Spare Brides (10 page)

‘Mustard,’ he’d replied unapologetically.

‘Mustard. Exactly. So interesting.’ It was one of Ava’s peculiarities that, whilst she could be harsh and brutally condemning if she was not on one’s side, if she took to one, one could do no wrong. She liked her guests to be somewhat quirky; it eased the ever-present threat of tedium that she struggled with. Besides, as Lawrence had bowed out of the weekend visit, Ava desperately needed men to make up the numbers at dinner and so she could not afford to be rude. Lytton was the sort who would have no conscience about going home and leaving them in the lurch if offended. He had been placed next to Beatrice at dinner last night, which Sarah had thought helpful. He spoke with a heavy Scottish accent and, although it made him difficult to understand, especially after he’d had too much wine, the fact that he was largely incomprehensible was forgivable because all the women agreed he sounded manly, almost exotic.

‘I would go so far as to pronounce him sexy,’ commented Ava, now they were alone picking over the bones of the activity of the night before. ‘I think he might be good in bed.’ The other women inwardly gasped but didn’t interrupt. ‘It goes without saying that one would have to wear a blindfold; his face reminds me of a soundly slapped bottom. Still, I don’t mind a blindfold in the bedroom,’ she added slyly. ‘Maybe I could use his
interesting
tie.’

‘Ava!’ Sarah and Bea cried in unison. It was impossible not to be shocked.

‘Ava, you’re a horror,’ murmured Lydia, flashing an indulgent grin that she wasn’t quite able to suppress.

‘What do
you
make of Mr Lytton, Beatrice?’ Ava asked.

‘He’s uncompromising, original,’ Beatrice said with a shy smile. Sarah could see from Bea’s flushed cheeks that her sister was thrilled to be part of this discussion about men. No doubt she felt flattered that Ava was hinting that her guests were viable suitors, as though she was the sort of girl who might catch a chap. It made her daring and giggly.

‘Yes, isn’t he,’ agreed Ava.

‘But I don’t think he found me at all so.’

Ava sighed in a way that must have punctured Bea’s euphoria. If she had been hoping for some token disagreement, none came; there was something about the sigh that suddenly and certainly discounted Bea from having romantic aspirations – however tentative – towards Mr Lytton. Sarah could almost see the cogs of Ava’s mind turn as she recalculated and decided that she’d been ambitious in considering Lytton for Beatrice. Maybe she’d thought that his lack of birth and height, his pale skin with its sprinkling of freckles and small snub nose might all add up to mean that he was accessible. Perhaps she had reasoned that as a bohemian he might not demand aesthetic perfection in a wife, but since Sarah had noticed that his hungry, alert eyes had drilled into Ava and Lydia at dinner last night, but glazed over when Bea enquired what type of books he published, Ava could not have missed the same. Mr Lytton’s aspirations were higher than Beatrice Polwarth. The two of them were not even. He was allowed to be ordinary-looking, even unattractive, strapped for cash and inappropriately dressed because he was a he.

‘Harry Fine is very affable. Attractive too,’ commented Lydia, moving the conversation on.

‘I think Harry Fine is already completely in love with Lady Jennings, don’t you?’ commented Bea excitedly. She was generous enough to celebrate other women’s good fortune.

‘Yes. Completely in love. After all, she is an heiress to an absolute fortune,’ added Ava.

‘I think he’s sincere,’ insisted Sarah.

Ava raised an eyebrow sceptically. ‘He sincerely needs the money, that much is true. Terrible gambling debts, I hear.’

‘In that case, you’re very wise to let him fly, Bea,’ added Lydia, kindly implying that Bea might have stood a chance in influencing the man’s decision.

‘Anyway, I think Harry is a little dull, to be frank,’ added Sarah.

‘But Mr Oaksley is interesting.’ Once again Bea smiled shyly. ‘Would you say handsome?’

‘Yes,’ said Sarah and Lydia.

‘Well, he was lucky. There’s hardly any scarring on his face, although I can’t vouch for the body,’ added Ava. Sarah was relieved that she couldn’t. Really, no man was safe from the woman. ‘Thinking about it, Arnie Oaksley is your best bet,’ finished Ava enthusiastically. ‘Terrible thing, losing one’s sight. Awful, but certainly he’s the best bet for Bea.’

‘Because he’s blind?’ Sarah could not keep the indignation out of her voice.

