Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
I didn’t say so, but I suspected she might be right.
Since I can’t seem to prevent April from attending Marie’s
party, I feel a real yearning to absent myself from it instead. This
is not a new yearning, of course; I’ve been feeling it for most of
the summer. But this time it isn’t my own distress I’m concerned
about. I can’t stand to think of Mum and Dad, and even Marie,
being so hurt. But I need to be there for them. I wish I had
someone to bring with me, someone wise and kind, someone… Feck it, I must stop thinking about Nathaniel.
I get out my laptop. Even though it’s late in the evening, I might as well get on with my column. This week it’s about the glories of
– wait for it – wicker chairs.
‘These chairs have elegant curves and laid-back personalities,’
I write. Chairs with personalities? Oh, well – that’s how they
describe them in the brochure. ‘They come in softly coloured and textured seagrass, on a wooden frame, and have elegantly tapered
legs.’
I stare hard at the letters on the keyboard. I want my column to be different, because I’m different. Or maybe I’m closer to the person I’ve always been
without knowing it. Maybe I’m just remembering, at long last.
‘But if you feel like something a bit different, why not check
out some of the charity shops that sell second-hand furniture?’ I find myself typing. Then I mention a large warehouse that helps fund hostels for the homeless. It is where Erika buys most of her
furniture.
‘There can be a real thrill in finding something second-hand
and making it your own,’ I type. ‘I have a friend who has made a
very pleasant coffee table out of an old wooden crate she found at a fruit market. And I know of a shop in London that offers
recycled sofas – along with hats and cakes and its own very
special brand of friendship.
‘So play around a bit with different styles, if you want to. Have
fun – and don’t take it all too seriously. Paint golden angels on
your bedroom wall if you feel like it. Keep things as light and as
juicy as you can.’
Chapter
Forty-Four
‘I left the quiche
too long in the oven.’ Aunt Marie is sobbing
1 on the phone. ‘It’s all hard and leathery-looking. And the pastry’s gone brown.’
‘Calm down, Marie,’ I say. ‘I
prefer
quiche that’s… that nice and firm.’
‘But I want it to be perfect.’ Marie’s voice is like a little girl’s.
‘Well, the truth is, Marie, it probably won’t be – and that’s just
fine. No family gathering is perfect.’ I want to add that this one
may be less perfect than usual, but I decide not to worry her. She
gets into a terrible tizz about these parties. I really don’t know why
she bothers to have them, since they cause her so much anxiety.
‘No one really appreciates them,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘My parties. No one really enjoys them. It’s a chore for everyone.’ She sniffs miserably. ‘This may be the last family gathering I ever organise.’
‘Oh, Marie, don’t say that!’ I exclaim dutifully, wishing I could
share my true feelings on the matter. ‘It’s a great chance for everyone to meet up and – you know…’
‘Lie to each other?’ Marie says tersely. ‘That’s what your cousin Annabel says.’
I almost drop the phone. I vaguely recall Annabel: a dewy, sweet creature who has done a number of postgraduate courses
and was wearing an engagement ring last time I met her. She also
seemed to be rising up the ranks of the diplomatic service and wasn’t even slightly overweight.
‘Yes, Annabel says she can’t come to the party because it’s too
much of a strain,’ Marie continues. ‘She says she spends the whole afternoon trying to prevent Wayne – that’s her father; he
doesn’t look like a Wayne, somehow – she says she can’t enjoy the
parties because she’s too busy trying to prevent Wayne from getting at the wine.’
‘Why?’ I grip the phone more tightly.
‘Wayne is an alcoholic, only no one is supposed to know that, of course. They bring a special bottle of some herbal drink that’s
red and looks – well, you know.’
‘As if he’s drinking wine?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t know he had a drink problem,’ I say in amazement.
Annabel’s father has always seemed one of my most well-behaved
relatives.
‘Well, he doesn’t most of the time, these days,’ Marie says
sadly. ‘It’s just that at my parties he meets Cedric – you know, he
married –’
‘Yes, yes,’ I say, not wanting Marie to go through the entire
family tree. ‘I remember Cedric; he’s a lawyer or something, isn’t
he?’ At least five of my relatives are successful lawyers.
‘Yes, and he had an affair with Annabel’s mother when Wayne
was off sailing around Europe in that yacht race ten years ago. Wayne gets very edgy any time he’s in Cedric’s company. And Annabel’s mother is forbidden to speak to him. That’s why she
spends so much time helping me in the kitchen. And I thought she
was just being
friendly.’
