Cooper Jilly: Emily

There was a knock on the door. Delighted, I leapt to my feet and rushed to open it. There stood Marina Buchanan, quivering with nerves as if even now she might turn and run. She was lovely, if haunted, in a red coat and long black boots, her shining Titian hair blowing in the wind like a shampoo commercial. Her mouth was large and drooping, her face deathly pale, and there were huge blue shadows underneath her extraordinary eyes. I understood everything my mother had told me about Garbo. I wished I hadn’t eaten that potato salad.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Marina Buchanan.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘I’m Emily Balniel.’

‘I know,’ she said, ‘Coco sent me a postcard suggesting we should get together.’

‘Oh, how lovely,’ I said. ‘Come in and have some coffee or something.’

‘How nice it looks,’ she said, gazing in admiration at the drawing-room.

‘Let’s have a drink, not coffee,’ I said. ‘I know one shouldn’t at this hour of the morning, but it’s such a celebration having someone to talk to.’

We had the most tremendous gossip. She didn’t seem haunted any more, just slightly malicious and very funny. She adored Coco, she said, but couldn’t stand Buster. She wasn’t very complimentary about her husband either.

‘He’s terrific between the balance sheets, so it means I can have everything I want, but I’m getting a bit fed up playing Tinker, Tailor with the caviar…’

I giggled.

‘Where’s Rory?’ she said.

‘Out painting.’

She looked at me closely. ‘You look tired. Has Rory been giving you a hard time?’

‘Of course not,’ I said firmly.

‘Don’t get sore, I’m not being critical, just realistic. Rory’s divine-looking, he exudes sex-appeal the way other men breathe out carbon dioxide, and he’s got terrific qualities.’ She paused as if trying to think what they were. ‘But he can be difficult. Where other people make scenes, Rory makes three-act plays. When he’s upset he takes it out on other people, he always has. My brother, Finn, is difficult, but in a more predictable way, and he’s not spoilt like Rory, or bitchy either. Rory’s always trying to send Finn up, but it doesn’t work because Finn couldn’t care less. And although Rory’s always had everything, somehow Finn makes him feel inadequate. They hate each other’s guts, you know,’ she added in satisfaction. ‘There’s bound to be fireworks — the island isn’t big enough for both of them.’

She got up and wandered round the room. I looked at that wild, unstable loveliness, and wondered what had possessed her to marry an old man when she could have had anyone.

‘Why don’t you both come to dinner on Thursday?’ I said.

‘That’d be lovely, but you’d better ask Rory first.’

At that moment Rory walked in.

‘Hello, Rory,’ she said softly, and then when he didn’t answer immediately, she went rattling on.

‘It would be nice if you could learn to say hello sometimes, Rory. With six months’ practice you might even learn to say, “It’s a lovely day”.’

I steeled myself, wondering what sort of mood he was in now, but he turned round, then came over and kissed me on the mouth, quite hard.

‘Hello, baby, have you missed me?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said, snuggling against him, feeling weak with relief.

Then he looked across at Marina, and ice crept into his voice. ‘Hello, Mrs Buchanan, how’s marriage? Still making Hamish while the sun shines?’

I giggled. ‘We’ve been having a lovely gossip. I’ve asked Marina and Hamish to dinner here on Thursday.’

I was determined the dinner party would be a success. For the next three days I cooked, polished and panicked, determined Rory should be proud of me. On the afternoon of the day they were coming, I was well ahead; the house gleamed like a telly ad., all the food was done. The only thing we needed was lots of flowers. There were none in the garden, but I’d noticed some gorgeous roses in a garden down the road. I set off, still in my nightie — flimsy and black. I’d been so busy I hadn’t even bothered to get dressed.

It was a warm day for the time of year, the wet grass felt delicious beneath my bare feet. I ran past ancient fruit trees and overgrown shrubberies, and started to pick great armfuls of roses.

I was just bending over, tearing off one huge red rose with my teeth, when I heard a furious voice behind me.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

I jumped out of my skin and spun round, aghast, the rose in my teeth like Carmen. A man towered over me. He must have been in his early thirties, he had dark red hair curling over his collar, a battered, freckled, high-complexioned face, a square jaw, a broken nose, and angry hazel eyes. His face was seamed with tiredness, his mouth set in an ugly line — but it was still a powerful, compelling, unforgettable face.

‘Don’t you realize this is private property?’

Then I twigged. This must be Finn Maclean. I stared at him, fascinated. It was not often one came face to face with a legend.

‘Didn’t you know you were trespassing?’

‘Yes, I did. I’m terribly sorry, but no-one’s ever picked any flowers here before. It seems such a waste to leave them. I didn’t know you’d turn up.’

‘Evidently,’ he said, taking in my extreme state of undress. ‘Who are you, anyway?’ he asked.

‘Emily,’ I muttered. ‘Emily Balniel.’

For a second there was a flicker of emotion other than anger in his face. Was it pity or contempt?

‘I’d have thought Rory was rich enough to afford his own roses. I suppose you’ve picked up all his habits of doing and taking exactly what you like?’

‘No, I haven’t, and you can keep your rotten roses,’ I said, and threw the whole lot at his feet.

Although I was seething with rage, I didn’t mention the incident to Rory when I got back; he was in too bad a temper. I started tidying the drawing-room.

‘I wish you wouldn’t hum nervously when you do things,’ he said. ‘Stop fiddling with those leaves, too, they look awful enough as it is.’

‘You only notice them because Marina’s coming.’

I went into the kitchen and slammed the door. First Finn, now Rory. I thought I was going to cry, but it would only make my eyes red, so I took a large swig of cooking wine instead. Then I suddenly realized I hadn’t put out any napkins, and had to rush upstairs, pull them out of the laundry basket and iron them on the carpet.

Maddeningly, Marina and Hamish arrived twenty minutes early, so I had no time to tart myself up. I wondered if Marina did it deliberately. She looked staggering in a slinky, backless blue dress which matched her eyes. But even I was unprepared for Hamish. He must have been close on sixty, with nudging eyes, an avid grin and yellow teeth. But he’d got himself up like an out-of-date raver: thinning grey locks clustering over his forehead and down his back, sideboards laddering his wrinkled cheeks, a white chamois leather smock, lots of beads and jeans several sizes too small for him. He looked like an awful old goat. Rory, who looked devastating in a grey satin shirt, couldn’t stop laughing.

‘Marina, darling, what have you done to him?’ he said in an undertone. ‘He looks like an octogenarian ton-up boy.’

‘I’ve made an old man very hippy,’ said Marina, and giggled.

‘Don’t you like his smock? A touch of white is so flattering close to the face when you reach a certain age.’

They were convulsed with mirth. I think I would have been shocked by their malice if Hamish hadn’t been so awful, lecherous and pleased with himself.

We all drank a great deal before dinner.