The service was charmingly predictable. Juliet’s voice was very firm as she made her vows, Charles’s less so, and Eliza’s heart lurched as he stumbled over ‘till death do us part’ and had to say it twice. Juliet, on the other hand, did not seem nervous in the least and the smile she gave Charles when the vicar pronounced them man and wife could have been better described as smug than radiant.
The bridal party had now disappeared into the vestry for the signing of the register. Eliza was sitting on the end of a pink and mauve line on the bride’s side of the church. God, the church was hot; she could actually feel sweat trickling down between her breasts, her feet were throbbing, and the back of her neck under the bloody ringlets felt extremely damp. She was sure she must by now be quite hideously red-faced.
She picked up the order of service and began to fan herself with it. That wasn’t entirely to her taste either, to put it mildly. Carol and Juliet had designed it between them, and it was pale pink, with a drawing of two wedding rings intertwined on the front linking up with the words ‘Charles and Juliet’. Her mother had practically had hysterics when she saw it, and said it just wouldn’t do, but Charles, unusually firm, said he liked it, and that it was his and Juliet’s wedding, not Sarah’s. It made quite a good fan though.
She would give anything for a bit of fresh air, she thought, anything, and then suddenly and shockingly felt like crying. It had really happened, her beloved brother had left her, left all of them really, for a girl who was in no way his equal – not intellectually, not emotionally, who lacked his sense of humour, his style, his charm, his ability to befriend just about anybody; and she felt lost and terribly alone.
And then two things happened: the music changed, and the choir led by the most amazing soprano began to sing the
Laudate Dominum
, and the sheer searing beauty of it shocked her out of her sadness and quite literally took her breath away. And she turned round and, without quite knowing how she could have found him in that crowded church, she was staring at Matt, and he in his turn was staring at her, as clearly moved, shocked even, by the moment and music as she was, and then very slowly he smiled at her, and it was not the cocky, awkward Matt, or even the sexy, self-assured one, it was someone different, one she had not known before, or even suspected he could be, someone warm and oddly gentle; and in that moment, suspended for ever against the music and with the sunshine shafting in the windows of the small flower-filled church, and without her really understanding how or why, the world seemed to shift just a little.
‘What a lovely, lovely house,’ said Gina.
‘What?’
‘Matt! I said, what a lovely house. Isn’t it?’
‘Oh – yes. Yes, not bad.’
A tall, slightly languid man had appeared, grinning rather foolishly at Gina. She smiled back. ‘Yes indeed.’
‘Good service, wasn’t it?’
‘Lovely. Specially the music.’
‘Jolly pretty girl, isn’t she? Old Charles has kept her to himself, I must say. Known her for a long time?’
‘No, no, I’ve never met her.’
‘Oh, I see. I thought – well, I thought you must be a friend of hers. Haven’t met either of you. Tim Dalton-Smith, at your service.’
‘How do you do, Tim. I’m Gina, Gina Barker, and this is Matt Shaw. He and Charles were in the army together.’
‘Oh really! What, out in Gib? Jolly good fun that must have been. I only managed Cyprus.’
‘I wasn’t in Cyprus or Gib,’ said Matt, ‘I was just with Charles in basic training. I was in the Royal Engineers out in Germany. Just an ordinary old sapper, you know.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Tim’s face was contorted, struggling to find the right expression. ‘Well, that must have been jolly interesting.’
‘Yes, it was. Did me the world of good.’
‘And you and Charles have stayed in touch, have you?’
‘Yes. You could say that.’
‘Well, jolly good.’ There was a silence; then Dalton-Smith smiled rather uncertainly.
‘And what do you do now?’
‘I’m in property.’
‘Oh, are you now. Well, it’s the right field to be in. Growing quite literally. What firm are you with?’
‘My own,’ said Matt decisively.
Dalton-Smith was briefly silenced. Then he said, ‘Oh, I see. Right. Domestic?’
‘No. Commercial.’
‘Well – well, jolly good for you.’ He was clearly nonplussed. Matt wasn’t going to help him. ‘And you,’ he said to Gina, ‘what do you do?’
