Small Plates (10 page)

She drew the drapes, closed the door, and went into the living room to wait for Hope. The cell phone was gone. No way to trace who had texted Polly.

Only one thing was sure. It hadn't been Faith.

P
olly woke up shortly after Hope arrived bearing several loaded shopping bags from E.A.T. She'd ordered what she'd considered Polly's comfort food plus one of her own: scones, cucumber and other assorted sandwiches, salads, and a large container of Eli's chicken soup. Soon the three women were once again sharing a late lunch. Polly had declared herself ravenous and was having the soup plus an “egg mayonnaise” sandwich. She had switched from mint to Earl Grey tea. Faith and Hope were drinking martinis from the Ackroyds' well-stocked liquor cabinet and eating smoked salmon on thin slices of E.A.T.'s Health bread—a crunchy whole wheat loaf.

Surprisingly Polly didn't seem upset at the news that the text hadn't been from Faith.

“I've been expecting something of the sort. If it wasn't Fiona, it was Tess. Rather Tess-like now that I think of it. She does like to organize, and her firm has a branch here, so easy to get someone to do it, although clever girl, she would get the time difference right as I wouldn't and probably did it herself. She has been very much against what she calls my ‘jumping the queue.' I think that bothers her even more than it's being Ian. She's the eldest, got married first, now it's Fiona's turn, then it will be mine.”

“But you were married before, and anyway, it's not like taking numbers in a shop,” Faith said, stopping before adding, “in the High Street” or some other Anglicism.

“They don't count that one apparently. Nor do I really. Anyway, it's still not my turn.”

Hope was holding up her glass. She'd opened the drapes and the last light was making its way into the room, catching the rim. Baccarat, she thought, putting it down to face Polly.

“You could have been
killed
,” she said. “Whether it was Tess or Fiona, the intent was, well, evil.”

Polly laughed. “Too Agatha Christie, darling. Whichever one it was—Tess or Fiona—simply meant to send me on a wild goose chase and an extremely unpleasant one at that—really your Underground! The push was a coincidence, and I don't know why hundreds of you aren't perishing all the time.”

While glad that Polly wasn't scarred by the experience, save for her now indelible view of New York's subterranean world, Faith was inclined toward Hope's interpretation. Revenge might be a dish best served cold, but this particular menu item had most certainly stayed piping hot despite being served up across the pond.

F
aith had to get back home to Massachusetts and considered taking Polly with her, but Hope thought it best to get their friend to a location where neither stepsister could find her. They knew, or could easily discover, Faith's address. With Hope back to her usual routine of working round the clock and Faith leaving, Polly was amenable to being packed off, “rather like a parcel,” especially as it was to Nassau, where a friend of Hope and Quentin's had a house currently unoccupied except for staff. Polly was welcome to stay as long as she wished, and when she told Ian about the move, he told her he'd be able to join her for part of the time.

The second accident occurred the day after he arrived a week later. Like the first, Polly dismissed it as a coincidence, but she did call Hope to report it, and once more the Sibley sisters found themselves on the phone worrying about their friend.

“That house is kept in perfect shape,” Hope said. “Lionel and Vicky are extremely meticulous. There's no way one of the boards in the stairs to the beach would have been rotten. And besides, Polly has been using them for more than a week without noticing anything wrong.”

“Good thing she was able to grab hold of a sea grape tree to break her fall. You've been there. Is it steep?”

“Very, and before you get to the white sandy beach there's a rather jagged rocky outcropping. Faith, this was no accident. A sprained wrist may hurt for a bit, but the wicked stepsisters have struck again. I'm sure they intended our bride to suffer far worse! It was stupid to send her to a member of the Commonwealth, where, of course, they'd have plenty of contacts, dubious ones included!”

“Ian is there now. They aren't likely to try anything with him around. But what's going to happen at Christmas? She wants to go home. I wish she would take all this more seriously.” Faith sighed. “We could talk to Ian, but never having even laid eyes on him except in a photo makes it awkward. Polly said she did tell him about the subway, so hopefully he's keeping a close watch. He couldn't be as clueless as she is.”

