'What?'
'Izzy, don't be ridiculous! What do you mean "what"? Tell me about the job at Pantiles!'
'I told you most of it when I called.'
'You didn't tell me anything.'
'But you know as much as I do. They're having a charity ball at extremely short notice.'
'How did Monty sound? Did he mention anything about Simon? Are you going to see him?'
'Simon's away,' I say shortly. I'm tired and not particularly up for any elaborate questioning, especially about Simon Monkwell. Too much time has passed to start telling Aunt Winnie the truth about our friendship now. I haven't even told her about meeting him at that party a while ago.
'Oh,' says Aunt Winnie meaningfully. I munch away and try to ignore her interested gaze. I don't know why I didn't tell anyone about Simon's bullying. Obviously the people around us knew we had fallen out but they just presumed it to be some sort of childish rift. Maybe I was afraid of the retributions from Simon, or just afraid of being a cry-baby. But it felt as though the bullying was somehow my fault for not being tough enough to stand up to him or something. 'And how do you feel about that?' Winnie probes.
I don't quite meet her eyes. 'I wouldn't particularly want to be stuck up at that house while Simon plays lord and master.'
'But you two used to be so close.'
'Not since he hit puberty.'
Aunt Winnie nods. 'He doesn't
sound
very nice, I have to say, from all those newspaper reports. In fact he sounds quite marvellously nasty! But the press don't tend to be very reliable in that area.'
'I think the facts speak for themselves. Besides, he wasn't very nice as a child either.' This time I meet her gaze squarely.
Aunt Winnie frowns, 'No, I remember your father saying that one of the boys had become quite unpleasant, but I couldn't think whether it was Simon or Will.'
'It was Simon,' I say emphatically, 'definitely Simon. It was before we came to live with you so you probably don't remember it as well.'
'Have you told your parents yet?'
'No, I haven't.'
'What about Sophie?'
'I haven't seen Sophie for ages. Is she coming down this weekend?' I ask, pretty eager to get off the subject and on to slightly more comfortable ground. Sophie is younger than me and works in the City, something to do with currency futures and options. She has explained it to me twice and I really don't feel I can ask again. Unlike her older sister, she has thrived in the City. We share a great deal of similar personality traits but she somehow seems to possess a little bit more of each of them. I like to think I am more social than her, but I know jolly well that her legions of friends would disagree with me. I also like to think that I am more creative than her but I know the fabulous flower arrangements in her trendy Notting Hill flat are all hand-chosen and arranged by Sophie Serranti Inc. But we love each other unconditionally and I know that deep down I wouldn't trade my life for hers despite her spacious pad, boggling salary and wardrobe of designer dresses.
'No, she cancelled. Something came up.' Aunt Winnie pours us both some more tea.
'Oh.' I raise my eyebrows in surprise. It might be me being oversensitive but my sister seems to be avoiding me lately. Normally she loves to come and see Dom and me, but I haven't seen her for weeks. It must be my imagination, I can't think of anything I could have done to upset her.
'How are you feeling about Rob?'
'Better, I think.'
'Maybe going back to Pantiles is a huge blessing in disguise?'
'Yeah, it will be nice to get out of London for a while. And I hope it will be … I don't know … grounding in a way. To go back to where I grew up, I mean.'
'Yes, yes, I suppose so.'
We drift off into silence and I think Aunt Winnie is probably reflecting on my rather sage and perceptive words. She certainly is looking at me in a thoughtful fashion.
'Dear, what colour is that you're wearing?' she pipes up.
'Hmmm?'
'The colour you have on. What trendy name are they giving it now?'
'Er, pink.'
'I really don't think you should wear it. It makes you look like a marshmallow.'
C h a p t e r 5
'
I
zzy, darling, come and get me. I'm at this piss-pot station of yours. The only taxi has been taken by a mad Irish nun who has been trying to convert me since Liverpool Street. The porter, who by the way looks as though he's been on some serious drugs, tells me there are no buses until tomorrow. So you are going to have to come and get me. And don't hang about, everyone walks with a limp or has a squint. I'm dying for a pee but I daren't go here as there is obviously something wrong with the water. This is absolutely the last time I use public transport. Izzy, are you there?'
