Virtual Strangers (34 page)

And a blip. ‘Oh. Okay, bye.’

And down goes the phone. Hmmmm.

I rustle the bag with my tuna baguette in.

‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘I’m fairly quiet for an hour or so. If you want to pop round and lick his arse for good measure, you go right ahead, Hugh. I’ll hold the fort.’

Hugh’s face fills with red like a dip-dyed pashmina.

‘Pah!’ he says.

‘Well?’ I ask.

‘Bollocks to you!’

Not much scope for a frank exchange of views there, then. But hmmm. Do I tell Davina? Or do I not tell Davina? Or do I phone Austin Metro?

In the end I take an executive decision that I will telephone Davina in the evening on her mobile and just mention that I keep seeing Hugh and Austin together. Very light, very matter of fact, very; “oh, just thought I’d mention it as I’ve been a little concerned lately though you probably know all about it anyway, don’t you, ha, ha, ha,” etc. and so on and so forth. I cannot, in all conscience, continue to do nothing. I’m deeply worried that Austin Metro is up to big time no good.

Dial.

Then wait.

And wait some more.

‘
Yes!
’

Adam. Shit.
Adam
. Adam brusque. Adam breathless.

Hang up.

And feel sick.

‘This,’ says Austin Metro, gravely, ‘is a very important day.’

I am tempted to point out that yes, this is indeed a very important day, as I have, in theory, taken the afternoon off to visit the hairdressers to have my hair coaxed into believing itself glamorous and chic. Not to stand in an expectant huddle while the fat man bangs on. I have, in fact, only ninety six minutes until my appointment time. Will be most aggrieved if I fail to arrive. I decide that, though I’m obviously keen to be present at the worrisome-development denouement, I will happily leave, never to return, if needs be.

We are assembled at the other office of Willie Jones Jackson (Independent Estate Agents), where Brian Jackson and his team have put on a bit of a spread. The staff from both branches, all summoned, are present, and Brenda Willie has popped on her David Schilling and come. We’ve even been graced by our style guru, Ianthe, which doesn’t bode well image-makeover wise. Speaking of which, as we swarm over the buffet, I realise that passing pedestrians may mistake the gathering for the unexpected arrival of a new aquatics emporium, as the stagnant pond effect is exponentially increased when
en masse
.

Davina is very much present today, as she is wearing a suit that appears to be an eighteenth century map of the northern hemisphere, over a frock horror tangerine turtle neck sweater. I’ve noticed a definite trend for less austere power dressing; in hindsight, a clue to today’s
coup de grâce.
Indeed I speculate about a post-Christmas colour analysis. With Ianthe, perhaps? Wonder if colour analysis is possibly a sidearm of her profitable corporate image enhancement line. I have been watching Davina closely since her arrival at nine forty seven this morning; for jauntiness, suspiciousness and most anxiously, evidence of recent sexual abandon. Though have not the slightest idea what signs might signal such antics, so it’s hard to say whether a loud suit is post-orgasmic or not.

Austin shrugs off his jacket and gestures expansively. ‘And an auspicious one too,’ he continues, somewhat unimaginatively. ‘Because today marks the start of a new era in realty. The conjoining of Metro and Willie Jones Jackson to form a fresh, thrusting force in the property world. Independent estate agency has never looked so good!’

We try to arrange our expressions into suitably reverent configurations while Austin battles manfully with a bottle of champagne.

We then, for some reason, toast our long deceased senior partner.

‘Peter Willie!’ we enthuse, even though most of us never met him.

Brenda Willie acknowledges the ripple of applause as if she is accepting a BAFTA, though in truth what’s she’s getting is a great deal more useful. Brian Jackson knocks back his drink in one gulp. I can’t help but wonder how much coercion’s involved.

And that’s that. We are to have a new name, a new image, and (oh, God) a new uniform. And, doubtless, a shiny new mission statement too.

As I turn to leave, Austin sidles up, smiling broadly.

‘So!’ he booms. ‘Charlie! here we are then! First thoughts? Management appeal? New horizons in Rural?’

‘To be honest,’ I say archly, ‘depends on the suit.’

‘That’s a bit of a do,’ quips Hester when I finally get home. ‘I’d always maintained a high chignon was rather ageing, but I have to say, somehow, you do manage to carry it, even without the benefit of a long neck.’

I am tempted to lengthen it a fraction by nutting her, but desist on account of the risk of flying pins.