“Trusting, not clueless. Our Polly isn't stupid. Just much too nice.” Hope sighed as well, more heavily. “We have to hope that having their parents around will keep Fiona and Tess in check. Maybe Fiona will meet someone over the holidays and then everything will be all right. If all else fails, don't they have Match.com there too? We could sign her up.”

“It would have to be a very exclusive sort of site, but I do wish we could get Fiona back in the saddle again, so to speak.”

Both sisters began to laugh so hard they could barely say good-bye.

A
happy Christmas was had by all and January passed without incident. Polly was back in her London flat, flooding the Sibley sisters' in-boxes with e-mails about wedding plans.
Tact,
it appeared, was the watchword of the day—no over-the-top nuptial display—yet there was to be no scrimping. The designer Suzanne Neville was altering the “Lucia” model, described by Polly as “Brilliant!—ivory corded lace, fitted bodice, lace cap sleeves, column skirt, and low-cut back with a million tiny buttons all the way down over my bum. We're altering the design, shortening the train to a ‘Sweep,' one barely touching the floor.”

It amused Faith that in Britain there were so many different kinds of trains that a whole vocabulary existed to describe them. The big question was veil or no veil. Polly was leaning toward a Juliet cap with perhaps a single posy. “Granny” was lending jewelry—a diamond necklace and earrings—currently nestled in velvet cases at the bank.

Suzanne Neville's workshop had done toiles, cotton replicas of Hope's and Faith's dresses, for them to try on. They were to go to their own dressmakers and have them write down any alterations. No problem for Hope in New York, but Faith did not have anyone who whipped up gowns for her. Pix Miller, her next-door neighbor, was handy with a needle, and between the two of them they made notes of what needed to be done, fortunately not much. The final sleeveless dresses would be sapphire silk-faced satin with a simple draped bodice. They'd have column skirts similar to the bride's, but stopping midcalf. “And Manolo stilettos in sapphire—I already ordered them for you, not another word,” Polly told Faith.

“Perhaps Polly is right and the text was a prank, the rest coincidence,” Hope said to Faith in one of their increasingly frequent phone consultations. Hope had cleared enough time for the wedding and arranged a discreet hen party at the five-star spa at the Dorchester Hotel. Faith had begun to make her own arrangements, relying on her husband, but even more on the seemingly endless kindness not of strangers but of Pix again and the built-in babysitters her teens had become. Both sisters had booked flights and would stay with the bride at her parents' Highgate house.

V
alentine's Day put paid to any notion that the rejected fiancée had decided to forgive and forget.

“Too, too sick-making,” Polly said when she called Faith to tell her about the gorgeous box from Prestat, the chocolatier, she'd found at her flat that proved to contain an animal heart—“a sheep, I believe”—crawling with maggots. “It's Fiona. She knows I adore Prestat's truffles and not just because of
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
. I'd planned on boxes of them as wedding favors, but now I'm not sure I can look at them without seeing that bloody mess.”

Faith assumed she was using both meanings of the adjective, and her own heart sank. The assault was still being waged. Things were only bound to escalate the closer they got to the wedding day.

“Can't your parents talk to Fiona—and Tess?”

“I told Mummy about the horrid valentine, but she just said, ‘Poor old Fiona. Not the thing to do, of course, but do admit, she has cause.' ”

Faith could hear Mrs. Ackroyd saying this, especially as Polly had altered her tone of voice in an exact mimicry of her mother.

“How about Ian?”

“Oh, I don't think that would fly at all.” Polly sounded shocked. “He can't very well ring up the woman he jilted and scold her for being mean to his new love!”

“No, I meant that perhaps he could talk to your father or to Tess's husband. Man to man.” Faith held the notion that Britain still operated as an Old Boys Club. Ian was bound to have gone to the same public, meaning private, school or was some connection of one of the two men, probably both.

“Mmm.” Polly paused. “I suppose I
could
suggest it. His father and Daddy were in the same college at Oxford.”

