Romantic Association - Loves Me, Loves Me Not

The assistant let me leave my bag and clothes there. ‘By the way, dear,’ she said. ‘Should I recognise your voice?’

I said no. It saved time. I thanked her, picked up my parcel, left the shop and headed for the nearest bus stop.

It’s difficult to walk down the street unobtrusively when you’re dressed as Marie Antoinette. And carrying a large pink parcel.

Several old ladies laughed behind their hands. Two men tried unashamedly to look down my cleavage. Small children’s mouths dropped open.

‘I bet she’s advertisin’ something,’ said a spotty teenager to his spottier friend. He managed to speak and leer at the same time. ‘What you advertisin’, darlin’?’

‘Cake,’ I said, and strode on.

The bus driver thought it was hilarious. I had to stand sideways in the aisle because of my skirt, which was very wide and held rigidly in shape from the waist downwards by panniers, ludicrous framework-like structures where the pockets were hidden.

I got off the bus, put the parcel under one arm, fished out my A to Z and turned down a side street. A little lad in a baseball cap asked me if I was a time-traveller. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But if you see the Doctor, promise that you won’t tell him you’ve seen me.’

He looked impressed. ‘What’s your Tardis like, then?’

‘Sedan chair,’ I said. One should try to keep in period.

‘What’s in the parcel?’

‘Anti-gravity,’ I said. ‘Urgently required on Gallifrey.’

‘Why have you got an A to Z, then?’ he called after me. Obviously a bright child.

I stopped briefly. ‘It only looks like an A to Z, ’ I said mysteriously.

And then at least four people asked whether I was going in for a fancy dress competition as a spare toilet roll cover. I attempted to smile charmingly and tell them that actually I was going as a tea cosy.

‘Just a minute, love,’ the last one said. ‘Don’t I know your voice?’

‘Do you have a cat?’ I asked.

‘Sure,’ he replied, mystified.

‘In that case, you probably have heard me before.’ I took a deep breath, drew myself up to my full height and said, ‘I am the voice of Moggy Brex.’

‘Wow!’ he said. ‘Can I have your autograph?’

‘My cat hates the stuff,’ said an interested onlooker.

‘So would I, if I was a cat,’ I said recklessly and moved on, hoping that the terms of my contract didn’t include not dissing Moggy Brex.

A few moments later a taxi slowed down at the kerb beside me and a man about my age, with brown curly hair, eyes that crinkled at the corners and a nice smile, put his head out of the window. At another time, in another place, I would have found him wildly attractive. He had the looks that normally make me go weak at the knees.

‘Excuse me.’

I ignored him.

‘Excuse me,’ he said again. ‘Where are you heading?’

I walked rapidly.

‘1785,’ I said. ‘Rift in the time/space continuum over Versailles.’

The taxi moved with me. Just what I needed, a kerb-crawler who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

‘Stop!’ he called to the cabbie, then opened the door and leapt out. He was wearing an early nineteenth-century naval uniform with a swallow-tail coat, white breeches and buckled shoes and there was a cocked hat under his arm—think Lord Nelson, but about a foot taller and with the full complement of arms and eyes. ‘I suspect we’re both going to the same place.’

It took at least five minutes to get me and the parcel into the taxi and he ended up squashed against me because of the panniers. ‘I don’t mind if you don’t mind,’ he said gallantly. ‘Remind me to straighten your wig when we get out.’ I had no option but to lean against him. I could feel his heart beating, smell his aftershave and gauge the size of his shoulders. I remembered how long it was since there had been anyone like him in my life.

All too soon we arrived at the venue, an impressive private house, and tumbled out of the taxi, for which the early nineteenth-century naval officer insisted on paying. Then we were directed around the house to a stunning garden and a large marquee. A three-piece band had been put under the willow tree and were working their way through favourites from Gilbert and Sullivan.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ said the naval officer. ‘Oh, hang on, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Oliver Kitteridge.’

‘Sally Grant.’

‘I suppose I should stay in period and bow,’ he said, and then bowed quite beautifully. ‘And your costume makes you far too early to be shaking hands.’

I curtsied, which was what they did circa 1785. Normally I’m quite good at curtseys—one has to be. But it felt very peculiar with the panniers. And the parcel.

‘I’ll get that drink,’ said Oliver. I parked my parcel beside a flower arrangement and took a glass of champagne gratefully. My estimation of Oliver, which was pretty high already, went up a few more notches. He said he’d left his hat behind the bar. ‘And I’m sorry about the costumes,’ he added. ‘I mean, about guests having to wear costumes. Kate’s always been crazy about fancy dress, ever since she was given a fairy princess outfit at the age of three. And last year some fool gave her the DVD of To Catch A Thief and she’s practically worn it out watching the costume ball scene. Talked about nothing else for a fortnight.’

He seemed to know an awful lot about Kate. Pennies started dropping in a way I didn’t want them to drop. ‘Just a minute,’ I said as my mind went blank on names and an unwelcome thought struck me. ‘You’re not Kate’s fiancé, are you?’

‘Good God, no,’ he said. ‘I’m her cousin. Let me get that glass refilled for you. And I’m not anybody’s fiancé, by the way. Or anybody’s anything.’

We were on our third glass of champagne when I said to him, ‘I suppose you’ve got a job in the City, as well?’

‘Sort of,’ he said. ‘Members of our family tend to end up studying maths at university. And then they go into the City.’

‘Like Kate,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ he said.

‘And now she’s marrying someone else in the City?’

‘Yup. Hugo. Plays the banjo, speaks three languages and cheats at Monopoly. I suppose we should go and greet the happy couple.’

I picked up the parcel and we went to find them. Kate, looking happier than I’d ever seen her, was dressed as a fairy princess—surprise, surprise—and Hugo was wearing knee-breeches and a frock coat. ‘People keep asking me if I’m Ken,’ he said. ‘Who’s Ken?’

‘He’s had a very sheltered upbringing,’ said Kate to me. ‘He’s only got brothers.’

‘Kate’s told me a lot about you,’ said Hugo charmingly, after they had fought their way into the parcel and admired the salad bowl.

‘She’s the voice of Florabunda deodorant,’ said Kate. ‘And Mrs Morrell’s Country Mushroom Pies. And Moggy Brex.’

‘Really?’ said Oliver. ‘That’s so much more interesting than what I do. Shall we go and get some food? It’s in the marquee. They might even have some of Mrs Morrell’s Country Mushroom Pies.’

Mercifully, Mrs Morrell would have been way out of her league. There were platters of blinis, beautifully decorated canapés and a carvery buffet with huge bowls of glistening multicoloured salads, then profiteroles and syllabub and shortcake and mounds of fresh strawberries and raspberries. And the champagne never stopped coming.

As we ate, Oliver asked me about my work, even the hanging-about-in-the-background jobs and the ice cream selling. I supposed that if he worked in an office surrounded by computer screens and financial data he would find what I did fascinating. I asked about his work but he said that he couldn’t say much for reasons of confidentiality.