'Yeah, yeah, Dominic, I'm here.'
'Are you coming?'
'I'll be straight down. Except that Aunt Winnie wants to pick up some things—'
'Isabel, if you don't want to start walking with a limp yourself, THEN GET DOWN HERE.'
'Oo-er missus. Keep your Calvin Kleins on. I'm just kidding. I'll see you in five minutes.'
I put down the receiver with a smile. It's late on Saturday morning and although I knew Dominic was turning up today he didn't mention when or how and I never thought to ask. I wander through to the kitchen and pick up an apple. 'Aunt Winnie,' I say between bites, 'Dominic is at the station.'
'That's nice, dear.'
'Hmmm.' I munch in silence for a few seconds. 'I think he might need picking up.'
'You have been more than twenty minutes,' Dominic hisses at me while he swivels his foot on his cigarette. He kisses Aunt Winnie and pats Jameson. 'I had to use the loo in there. Look, I've caught a squint.' He screws up one eye in a thoroughly overdramatic fashion.
'Why didn't you come by car?'
'Because the traffic was so appalling last time I thought the train would be easier. But my mother never told me about the dangers of travelling with Irish nuns.' He puts on an Irish accent, 'Glory be child, he's a great fella that Jesus, absolutely top-hole. You're an eejit for not wanting to be around him, so you are. Have you read the book?' He reverts back to his normal accent, 'Obviously I replied "which book?" which was like a red rag to a bull. You see, public transport. You leave yourself wide open to conversion with Irish nuns. You'd think they'd have a warning about it, wouldn't you?'
'What about the Tube? Don't you count that as public transport?'
'People don't talk to you on the Tube.'
We squash ourselves into the back of the Mini. Dominic is respectful of Jameson's prior claim to the front seat.
'They are a great race, the Irish, aren't they?' comments Aunt Winnie. 'I once sat opposite an Irish bloke on a three-hour train journey. He got out a five thousand-piece jigsaw, started it on the table and then at the end of the journey swept it all back into the box again. I had the sky end. It was jolly tricky.'
'I read in the paper about an Irishman who was dead at his desk at work for five days before anyone noticed,' adds Dom. 'Apparently he was always either really pissed or really hungover and so usually sat with his head cradled in his arms. It was only on Saturday, when they remembered he never came in at weekends, that they discovered he was dead. Now that's the kind of company I would like to work for, not your Mafia-like ex-boyfriend's father's one. So is the vicar talking to you again?' he asks Aunt Winnie.
She grins wickedly and starts to give us the low-down on a new accumulation of village mishaps, climaxing in her nearly running the vicar over. It seems my Aunt Winnie has found a new sport called vicar-baiting. The village's new happy-clappy vicar called Jason arrived about six months ago and made the mistake of calling on Aunt Winnie within a week. So he's not quite as happy-clappy now – in fact, he's probably close to a nervous breakdown. Aunt Winnie says she's sure that God wouldn't begrudge her a little harmless fun, especially since the BBC axed
Eldorado
.
We trundle down to the village pub as Dominic pronounces himself incapable of lasting the whole three-minute drive without a drink to break the journey. We sit in the inglenook by the fireplace of the Oak and Lion, having been led straight there by Jameson who knows his local and his favourite seat well. Aunt Winnie tries to decide where she has got to in the pub's mammoth wall of whiskies. The pub landlord has rather helpfully put them in alphabetical order for her. Aunt Winnie is somewhat fond of whisky, hence Jameson's name, and once she finishes the wall she just starts again.
'I think I was in the "I" section, Izz. Can you remember?'
'I think you were, I remember having a conversation about Islay.'
'So we did. Then I'll have something beginning with 'J', please, Dom. And a bag of crisps for Jameson. Cheese and onion please.'
'His wish is my command.' Dom turns to me, 'Izz?'
'Er …' I'm always a bit stuck when it comes to drinking in pubs. I never know what to have. And a white wine spritzer always seems too twee for words in the company of hardened alcoholics like Aunt Winnie and Dom. 'Whatever you're having,' I say bravely, almost instantly regretting the words.
