Being rather
fond of girlfriends, I accept. Then I remember that Sam could be
very useful to me. I hope that Mary will be there.
“When?”
“
Tomorrow?”
“
OK. That
would be nice. Thank you.”
“
It would be
really good to get to know each other.”
Why is she
saying this? I search her face, without gaining an answer. It is
friendly but the expression is blank. What makes me someone that
she would want to get to know?
“
After all,
we are sort of neighbours,” she adds.
For the
present, the fact that she hates Mary Knightly is enough for me.
Perhaps we can be allies and, failing that, I will almost certainly
learn something. I am about to fight a war. I need to recce for
intelligence.
“
See you
tomorrow then. 11:00.”
“
Thank
you.”
We are not
fooling each other. We will not be friends.
* *
*
The girls are
flopped where they are. I like that in girls. It is aggressive in
boys.
Melody and
Julie were on the town last night, trying out a new restaurant
belonging to a friend of theirs. Mich (short for Michelle) stayed
in and watched a horror movie in which everyone ended up down a
well, menaced by a fiend with a contorted face and an enormous
knife he was not afraid to use.
There is only
sporadic conversation.
Everyone is
expecting me to speak, and even keen for me to do so. I don't. I
smile and say nothing. It is the sphinx in me that controls Sam,
but visibly irritates Melody, who is not naturally harmonious, I
would suspect.
“
I have just
seen everyone traipsing into Mary Knightly's house,” says Julie. “I
bet that is a wild party.”
“
She is
organising the festival again,” says Sam.
“
Are you
going?”
“
I would not
miss it for the world. Let Mary have her day of glory. She can be
relied on to spoil it by insisting on taking all the credit.” Her
eyes open and glow maliciously.
“
Is Brian
singing again this year?”
“
I would
think so. If they invite him.”
“
I thought he
got rather annoyed last year.”
“
He did. More
than. He was absolutely livid.”
“
Poor
Brian.”
“
It was his
own fault.”
“
Yes, it was
rather.”
“
He won't do
that again.”
They all
laugh.
Apparently
Brian threw a chocolate gateau at Tom and hit Brenda straight in
the face. Sportingly, Brenda who was startled at first, recovered
her composure and burst out laughing, thus conserving the
reputation of fun-loving barmaids everywhere.
“
No he won't
do that again. The cleaning bill cost him £35.”
I am lost in
the conversation. I haven't a clue who Brian is and it is not
obvious to me why Brian should be throwing a cake at Tom, although
I do empathise. It would be a true moment of achievement to mess up
that edgy smug expression of his. I really do dislike Tom, while
being drawn to him against my will, my taste, my reason. There is
something in that wiry body of his that sucks you in. Something
absolutely physical. I am usually entirely averse to the charms of
men, I don't like him, but my body seems to crave him.
“
Who is
Brian?” I ask.
“
A friend of
Sam's.”
“
More than a
friend of Sam's”, laughs Mich.
“
Just a
friend,” Sam replies.
“
Oh, come
on!”
“
We can do
things together, and still just be friends,” Sam
retorts.
“
Doesn't Tony
ever say anything?”
“
Who is
Tony?”
“
Sam's
long-suffering husband.”
“
Rubbish. I
am Tony's long-suffering wife.” Sam giggles girlishly.
Julie leans
forward towards me. “Sam and Brian have had a thing going for
years. Brian is married to Katie, who is really lovely and is a
good friend of mine. Sam married Tony because he is rich and
handsome, and she can do anything she likes with him. Brian hates
Tony - he thinks he is a complete wimp. Brian hates Tom
…….”
“………
I know
Tom.”
“
Yes, we all
know that.”
“
Why would
you know that?”
“
Everyone
knows what Tom is up to. He always latches onto the new face in the
village, especially if it a pleasing face. It is a territorial
thing.”
“
I am not
having an affair with Tom, thank you.” I put the speculation firmly
in its place.
“
Apparently
not,” Julie continues. “We are all waiting to see what will happen
next. Are you married?”
“
No.”
“
Divorced?”
“
No.”
“
Looking?”
“
No.”
“
Oh come on,
everyone is looking,” Melody declares aggressively.
“
I am not
looking,” I reply flatly. “Only for peace and quiet.”
“
Well, you
will certainly get that.”
“
Will you
take a bet, Julia?” Mich asks me.
“
Why?”
“
For
fun.”
“
What is
it?”
“
Will you
take it?”
“
I know all
about betting. What am I betting on?”
“
I am betting
you.”
“
About
what?”
“
That you
will end up with Tom at least once.”
“
Oh no I
won't.” Sam is watching me nervously. I do nothing to lessen the
threat in my composure.
“
It's a bet
then?” Mich pushes me.
“
I wouldn't
take your money.”
“
But it is I
who will be taking yours.”
“
Why would I
have anything to do with Tom?” I am genuinely puzzled.
“
You are his
type.”
“
A real
ball-breaker,” Melody adds, unnecessarily.
“
No, a
challenge. Tom is a hunter. He loves a challenge.”
“
He doesn't
stand a chance. Why am I discussing this?” I sweep the
room.
“
Well we were
discussing Sam's love life, and it is a way of breaking the
ice.”
“
Sam's love
life is an open book,” observes Julie. “Brian, Tom and Tony if she
has to.”
