The Cornish Affair (22 page)

Richard
- good God, he was still in the office, chatting away to the mail order girlfriend or whatever it was. No wonder my phone bill had so many noughts on the end of it.

I
pushed the door open and saw that he was crouched over the computer, typing frantically.

“Hi,
Richard, how’s it going?” I asked, edging forward to get a sneaky look at the screen.

He
gave a jump, and then turned towards me, his face creased with worry. I saw that he must have been running his hands through his flame coloured hair, as it was sticking up in jagged spikes.

“Oh
Fin… I don’t really know what to do,” he said miserably.

I
settled down in the comfortable chair that I kept in the office. It had been my fathers, and he had always used to write up his accounts. It was a deeply buttoned brown leather affair, very shabby now, but still monumentally comfortable.

“What
is it then?” I asked.

His
hands as if by their own volition sought the comfort of his hair.

“Well,
see, I’ve been talkin’ to this girl, seems really nice,” he added quickly, “From Russia, anyway, the thing is, she wants to come over. Well, no she
is
coming over.”

“Really?
How exciting,” I said, encouragingly.

“Hmm,
well, she’m only gone an’ got herself a flight. She’ll be here on Saturday!” Richard’s voice rose at the prospect of dealing with her in person.

I
could see that Saturday was a bit quick.

He
squirmed on his chair.

“So
what’s the problem then?” I asked.

“It
only started as a bit of fun, an’ well, now, it’s all gotta bit out of hand,” he said.

I
nodded, not wanting to interrupt him. I was quite curious, I’d read about e-mail relationships, but had never actually met anyone who’d got one.

“See,
I never get the-”

“Girls?”
I added helpfully.

He
nodded.

“See,
I reckons, that being a minger doesn’t help, an’ well, see Will, he’s very quite, never says a word, but they love him! And as for Jace-”

The
less said about Jace the better, I decided.

“Yes,
well, we all know about Jace, don’t we?” I said, shifting slightly in my seat.

“Anyway,
really nice she is. Olga. Had a right terrible life, I think, an’ she sent her photo an’ everything…” he tailed off, looking embarrassed.

“And?”
I prompted.

“Well,
the thing is, I didn’t have a photo of me to send her. So, I used someone else.”

“Who?”
I said, really curious now. I didn’t realise that men thought like this. I thought it was only teenage girls who would send photos of models from magazines as themselves. Most men I knew thought they were so fantastically sexy it wouldn’t occur to them to bother.

He
gazed at me miserably.

I
tried to guess. Some pop star, although of course it would have to be a lesser known one that wasn’t likely to number one in Moscow. An athlete? Oh god, he hadn’t sent a photo of Jace, had he? No, surely not.

“Oliver.
Oliver Dean, you know I sent that nice one he’s got on the front of his cookery book-”

“Oliver
bloody Dean? Are you bonkers?” I cried.

I
was shocked. Oliver Dean being considered pin up material was news to me.

“What
am I going to do?” Richard said, looking hopefully at me as if I could somehow wave a magic wand and get him out of this mess.

I
considered his options.

“Is
she definitely coming over, you couldn’t stop her?” I asked.

He
shook his head.

I
could also tell that really he didn’t want to stop her, despite all the complications.

“In
that case, you’ll just have to come clean, won’t you.” I said in a fairly heartless tone. “Tell her the truth. Tell her that you are a good looking, young man with the most gorgeous flame coloured, Titian hair.”

I
had the pleasure of seeing Richard begin to blush.

I
laughed, and left him to it.

Chapter
Twenty Two

Nancy wanted to go to The Ram that evening and see what sort of mess Port Charles was in. Richard offered to accompany her, and they set off with Baxter, armed to the teeth with umbrellas and waterproofs.

I
stayed at home to brood.

I
find brooding only really works when you are by yourself. Other people are a distraction, and they tend to think you’ve got indigestion, when really you are trying for a Byronic melancholy. I brooded once over the death of a much loved dog when I was younger, and my mother was convinced, to my great mortification that I was constipated.

I
had quite a lot to brood on.

Oliver
Dean, Penmorah, the floods, the party, life in general.

I
opened a bottle of wine, and curled up on a sofa in the drawing room. My mother’s portrait gazed down at me.

“What
would you do Mama? About Oliver… and everything,” I said, raising a glass to her.

The
portrait, being just a bit of colour daubed on canvas, just continued to gaze. I did catch a glimpse of irritation in those cat like eyes though.

Dorothea
would consider that I was making a mountain out of a mole hill, and would urge me to follow my instincts.

Well,
my instincts told me to finish my glass of wine, and then call Oliver. I had been rude, after all, to put the phone down on him. To get up a bit of courage first, I called Martha. She wasn’t in, so I left a message asking her to bring down suitable CD’s for the party.