‘So it’s a takeover, then, basically,’ says my father..

‘Exactly. He’s buying all Brenda Willie’s shares, plus two thirds of Brian Jackson’s. And as Brenda had forty percent, and Brian thirty, that gives Austin sixty percent in all. And control of the company, of course.’

‘Hmm. And what will
they
do?’

‘I think Brenda’s going to give the money to her daughter. She only hung on to the shares in case she wanted to go into the business, but as she’s currently living in a traveller’s commune near Andover, I guess she’s decided there’s really no point. As for Brian, I don’t know. He and Austin have always been at loggerheads - he was one of Metro’s top managers before joining Peter and Davina. But he’s still keeping some shares so I guess he’ll still be involved.’

‘And what about Mrs Jones?’

My gut jink-a-jinks a bit. Exactly. Mrs Jones. What
about
Mrs Jones?

‘You could have floored me with a wet lettuce,’ I tell them. ‘She’s selling half her shares to Hugh Chatsworth, of all people! And where is he getting the money to buy them? He’s barely twenty, you know. Anyway, no longer my problem, whatever I decide. He’s going to run Brian’s branch now.’

‘And what’s she going to do, then?’

‘Stop work, apparently.’

‘Ahhh! Start a family, I expect,’ coos Hester.

Okay, I know. I
know
she doesn’t know. But it doesn’t stop me wanting to wring her bloody neck.

I telephone Rose while my bath water’s running.

Hello!
says her voice.
We’re not around at the moment. Matt’s probably outside pretending he knows the difference between cutworms and root rot and I’m no doubt asleep.

I decide there can’t be much awry in a marriage where such a lively interplay of humour exists on the ansafone front. Can’t say why; it’s such a little thing really. But seems to me the little things make the best barometers.

I’m just onto the buff and polish stage when there’s a light knock on the bedroom door.

‘Charlotte?’

My father. ‘Come in, Dad!’ I tell him.

He stops in the doorway, tea and fruitcake in hand.

‘Well!’ he says. ‘You look quite, quite magnificent. And do you know, when you walked in earlier with your new hairdo, it quite took my breath away. It was almost as if I’d gone back thirty years. Your mum often used to wear her hair up like that for an evening out. D’you remember?’

Vividly; her warm fragrant powdery kisses, my father in uniform, smelling faintly of scotch. And Mrs Binks from next door, who’d more often than not babysit, and make dresses for my Sindy from her material scrap bag. I nod and smile and slurp at the tea.

‘Have some cake, dear,’ he urges.

‘I’m not really hungry, Dad.’

He sits on the bed. ‘Tch! Take a tip from an expert. Never go out on an empty stomach.’

‘It’s a dinner.’

‘And before you get so much as a sniff at a melon ball, there’ll be cocktails, aperitifs, buckets of wine. Best you eat something.’

I’m about to tell him not to fuss, when I realise he’s right . I have shunned the buffet, spent the afternoon stressing, and cannot wait to get the first glass of wine down my throat. Left to myself, I will be legless by nine. So of course he’s right. And why shouldn’t he be? He’s lived a bit, hasn’t he? Why does that fact of that so often elude me?

‘This Rhys chap’s certainly a lucky fellow.’

Hmm. Not where I’m concerned. Not so lucky, really.

‘It’s not serious, Dad.’

He laughs.

‘Wasn’t about to marry you off again, dear. But I’m glad to see you back with someone. Girl like you shouldn’t be on her own.’

I’m beginning to feel fairly ambivalent about that. But is there another agenda lurking within this conversation? A Hester announcement perhaps? I hand him a necklace to fasten for me. Not the one I’d originally intended, but this one was my mother’s and though the style isn’t quite mine and the length not quite right for the dress, I suddenly have an urge to put it on. For luck, maybe? A talisman to make everything turn out right?

‘Dad,’ I say. ‘You and Hester - you’re pretty serious, aren’t you?’

His big rough hands manage the tiny clasp easily.

‘Tch, Charlotte! Goodness me! One day at a time. There’s only a few things I take seriously at my time of life, dear, and they’re good health, peace and quiet and the state of Welsh Rugby. The ‘serious’ you refer to isn’t nearly as pressing; it’s not so engrossing when you get to my age. There,’ he then says. ‘You look lovely. A picture.’ He proffers the cake again and this time I take it. ‘Why d’you ask?,’ he says. ‘Trying to get rid of me, are you?’

