I ask?”