I
drained another glass of wine and then dialled Oliver’s number. I listened to the connecting bleeps, and then put the phone down before it rang.

I
could almost hear my mother tut with annoyance.

“It’s
alright for you, stuck wherever you are… you’ve got papa dancing attendance on you, no money worries, and no horrible mud to clear up. I’m here all alone,” I said defiantly.

I
knew I was in trouble then, when I started to talk aloud to a picture. Perhaps I should walk down to The Ram myself?

I
poured another glass of wine, and concentrated my will on the phone. After all, he could phone me, couldn’t he? And if he didn’t perhaps I should go into a Russian chat room and have a flirt with a disillusioned comrade?

I
picked the phone up and dialled Pritti’s number. She too, was out. I left a message saying that I would come to pick Nelson up tomorrow.

Then
I brooded some more on Mr Harris.

Losing
Penmorah was unthinkable. But how much was it going to cost to keep it going? I dreaded to think.

I
forced myself to grapple with the idea. It was no good, I couldn’t even begin to imagine a life not here. Where would I go? I had visions of trying to find a cottage somewhere, although with the prices of cottages now, I knew it would be impossible. Oh God, perhaps Nancy and I would have to throw ourselves on the mercy of her daughter, my cousin, Bea, and go and live in Canada?

Log
cabins and bears.

Or
skyscrapers and take away coffee.

Harry
would have us, I thought, then immediately discarded the idea. Nancy, yes, me by myself, possibly. But the two of us with dog, parrot and attendant mess and baggage, no.

Martha?
No.

Oh
bloody hell.

Truro
council would have to re-home us, I told myself firmly. Then laughed aloud at the very idea of it. We would hardly be a priority would we?

It
was time for another glass of wine. I went to put some music on, and soon the mathematical chilly sound of Mozart flooded the room. It was as exquisite as a blackbird singing in the rain. I have noticed that not very musical people like Mozart. Him and James Brown are amongst my favourites – draw your own conclusions.

Right,
this time I was going to call Oliver.

I
picked up the phone, and sipped my wine carefully. Some sort of elf had been stealing wine, for the bottle was nearly empty.

“Bloody,
bloody
elves,” I giggled.

I
did then realise that drinking most of a bottle of wine on an empty stomach was not the best way to start a phone conversation with Oliver. I mean, I
realised
it, but did it stop me making the call? What do you think?

“Hello,
this is Oliver Dean. Please leave a message after the bleep and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Damn.

“Hello… the elves have stolen my wine!… ha ha, only joking. It’s me by the way. Fin. Finisterre Spencer. Well, Finisterre Leopoldina Grace Spencer, if you’d like the full monty. Anyway, I’m just calling to say that I do so hope you can come to the dolphin party, I really,
really
do and to tell you that I do like you Oliver, but you
really
mustn’t tell me who I can see or not, and the veg boy does have a name as you well know…”

I
had to gulp for breath now as I was speaking so quickly. I was aware that there was a slight slur on some of the words, but I couldn’t stop.

“… and he’s rather gorgeous, isn’t he? And, of course I can see who I want,
when
I want,
how
I want. Oh yes, and I am sorry that I put the phone down on you, I could have slammed the phone down, but I didn’t, did I? Anyway, I think the elves-”

Bleep.

I think I’d finished up his tape for him, which was just as well. I refused to be embarrassed about the message I’d just left, let’s face it, I said aloud to myself, there’d be time for that in the morning.

I
tipped the bottle upside down over my glass and drained it. There. That’s better.

The
phone rang, which made me spill the dregs of my wine over my arm.

I
snatched it up, and said, “Typical bloody men, now look what you’ve made me do!”

There
was a bit of static on the line, and then a voice said my name.

“Fin?
Finisterre?”

Oh
buggery bollocks. I knew
that
voice. It was my cousin Bea, but I rallied.

“Hello
Bea! How’s the logs and bears and skyscrapers?” I said gaily.

“Fin…
are you OK?”

I
have no idea why she sounded concerned, I was fine.

“We
heard about the storms, how’s Penmorah holding up? Is my mother there?”

“No,
but mine is. In every room, in every glass, cup, picture, book, curtain, cranny and nook Dorothea is here… I’d put her on, but she’s a bit on the silent side, don’t you know?”

I
cursed myself for talking like this to Bea, she wouldn’t get that I was just mildly pissed and feeling sorry for myself.

“Fin,
are you on drugs or something?” Bea’s voice floated at me from across the Atlantic.

“No!
I leave that to Nancy,” I said hysterically, thinking of the grass that had been growing in the greenhouse.