‘I’m in the fashion business.’
‘Oh? A model, I presume. Sure I’ve seen you in
Vogue
.’
‘’Fraid not. No I – well, I run a boutique. In the King’s Road.’
‘Oh, I say, what fun. Eliza’s in the fashion business, isn’t she? Edits some magazine or other.’
‘Something like that,’ said Gina.
There was a silence: then she said, ‘I was just saying what a lovely house this is.’
‘Isn’t it? Glorious. What a setting for a wedding! I came here for Eliza’s dance. God, that seems a long time ago. You weren’t here, I suppose – er—’ He looked at Matt awkwardly.
‘No,’ said Matt. ‘I don’t get out much. Not in polite society anyway.’
‘That was so rude,’ said Gina crossly, as Dalton-Smith made an excuse and hurried off. ‘He was only trying to be friendly.’
‘Yes, well, that’s fine. I didn’t want to be friendly back.’
‘But why not?’
‘He was bloody patronising me. Why should I be friendly?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Gina, ‘I’m off. I might see you later.’
She stalked off; thirty seconds later she was chatting and laughing to a couple as if she’d known them all her life. Matt decided to explore. The house was locked of course; but he was able to see quite a lot of it, squinting through various windows. Into what he supposed would be called the drawing room, for a start: a huge, beautiful room, with a wonderful carved fireplace, shelves in alcoves, containing what was obviously rather special china, and clearly old books, and a lot of very posh-looking chairs and sofas. He walked round to the front of the house. The windows on either side of the great front door – flanked by two quite large stone dogs – showed a hall, bloody great space, with a staircase with an iron rail rising from the centre of it; and as he looked down the avenue, as it curved gently towards the village below, there was a sense of peace and set-apartness that was quite extraordinary.
He glanced to the other side of the house. Set just slightly to its right, below yet another lawn, was an exquisite building, with a glass dome at the top; he walked down towards it, intrigued. It had huge glass-paned doors, which he tentatively tried, but which were locked, tall, tall windows, almost floor-to-ceiling height, and a tiled floor; there were two trees inside, growing almost to the full height of the building, a fan-trained flowering shrub (Matt wasn’t sure which kind) on one of the side walls, its blossom fallen with a kind of casual extravagance on the floor around it, and several palms and other plants in enormous pots, set about the room. Well, he supposed it was a room. Or was it a kind of giant greenhouse? There was a large and rather lovely white wrought-iron table in the middle of the room and a couple of matching chairs; otherwise there was no furniture and no further decoration. Except perhaps the sunlight, which filled it, an almost tangible thing; he felt if he could have opened the door he would have had to push against it, as if it was silk. He stood there, looking in and smiling and thinking it was the loveliest place he had ever seen; and thinking too of Eliza growing up with this exquisite thing as part of her everyday life, taking it for granted, careless of its beauty. What a charmed childhood she and Charles must have had, playing in these gardens, walking in the woods just beyond, beauty wherever they looked …
‘Matt, hello.’ It was Eliza. His head was so full of her, he was in no way surprised to see her, had somehow had been expecting her. She smiled at him; she seemed no more surprised to find him there. She was on her own. Like him.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Thanks. Just exploring a bit. Hope it’s all right.’
‘Of course. Well, certainly for you. Mummy was worried about the riff-raff, as she called it, but—’
‘Glad I don’t qualify as riff-raff.’
‘Matt, of course you don’t.’
‘This is a lovely place,’ he said, quite gently. ‘Well, it’s all lovely, but this building—’
‘Oh, the orangery. Yes, it’s very special. I’m glad you like it. It was built at the same time as the house; it’s in the original plans. I adore it. We were never allowed in, I think Mummy and Daddy thought we’d smash the glass or something, but one day I saw the gardener get a key from under a flowerpot by the door – bit like Peter Rabbit, you know – and when no one was about, often early in the morning, I would creep down and let myself in, pretend I was a princess and this was my palace.’