Marie blows her nose and sighs.
Dear God
,
I think.
This is what really goes on at Marie’s parties?
‘I didn’t know about any of this until Annabel told me,’ Marie whimpers. ‘And there’s other stuff, too. You know Louise’s son,
Sam? The one who’s doing so well in construction engineering?’
‘Yes,’ I say eagerly.
‘Well, the reason he never comes to my parties is that his family
won’t allow him to bring his lover, Pierre.’
‘
Pierre?
’
I press the phone to my ear.
‘Yes. He’s homosexual.’
‘Well, a lot of people are,’ I say soothingly, hoping she can’t
hear my relieved smile. I suddenly realise I always suspected all
this, somehow. The image that my relatives present at Marie’s parties has always been that little bit too perfect. But, instead of trusting my intuition, I chose to ignore it. I chose to believe that my flaws were the exception.
‘It’s like
Dynasty
or something,’ Marie sniffs disapprovingly. ‘I
don’t know how I’m going to face them.’
‘It really isn’t all that
unusual
,
Marie,’ I say. I feel like a huge weight has suddenly been taken off my shoulders. ‘In fact, if
anything, it was more unusual that none of them seemed to have
any personal issues whatsoever.’
‘I wish Annabel had just not told me,’ Marie continues
resentfully. ‘I feel like calling the party off, but I can’t, because of
dear April.’
‘Well, if you feel like that, maybe you should,’ I say quickly,
sensing a chance to prevent April’s grand announcement. ‘I’ll help
you ring everyone. I’m sure April would understand.’
‘No, it’s my duty,’ Marie sighs, and I realise that she feels it is.
‘Who on earth would have thought they had all these
secrets
?
And
how on earth have they managed to keep them for all these years?’
I think of my own secret. As Marie starts to go on about the
quiche again, I begin to wonder if families can form certain
habits. I begin to wonder if the fact of not talking about DeeDee,
hardly acknowledging her existence, has helped my relatives to
remain silent on other matters. After they had done it once, they
found they could do it again. Maybe it became a familiar
solution. After all, I remained entirely silent about my doubts
about my marriage; I almost thought that, if I ignored them, they w
eren’t there. But they were. They didn’t go away. And now
Mum thinks she can just somehow forget that Al is April’s father.
‘At least the lemon meringue pie is nice and moist,’ Marie says,
and I realise she actually thinks people
like
it soggy.
‘Actually, Marie…’
‘What?’ she demands.
‘Actually, maybe you might put it in the oven for just a bit
longer.’ I feel I have to tell her. ‘I personally like it a bit firm – like
that lovely quiche you’ve just made.’
Marie is considering whether or not to be offended, but then she suddenly shouts, ‘Oh my God, I forgot to buy garlic bread!’ and hangs up.
I look out the window. There is a
swivel-hipped, Latin bravura to the way the sea falls and rises and
suddenly embraces the shore.
The phone rings again. ‘I got a good price for the sitting-room
suite, and the hall table and the lamps.’ It’s Diarmuid. ‘In fact, I’ve
sold most of the contents of the house. And someone seems very
interested in the bedroom wardrobe.’
‘Oh.’
‘Since you said you didn’t want the furniture, I put an advertisement in the paper. It was almost brand-new, after all.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, realising this comes as a relief. I do rather
need the money.
‘When I come round to measure up the kitchen for the cabinet, I can give you a cheque. A lot of people have seen the house, too.
The estate agent has the key.’
‘I see.’
‘When do you want me to come around with the cabinet?’
I take a deep breath. ‘Actually, Diarmuid, I don’t really want the cabinet either.’
‘But – but you
need
it,’ he protests. ‘You don’t have enough storage space in that kitchen.’
‘This isn’t about storage space, Diarmuid. It’s… it’s about whether I want you wandering around my home.’
There is a stiff, hurt silence.
‘I’m not going to be that kind of ex-wife, I’m afraid,’ I say
softly. ‘I mean… I won’t want to meet you for coffee, or have you
and Charlene round to dinner. I won’t want to attend the
christening of your first child.’
That silence again.
‘I’m sorry, Diarmuid, but it would just seem very false. I know
some people get all pally with their exes, but I don’t want that. It’s not that I hate you, or anything like that; it’s just that there are… there are still too many things I don’t understand.’
‘About what?’ he asks. His voice sounds tight, upset and bewildered.
‘About us. About how we ended up together.’
‘Maybe…’ he begins slowly. ‘Maybe it seemed like a kind of answer, only we hadn’t been asking the right questions.’