There it was. Old school tie. Faith was sure it would stanch the flow of whatever bloody-minded effort the stepsisters were planning next.

It didn't.

Y
et once more Polly viewed what happened as an annoying and yes, malicious, prank—but nothing further—and concentrated on her wedding plans.

Having decided to get the business of stating their intentions at the Register Office out of the way, the couple went to file, as required, with the fee and proper documents, including proof of Polly's divorce from David. The notice of intent was duly posted on the office's public notice board for the scheduled fifteen days. Polly had almost forgotten about it when Ian called to say that their particular form had been defaced.

“They wouldn't tell me how specifically, just asked that we come down and do a new one for the remaining week. Who would do such a thing? You don't think it's Fiona, do you?”

Polly did think it was Fiona, but no need to fuss. They'd fill out a new form and it would be nice to see Ian in the middle of the day. “It's a busy place and no doubt someone was cheesed off about a parking citation and decided to take it out on the notices,” she'd said.

There could be no mistake about who was responsible for the cock-up in the reading of the banns, however. Since they were getting married in St. Michael's, the Ackroyds' parish church, on June twenty-third, the banns had to be read on three Sundays in the three months prior. The first go was perfect. Ian's family, as well as his best man and his wife were all there, along with Polly's parents and several of her close friends. Her stepsisters were notably absent, but that was generally felt to be a good thing and tactful of them. Afterward, Godfrey Ackroyd hosted a luncheon at The Vine, a gastropub on Highgate Road. The sun had broken through the clouds, and it was nice enough for the party to sit outside. The weather had been the first thing Polly had mentioned to Faith, as was usual among the English when it wasn't raining—and when it was, as well.

Diabolical ingenuity was employed at the second reading of the banns. The vicar had finished up with “. . . If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it,” and was moving right along when a well-dressed young woman rose from one of the rear pews and declared in a firm voice, “I do. Mr. Howard is already married.”

Straight from the pages of
Jane Eyre
.

The vicar's expression indicated that this had never happened to him before, but he handled the moment with aplomb. “We will discuss the matter in my study following the rest of the service.”

Fiona had planned well. Only Polly was in church. Ian was, in fact, out of the country, in Switzerland on business. Her parents were in Spain on holiday, her mother having declared herself exhausted by all the wedding arrangements, which so far had not entailed much on her part save her dress fittings. She had informed Polly early on that the entire “do” was her show. “I did the first one, pet. Surely it's your turn.” She had graciously offered to send out the invitations eight weeks prior to the big day, but in an uncharacteristic fit of caution, Polly said she would do it, posting them from Highgate so no one would twig to the fact that the parents of the bride had not actually posted them themselves.

Later, on the phone with both her friends at once, Polly told them she knew the woman was an actress the moment she spoke. “Too, too rehearsed.”

Rehearsed or not, the woman was carrying a sheaf of very official-looking documents that attested to the civil, and very legal, marriage of one Ian George Howard to her sister, one Penelope Hardwick, in Ottawa, Canada, five months ago.

“Trust Fiona not to get herself dumped twice, since this was after we'd announced,” Polly said. “Except obviously it was all bosh. I called Ian right away, and just as he was faxing his passport pages to the church office to prove he hadn't been to Canada at that time, the woman excused herself to ‘wash her hands' and promptly disappeared. She must have slipped out through the cemetery.”

Highgate Cemetery behind St. Michael's was one of Faith's favorite places in London. Walking through its thirty-seven beautifully verdant acres was always a nostalgic visit to the final resting places of so many of her much beloved writers, actors, and artists—Stella Gibbons, George Eliot, the Rossettis, Sir Ralph Richardson, Lucian Freud, and so many others. And then there was the imposing tomb of Karl Marx, which made her think, in turn, of
Morgan!,
one of her favorite classic movies containing a scene shot in the cemetery. She also thought of another scene from the film, the one where Morgan disrupts his very beloved ex-wife's wedding. Faith would keep an eye out for anyone dressed in a gorilla costume during Polly's nuptials.