‘Well, it is a bit like a palace,’ said Matt, ‘and you are a bit of a princess. By my standards anyway.’
‘Am I? Quite a poor one these days.’
‘Yes, well, poverty is relative, I suppose,’ said Matt, but his voice was easy, gentle, with none of the truculence that so often filled it, and then he said, ‘I don’t suppose the key’s still under the pot?’
‘Yes, it is. Do you want to go in?’
He nodded; she smiled at him conspiratorially, and like a naughty child walked over to the corner of the building and retrieved the key.
He stepped in, looked round; the air was heavy with scent and heat.
‘I was right,’ he said. ‘I thought it looked from outside as if you could touch that light, feel it even.’
‘Matt!’ said Eliza. ‘What a lovely idea. I didn’t know you were such a romantic.’
‘I’m not usually,’ he said, ‘I feel a bit as if it’s cast a spell on me.’
Eliza smiled at him, and then suddenly sat down on one of the chairs. ‘Sorry to break the spell, but I have to get these foul shoes off. Too small they are, I’m sure Juliet did it on purpose.’ She clapped her hand to her mouth, looking again like a naughty child. ‘Gosh, I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.’
‘You don’t like her?’ he said grinning.
‘Not terribly much.’
‘She seems a bit—’ He stopped.
‘A bit what?’
‘A bit wrong for Charles. Can’t say more than that, don’t know her.’
‘Oh Matt,’ said Eliza, ‘I could kiss you for that.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘well, go on. I don’t mind.’
‘All right.’ She hesitated, then reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘There. Thank you.’
‘That’s – that’s OK.’
And she moved back a step, away from him, and they stood there, in the bright, hot light, staring at each other, half-shocked, rather as they had in the church. He felt suddenly and unaccustomedly shy; and she seemed slightly awkward too, not her usual brisk, bossy self.
‘Well,’ she said, quickly, ‘we’d better go. The speeches are about to begin. Where’s your – your girlfriend?’
‘Gina? I have no idea. We had a bit of a tiff.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Eliza, ‘what a shame. We’d better go and find her, and – and some champagne, we’ll be doing some toasting. I can’t put those shoes on again, I’ll leave them here, come on, if we scuttle down this path here, we can stay on the grass and I won’t hurt my feet – oh, better just lock up.’
He followed her, bemused and still feeling half-enchanted, through an avenue of trees and out onto the sunlit lawn; people were moving into the marquee.
‘Oh good,’ said Eliza. ‘Or bad, maybe. We haven’t missed anything yet. Now can you—’
‘Eliza, my darling girl! I’ve been looking for you. You look perfectly frightful, may I say. What a dreadful dress. Bride’s choice, I suppose.’
It was the woman in red silk with the turban. Eliza leaned forward and kissed her.
‘Hello, Gommie darling. Yes, very much her choice. I can’t say you’ve made me feel any better though.’
‘Oh, you know I don’t mean it. You usually look marvellous. What a dreadful lot. Your poor mother, having them swarming all over the place.’
‘I – um, Gommie, this is Matt Shaw. Matt, this is my godmother. Anna Marchant.’
‘How do you do?’ said Anna Marchant. ‘How do you fit in here?’
‘I don’t,’ said Matt briefly.
Mrs Marchant laughed. ‘Very good. That woman, the bride’s mother, perfectly dreadful. Putting on airs and graces, telling me how she’d just been to a royal garden party. I told her I always turned the invitations down, too many unsuitable people there these days. That shut her up.’
‘Gommie, do be quiet. Someone will hear you.’
‘Darling, they’re much too drunk. Now how is Jeremy? We had the briefest chat in church. So good-looking. And so extremely rich. I bet your mother’s getting her hopes up.’
‘I – wouldn’t know.’
‘Of course she is. She’s only human. A mother’s dream, that young man. And they could use the money, that’s for sure. But, it’s your life. Not theirs. Remember that.’
‘Gommie,
please
.’
‘Well, it’s important. Anyway, he ought to have asked you by now. It’s gone on too long. Or has he?’