‘On the contrary,’ I say, and despite his wide grin, I don’t think he realises quite how much I mean it. I don’t think I did until now. ‘
Really
,’ I add, ‘I’m getting worried that she’s going to whisk you away.’

He picks up my cup and saucer and chuckles.

‘The only whisking around here will be done by your Kenwood Chef. We’re fine as we are, Charlotte. Right, ready for the off?’

With that knowledge on board I realise I feel infinitely more gracious and well-disposed towards Hester. Unbelievable, with so much grown up stuff under my belt now, that I have still so many odd bits of growing up yet to do.

Sitting, some twenty minutes later, in the leathery gloom of Rhys’s Mercedes (250 GYN - his weekly tally of internals?) I decide I shouldn’t be so tough on myself. It’s not that I have anything against my father getting it together with someone - and I know Hester is essentially a well meaning old lady. It’s just that, having got him, and with us finally having adjusted to one another, I find I’m reluctant to lose him again. And not only for myself; he’s important to Ben; much as his own father loves him, he’s away more than home, and often not when it counts. And though I don’t have any axe to grind with Felix about it, I’m glad Ben has a positive male role model around permanently; and without so much testosterone zipping around.

‘Your father seems a very nice chap,’ observes Rhys. ‘Navy, you say?’

‘Second Lieutenant. He was on the Ark Royal.’ I tell him proudly.

Not just an old man who makes jam and times vegetables.

‘Nice to have him around?’

I nod. ‘He’s the best.’

The CancerCope ball is one of the highlights of the local glitterati circuit. The event all the socialites want to be seen at. We are not they though. We are, Rhys explains, invited guests; he has been involved in research with the charity for some years, and has fronted some major fundraising campaigns. As such, he is here as a guest of the charity. Most of the rest of the two hundred odd people are paying over £60 for the privilege of being here.

So this is high-faluting company indeed. I recall Davina’s words, via Adam, about all the big noises. There’s big noise aplenty. I feel relieved about my last minute fake fur addition. An extravagance from Felix during the phase that we thought that extravagant gestures might solve things, it only got used for mess dos once an aeon. I’ve worn it no more than twice since being on my own.

Once inside and divested of it, however, I suddenly feel insubstantial again. And uncomfortable around all this loud
joy de vivre
. And not just psychologically. Fat cats abound. Men with big paunches that bowl around like bumper cars, and big-bosomed ladies so dripping with sequins and sun tans it feels like an outsize shop sale preview night.

God, what am I
doing
here?

Well, hello
there
!’ says a voice; boomy, masculine. Bill Stableford’s.

‘Hi Bill,’ I say. Then ‘Bill, this is Rhys.’

‘Hello there,’ Rhys replies, shaking hands, peering. ‘Already acquainted, aren’t we?’

Bill nods. ‘Indeed we are. Via Carolyn.’

Rhys nods too. ‘Absolutely. Keeping well, is she?’

Bill nods again. ‘Splendid. Great job.’

Rhys nods again too. ‘Good, good,’ he says.

Oh dear. I think I have arrived at hysterectomy central. I realise that I may be forced to spend the evening with a succession of people whose main opening conversational gambit will be related to the ill-health of North Cardiff’s collective reproductive tract.

Rhys, who is beginning to exhibit a proprietorial touchy-feeliness, bends his head and groans in my ear.

‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Sorry. Occupational hazard. Thing with this type of shindig is the tedious business of having bland conversations with men you don’t really know, with their wives genitalia hanging between you like a pair of metaphysical curtains. Course, it’s not so bad with the women themselves.’ He winks at me and slides a hand over my shoulder. ‘I find women are generally far less euphemistic about these things.’

He smells nice. He
is
nice. I so wish he could have the effect he desires. Instead, I find the word ‘genitalia’ makes me feel edgy and stressed, rather like the word ‘stiffy’ did when I was ten. It’s just a tiny chemical signal that’s needed, but without it, I find real, pukka sexual overtures become anxiety inducing in the extreme.

‘Rhys, old chap!’

‘Lord, here’s another one,’ he mutters. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be safe once we get to our table. Michael! How
are
you?’

‘Would you excuse me?’ I ask them. ‘I’ve just seen someone over there who I need to speak to.’

Hugh is at the bar, where he blends in rather more readily than he probably thinks he does with the only just post pubescent bar staff. The Willie/Metro contingent are some distance beyond him. Austin in white tux, but no Jones’s as yet.