Dominic wanders off to the bar. There's a slight pause. 'Aunt Winnie?' I say, for something has been bothering me since this whole Monkwell thing started, 'how did we come to rent a house on the Pantiles estate and not at the army digs? Was it just because of the stables for Mum?' It's amazing what you don't query in childhood. I remember my parents buying Sophie and me mugs with our names on them when we were about ten, but they had run out of Isabel so they bought an Isaac one instead and sold it to me on the grounds that it was my name in French. If they could get that past my razor-sharp consciousness you can see why it never crossed my mind until now to ask why we moved to the Pantiles estate.
She shrugs slightly. 'Your parents thought it would be good for you and Sophie to be in the country for a while. And as I recall, my dear, you also wanted to ride horses.'
'Me?' I say incredulously. Surely she is thinking of a different Isabel, or should I say Isaac. This Isabel/Isaac wouldn't like to come within a metre of those smelly, hoof-stomping creatures.
'Your mother rode quite a bit and I think you got it into your head that you wanted to ride too. Of course, as soon as you fell off you decided that you didn't really like it.'
I lean forward eagerly. 'Was I travelling at speed when I fell off? Attempting some sort of jump?'
'No, dear, the horse was standing stock still in the yard at the time. You just lost your balance.'
Ah. This is probably the reason I have conveniently erased the entire episode from my memory. That and the smell.
'But how did my parents know the Monk—' I persist but Dominic's return interrupts us. 'I was feeling inspired by my nun so I got myself a Guinness,' he says.
'I hate Guinness.'
'I know, so I got. you a Drambuie and ginger ale.' Obviously.
He unceremoniously plonks two glasses on to the table and then goes back to collect his Guinness, which is breathing or settling or whatever they do to it.
'Are you sure I was on "I" before, Izz?' asks Aunt Winnie.
'Maybe it was "T"?'
'Ho hum, down the hatch anyway!'
We chink glasses and I take a tentative sip of my Drambuie and ginger ale. Interesting mix of flavours. I look over towards Dominic who is talking animatedly with the landlord. He is laughing at something, his head thrown backwards, and I find myself grinning too. Dom has the largest, most infectious smile I have ever seen. He's lovely-looking in a foppish kind of way, not usually my cup of tea, but very appealing when the man in question is as open and unarrogant as Dom. He has dark blond hair which at first I thought was artfully untidy but have since learned is simply untidy, a slim build and an engaging face. Extremely well-connected too; his family is renowned in London circles and Dom is considered to be very much the eligible bachelor. But even if I wanted to marry him, I doubt he would return the compliment. You see, I have just found out he's gay.
Dominic has no shortage of admirers but I have started to see a pattern emerging. He has never actually pursued any of these girls himself. His Aunt Agnes, presumably desperate for great-nephews and -nieces, regularly places girls in his path and Dom dutifully trots them around the block a couple of times and then politely bids them farewell. Girls from work, on the Tube, in the local coffee shop have all at one time or another pressed their numbers into his hand and begged him to call them. But instead of becoming big-headed by this and casually bedding them all, Dom takes them out, shows them a wonderful time, listens to all their problems and then duly deposits them back from whence they came.
I have never probed him about his actions because when your best friend is male it is sometimes difficult to talk about these things, but I did presume he'd had his wicked way with some of them although I never knew for sure because he never brought them back to our flat. Therein lies my error. Dom is a male of the pink-blooded variety. Definitely. How do I know? Because one of his ex-dates told me so. I was busy at a drinks party only a few weeks ago when a girl called Cecily came up to me and re-introduced herself. We stood chatting for a few minutes and then she said, 'It's such a pity about Dominic, isn't it?' I was slightly mystified, wondering what on earth he'd done now, when I noticed she was trying to clock my reaction. Oldest trick in the book. So I casually agreed that it was a bit of a pity and looked meaningfully back at her. Then it all came out in a rush – how he had told her he was gay but was still confused himself about it and could she keep it to herself. Which she obviously couldn't.