‘Because he plays the piano and likes to go for country walks. They are
simpatico
,’
replied Ava, the very picture of innocence. ‘I do think it is rum of the chaps to expect him to play a billiards game. I hope there isn’t a wager. It can’t be a fair match.’ She beamed mischievously.

Sarah shuffled uncomfortably; she’d exposed her insecurities and Bea’s deficiencies by thinking the worst of Ava, and she was now not sure if thinking the worst was justified or not. Ava had a subtle way of making one feel conspicuous and wrong.

‘I can’t imagine he’s noticed me,’ Bea said coyly.

Again, if she’d hoped that the other women would protest and insist that he couldn’t have failed to have fallen for her, lock, stock and barrel, then she was disappointed. Instead she was greeted with the honesty of old friends and family.

‘Well, it’s your responsibility to get noticed in that particular way. You need to show him that romance is a possibility. That you are open to it,’ declared Lydia.

Bea blushed, but was determined. ‘Any clue as to how I should do that exactly? Should I run into the billiards room and throw myself on the table yelling, “Take me, take me”?’

The other women laughed, but not cruelly. ‘Well at least go and ask if he wants to take a stroll before tea,’ suggested Sarah.

‘You could walk round the gardens,’ added Lydia.

‘Bit bloody miserable at this time of the year,’ pointed out Ava, who never had to inconvenience herself by going out into the cold in order to seduce a man.

‘But the season means you’ll need to cling to one another for body heat,’ encouraged Lydia.

After a little more cajoling, Beatrice agreed to go and find Mr Oaksley. Sarah accompanied her to the games room, because no one could expect her to make that sort of entrance solo.

L
EFT ALONE, AVA
and Lydia fell silent. They were tight friends, and generally had more than enough to say to one another, but Lydia had been distracted since she’d arrived and was not as chatty as usual. Most of the guests assumed she was feeling the lack of her husband; Ava wasn’t so sure. After some moments listening to the fire crack and pop, Ava stood, yawned, stretched like a cat and ambled to the gramophone.

‘I have Marion Harris’s latest tune. Would you like to hear it?’

‘Is it as sad as all her others?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then no, thank you.’

‘You’re not a fan of the blues, are you?’ asked Ava, as she pulled long and hard on her cigarette, held in an ostentatious opera-length silver holder. Ava had caught on to the musical movement when she visited the States last year, and was following its increased popularity with avid interest.

‘It’s not for people like us, is it?’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘I don’t understand that relentless misery.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No. How could I? How could you?’

Ava shrugged and asked, ‘Some jazz, then?’

Lydia wasn’t sure if she understood jazz music any more than she understood blues. She found the big swinging bands unpredictable, almost risky, but the tunes did at least perk her up rather than drag her down. ‘If you like.’

‘I do rather. Music is a stimulating jab into exhausted, careworn souls. I find that jazz stirs our uncertain and stumbling morale.’ Ava wound up the gramophone and carefully placed the weighty disc on the turntable. She eased the needle into position as though she was lowering a sleeping baby into a crib. She was fascinating to watch, as she did everything with such deliberate precision and elegance. The perky trombones and sensuous saxophones blared into the room; she danced alone on the Persian rug for a minute or two. Whereas others might self-consciously shuffle, Ava gave herself entirely to the moves. She never cared if she was alone, observed by adoring crowds of hundreds or scrutinised by just one person; she was always herself, it was the secret to her success. She lifted her legs and wiggled her hips to the rapid, assertive rhythms.

‘What do you make of Beatrice’s new crop?’

‘Unfortunate.’

‘Yes, I imagine the effect she hoped to achieve was glorious; the effect she did achieve is monstrous. Still, there’s something endearing about her misguided attempts to be glamorous. If I were her, I’d settle into being plain. I’d embrace it. Become an archaeologist; go on a dig in Egypt.’

‘Oh, Ava, you couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be Bea. For one thing, how would she fund a dig in Egypt? She can’t afford that.’

‘Really?’ Ava looked surprised, as though it was the first time she’d considered Bea’s financial situation.

‘Really.’

Lydia thought she might jump up and learn the new step when Ava commented, ‘Sarah told me you met a dashing officer in a café last week.’ She managed to disparage the place of introduction, just as Lawrence had, by a slight inflection in her voice and the fact that she made her eyes widen a fraction, suggesting disbelief.