“
In that case
she will hardly want me to end up with Tom.”
“
Everyone
ends up with Tom, unless they are a les-y.” The question hangs in
the air.
“
Mary
Knightly is a les-y,” smirks Melody. “And even she had a fling with
him.”
“
Now, now,
Mel,” pronounces Sam. “Mary may have many, many faults, but she is
not a les-y. It's a shame. It would make her more interesting, and
give her an excuse for being a revolting little creep.”
They are all
watching me to see how I am reacting. What am I supposed to be
reacting to?
* *
*
I have
explained how Mary and I got together. I invited her and Frank over
for lunch. Frank went fishing. We got drunk.
Mary looks at
me from the floor. She is shame-faced, and embarrassed in the lull,
yet visibly excited. “I don't know what to say,” she says. “What do
we do now? We shouldn't have done this. It was incredible.” Her
eyes beseech me under her lashes. She wants to reassure herself
that she will not be going straight to hell. Hell cannot be like
this.
“
I'm glad you
enjoyed it.”
Mary laughs.
“I did. But now what?”
“
Why is there
a what? We can do it again.”
“
I don't
think we should. I don't normally do this kind of
thing.”
“
You seemed
natural enough to me. I didn't have to rape you, however much I
have wanted to over the last few weeks.”
Mary is
shaken. “You planned this?”
“
Yes, no. I
hoped that it would happen. I thought that it would.”
“
Why? I am
not a lesbian. I have never been a lesbian before.”
“
There is
something very open inside you. There is no need for you to be a
lesbian to do this with me. I am not a lesbian either.”
Mary chuckles
derisively. “Who are you kidding, Julia? You are in denial. You are
definitely a lesbian.”
“
Technically,
I am not.”
“
Technically,
how?”
“
That is a
long story.”
“
I am
listening.”
“
I am not
telling.”
Mary waits.
She stares me out. Nobody can out-stare me. She breaks, and she
kisses me to ease the suspense. We start again. Her body is so
soft, her lower lips are so eager. She even thrusts them onto my
hand.
“
I am getting
so fat,” Mary observes as she dresses to go. “It hasn't mattered to
me for a long time. You make it matter to me now.”
“
It suits
you.”
“
It doesn't
suit my clothes. They were designed for a thinner me.”
“
Don't wear
your clothes then, at least not here.”
“
I will have
to sometimes, and then I look fat.”
She kisses me
good-bye. “I don't know how we make this work, Julia, but I really
want it to work.”
“
So do
I.”
For this
moment our eyes twinkle. We are two bodies as one.
* *
*
Chapter
7
At last, it is
time to enter the Mary Knightly's den. I have plotted to meet Mary
here for so long now. I am a predator and a victim.
In truth, I am
unsure as to exactly what she did to my mother, what harm she
caused her. My mother described her as “pure evil”. I would argue
with her. The definition of evil precludes purity. Purity precludes
evil. Perhaps she might try “totally evil” or “entirely evil” or
“undiluted evil”. My mother would always give me a glare to suggest
that I was picking a fight on sacred ground, that I was desecrating
her fragile being. Eventually she tossed at me angrily “Go look up
'oxymoron' in the dictionary, will you? Then try 'smart-arse
ignoramus'.” I did, and her point struck home to the extent of
strafing my pride with shrapnel.
No-one seems
to like Mary Knightly, yet she carries on doing whatever she does.
She has not run away. She has brazened out her short-comings and
the negativity they provoke. That, at least, is
admirable.
So, I am as
prepared to appreciate her as to hate her. I doubt that I shall
ever like her.
I already
realise the sort of person she is. I have picked up the vibe.
Nervous, spiteful, scared, aggressive, poisonous.
You could say
that I have used my Mary to get to her. She is on the festival
committee, and she has suggested that I join it too, given my
undoubted organisational abilities. Why do people assume that
because you are rich you can organise anything?
What do I do
with Mary Knightly once I am in contact with her? All I have is an
inherited hatred and a sense of enraged injustice emanating from a
vague evil.
After all, my
mother was a flake, cooky, a cross between Goldie Hawn and Joan
Crawford. Dizzy and depressed. Sexy and viperous.
And why Mary
Knightly? Who was she to my mother? Who is she really to anyone?
For these answers, I must wait.
I will have to
imagine what Mary Knightly was doing before I turned up at her
house for that first meeting.
She is laying
out the white china coffee set with gold rings. The sugar cubes are
mini-boulders. She agonises a little over the cream. Is double
cream perhaps old-fashioned? Should it be at least single, or maybe
even skimmed milk? The biscuits are easier - Hobnobs, empirically
tested.
The tray with
its seven cups, saucers and silver tea-spoons is centred carefully
on the Georgian coffee table, with a gold inlay. It is exactly
equidistant from the seven chairs, and precisely in the middle of
the room.
The doorbell
goes. She saunters across the shagpile carpet to answer it.
“Claudia! So nice to see you! You are the first!” They kiss one
cheek each.
“
Such a
morning!” declares Claudia. “Such traffic!”
“
I know,
dear! It is getting impossible!”
“
Beyond
impossible, if you ask me! Will they never get the roads
mended?”
“
Well, come
in and have a cup of coffee. The others will be here in a minute.
George is just doing the washing up.”
“
Good for
George!”
“
Ah, that's
the bell. Hilary!”