“What?”

I pulled myself together.

“No,
I’m sorry Bea, you caught me at a bad time. Everything’s fine, I’m just a bit tiddly, nothing to worry about.” I said, trying to stop myself laughing at her scandalised voice.

“You’re
drinking alone?”

Now
at this point, I’d like to say that I do not condone alcohol abuse, but have you ever noticed that Americans and Canadians are taking it all a bit too seriously? I mean, they behave like we’re all depraved monsters because we like a tipple. Well, we probably are… but there’s no need to carry on about it for heaven’s sake.

I
re-assured her that I wasn’t taking crack, or swigging bath tub gin.

“Oh.
Well, if you’re sure…” she said doubtfully.

Duh!

“Anyway, I thought I’d call. Glad to hear you’re all OK. I’ll be over very soon. Take care of yourself Fin, and give my love to mummy.” She said goodbye and we hung up.

Bea
always said that she’d be over very soon, but she never was. It was a figure of speech for her, like ‘have a nice day’ and ‘the cheque’s in the post.”

The
one thing I could never get used to though was her calling Nancy mummy. I hiccupped.

Mummy…
sounded odd.

I
quickly got to my feet and went into the kitchen. I needed some food inside me, fast. I looked around the cupboards and in the fridge. What was available that didn’t need cooking?

It
hit me that this was why people bought packaged food. Packaged food that I had created! How ironic!

People
needed that sort of food because… they had drunk a bottle of wine to themselves in double quick time and had eaten anything since breakfast time.

Why
haven’t I got a stuffed roasted pepper all done up in a neat cellophane packet when I needed it? Or some cauliflower cheese? Or a lasagne? Christ almighty, I made the sodding stuff and I hadn’t got any!

I
rootled around in the fridge hopelessly. In the end I settled for gnawing on a hunk of cheese, and cutting some (stale) bread. What a joke.

I
bet bloody Oliver bloody Dean would be wolfing down something yummy right now.

I
decided to call his mobile. That would spoil any nice little romantic dinner for two that he might be on… maybe he and whatever her name was, oh yes, Boo will be just sitting down in some monochrome trendy new restaurant hidden away in the back streets of Hoxton, where Korean food fuses with Cajun organic… Ha, well, I’ll soon stop
that
!

I
dipped the last bit of cheese into a jar of chutney and squished it between the last of the bread. Then I poured myself a brandy.

I
carefully pushed in Oliver’s mobile number, immediately his voice mail came on. Where was he? How come he wasn’t answering at home or on his mobile? I drained my glass of brandy.

“Sorry
to interrupt your puppy dog gumbo for two, but I just though you’d like to know that I’m eating stale bread and cheese, so don’t you worry about me, I’m fine!”

I
slammed the phone down.

Then
I picked it up again and pressed re-dial.

“Now
that was a slam! Could you hear the difference?”

I
swept back into the drawing room and put James Brown on. Loudly. The choppy, irresistible sound of his voice galvanised me into dancing, and I hummed along under my breath to ‘Get on up’. This was the sort of music we needed at the party. The music faded and I flopped down on my chair, panting. Damn, I was out of condition. I bet Oliver was now clubbing at some newly opened place in Soho with Boo. I wondered what he was like dancing. I mean, they do say that you can tell how someone is in bed by the way they dance. I thanked God that no-one saw me dance a moment ago, they would put me down as willing, but definitely unfit.

Maybe
I should go to bed?

“Or
maybe I should have another drink?” I said aloud.

I
was too tired to move. I leant back on the sofa and closed my eyes for a moment.

What
seemed like minutes later, but was in fact hours, I felt someone wrap a blanket over me, and slip my shoes off. I grunted my thanks and turned over.

Thirst
woke me after that.

Falling
asleep on the sofa, fully dressed is bad enough, but waking in the early hours with dry lips and a raging thirst is far, far worse. The tap had never seemed so far away. The pantomime that we all conduct with ourselves about trying to fall asleep again without drinking is farcical. We
know
we’re going to have to get up. But we delay it as long as we can, unless, of course, we’re one of those organised drunks who owlishly place a bottle of water on our bed stands before we hit the mattress and the room spins around. I wasn’t.

I
was hot and grumpy and dehydrated. The longing for icy cold water trickling down my throat was too strong to ignore any more. I walked in darkness to the kitchen, knowing every bump and creak of the floor. I sleepily felt for a mug and filled it with water again and again. I glanced out of the window and saw that it was getting light.

A
pearly pink dawn was on the horizon.

Thank
God for a clear sky, not a rain cloud in sight.

I
heard Baxter’s nails tap over the floor and he came to greet me, puzzled that I was up at this hour.