Lydia stood and walked to the fire; rather than join in the dancing, she feigned warming her hands in order to buy a few moments to gather her thoughts. She’d been expecting and dreading that Ava might want to talk about her meeting the beautiful officer. She’d known that Sarah would have mentioned the incident; they were all starved of news, and besides, he was notable. She had thought of him often since they met. Frequently. Constantly. It was oddly important to her that the first time she spoke of him to Ava she got it right.

Eventually she said, ‘I’m not sure dashing is the right adjective to describe him.’

‘Really?’

‘Dashing is so clichéd. So used. It suggests a frantic energy and fashionable charm that wasn’t true of him. There was nothing practised or urbane about him.’

Ava stood still, although the band played on. She studied her friend carefully. Lydia still had her back to the room; now she was showing undue interest in the ornamental Chinese mudman that Charlie Harrington had given Ava at Christmas. The elder sage was holding a peach, the symbol of immortality; Charlie had bought it thinking the Chinese salesman had said the fruit was a symbol of immorality, therefore the perfect gift for Ava. An amusing enough joke, Ava thought, though she decided not to share it right now, but to continue pursuing the more interesting topic of the mystery officer. She perched on the edge of a chair, looked past her friend and into the mirror that hung above the mantel and asked, ‘Then how would you describe him?’

‘He was …’ Lydia scrabbled around her mind, desperate to find a word other than ‘perfect’ that might describe the man. She wanted to explain that he had struck her as the embodiment of all that was magnificent and masculine, forceful and beautiful. How could she explain that she’d instantly, perplexingly, been frightened and delighted by him? She’d thought of him since. At night. When she bathed. When she dressed.

Or undressed.

The fact that she found him unforgettable horrified her. In the end, she said what was most true and least exposing. ‘He was different.’

‘How different? Good different or bad different?’

‘Oh, most definitely good different.’

‘I see. What’s his name?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Pity. You could have invited him here to dinner.’

‘How many are we tonight?’ Lydia took this opportunity to turn back to face her friend and to redirect the conversation. She couldn’t do the former without the shield of the latter.

‘We’re thirty-nine, but, as ever, the balance is wrong. Far too many women.’

‘I’m so sorry that Lawrence has stood you up.’

‘Why didn’t he come?’

‘Officially, he has a paper to finish for the PM for Monday. Truthfully, we’re cross with one another. I mean, he does have a paper, but he could have done it here. You know. He has done so on many an occasion.’

‘I see. Do you want to talk about it?’

Lydia shook her head mournfully. Ava was relieved; she believed they’d said all there was to say about the baby business. ‘Well, we shall manage. There are twenty-two women and seventeen men. It could be worse. But really, Lydia, when will you learn? If you meet a suave sort, you must get a card. Was he interesting?’

‘We hardly spoke, but yes, I think so.’

‘Interesting and pretty: what a shame you let him slip. I could do with someone new to look at. Besides, he might do for Beatrice.’

Lydia watched Ava’s hard, flat body shake a little with merriment. She couldn’t stand it, but her indignation was not on Bea’s behalf. She couldn’t tolerate the idea of Ava laughing about the officer, or setting him up with anyone. As disloyal and diabolical as the thought was, she felt he was degraded by being linked with Bea. She could not endure it.

‘No, not Beatrice,’ she spat. She turned again to watch the flames in the fire soaring and diving; she must not expose her indignation.

‘No?’

‘No. He’s not her type.’

‘Darling, that can’t be possible. You know Beatrice considers grandpapas and the wounded. If you find this chap handsome and amusing, then
surely
Beatrice will.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then who were you thinking of? He has to go to someone. He’s a spare man. It’s your duty to introduce him to some gal.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Lydia stuttered.

Ava had the answer she wanted. She instinctually understood everything about such things. Lydia did not want to share him. She did not want to give him up. ‘So how are we going to find him? This mystery man of yours? If he’s so divine, surely someone ought to know him. I
ought to have slept with him.’

Lydia tried not to look hurt. ‘You’re awful.’

‘I must find him, mustn’t I?’ Ava stood up and nonchalantly walked towards her friend. They gazed at one another’s reflection in the mirror. Eye to eye, they both understood the moment; it was the one where Lydia could let it go. Or she could push on. She chose to push.