Catherine Alliott: A Rural Affair

Sue looked taken aback. Ah, spot on. How interesting. And I’m not normally a bitch, but it felt surprisingly good. Then she looked thunderous. Just so you know, Sue, I thought, bestowing a sweet smile on her. Then you can make your own mind up, can’t you? But best to be informed, hm? I turned to Luke, who looked like a small boy caught with his hand in the sweetie tin – either that or with his trousers down. Oddly, though, as I regarded him gazing sheepishly at the floor, I realized I wasn’t about to follow through with another waspish remark. Wasn’t going to tear him off a strip. Principally because – and this was quite comforting – I wasn’t inordinately distressed. In fact, I decided, there was something about his chutzpah I rather admired. Perhaps because I wasn’t going to have to be too closely acquainted with it? Could view it from a distance? It wasn’t going to be my problem.

I let him sweat a moment, then gave a wry smile. ‘ Bon chance , Luke,’ I said quietly, realizing I meant it. His eyes came up immediately to meet mine: we communed silently a moment.

He grinned. ‘Yeah, you too, Poppy.’

I turned and walked away. My heart was pounding a bit, but I wasn’t too out of sorts. Although I wouldn’t mind finding someone to talk to pretty quickly. Jennie seemed to have disappeared, but – oh good, Peggy was standing by the fireplace in her black sequins. She was ostensibly talking to Sylvia, but actually watching this little scene unfold.

‘Sylvia was just telling me,’ she told me softly as I approached, ‘that the piano teacher is perhaps not all he appears.’

‘He said he’d teach my granddaughter, Araminta,’ Sylvia said heatedly. ‘It was my birthday present to her, and of course I didn’t think to pin him down on a price. Well, my dear, I’ve just received a bill for a hundred and fifty pounds for three lessons! Can you believe it!’

‘Yes, I can, actually,’ I murmured.

‘But fifty pounds a lesson! Who does he think he is, Elton John?’

‘Different sexual inclination,’ observed Peggy as Jennie approached, flustered. ‘And nowhere near as talented.’

‘Sorry, Poppy. Got that wrong,’ Jennie muttered.

‘Not to worry,’ I soothed. ‘Just a bit too much grey for my liking.’

‘Grey?’ Sylvia peered over her spectacles. ‘No, he doesn’t look grey. But he’s clearly a bit of a spiv. You stay away from that one, Poppy. We don’t want you getting it disastrously wrong again, do we?’

I was left rather speechless at this. Was I so much public property? My affairs, my life, discussed so minutely, even at the Old Rectory? Over breakfast and the Frank Cooper’s? Suddenly London and all its anonymity appealed. Clapham, perhaps, where I’d spent many happy years. And surely the schools weren’t all a hotbed of underage sex with crack cocaine on every street corner? As I sank into my champagne I found Dad at my elbow.

‘All right, love? Children settled?’

‘Yes, thanks, Dad.’

‘Glad you came, then?’ He puffed out his chest, pleased with himself. ‘And wasn’t our host big about it? Nice man, just had a long chat,’ he turned to nod in Sam’s direction.

The hall was thinning out now as people filed into dinner and I saw him over by a tall window framed by ancient tapestry drapes, talking to Hope. In much the same way as Luke had been talking to Saintly Sue. Intently; leaning over her, but not flirtatiously, protectively. She was looking through her lashes at the floor, beautiful in a long white Grecian dress. She was blushing a bit. He pressed his case gently. The body language of men in love. Which I’d now seen in stereo.

The wave of jealousy that surged through me rocked me. All at once I knew why I’d been so desperate to come here, what clambering into a filthy lorry with wet hair and odd-coloured pop socks under my old dress had been about. Seeing Luke with Sue had made me feel irritated. Seeing Sam with Hope made me feel desolate. And very, very alone. I’d kept Sam Hetherington at bay in my mind; kept him in a little box which I opened only occasionally, when I knew I was in a strong frame of mind. I’d protected myself from falling in love with him. Now he was bursting out like a jack-in-a-box, making himself even more lovable as he exposed his vulnerability, laid bare his soul across the room. Hope looked away as he spoke. I saw her swallow, her white neck lovely. Over by the door into the dining room, I saw Chad, watching the scene. His eyes were haunted, terrible. My breath seemed laboured, but I turned to my father.

‘Really glad, Dad.’

‘What, love?’

He’d forgotten his original question, so long had I been in answering.

‘I’m really glad I came. It’s about time I got a few things sorted out in my head.’

And with that, leaving my father looking slightly bemused, I took his arm, and swept him into the dining room for dinner.

A sea of round tables covered in white cloths and flower arrangements and surrounded by little gilt chairs had been squeezed into the room, which, although large, was not built for feeding two hundred. A seating plan was pinned to a board at the door. With the noise level rising dramatically, I scanned it and found my place. Naturally I was Mary Granger for the night, and naturally I had a deaf octogenarian on one side, and Odd Bob on the other. He looked pleased as punch with his draw whilst I thought: beam me up, Scotty.

Bob spent the first course telling me how handy he was around the house: how he could put up shelves, fix the plumbing, cook, too. How, last year, he’d done the whole of Christmas lunch for him and his aunt. I nodded and smiled politely, feeling all the time as if I were pushing torrents of dam water away from my flooding heart. I escaped him for the main course and had a shouting match with the old man on my left, one hand cupped to his ear as he yelled, ‘What? What? ’ Then I turned back, and Bob proposed. Asked if I’d marry him on Valentine’s Day, which was a Saturday, he’d checked. Said we could live at his place while we looked for somewhere bigger. Told me he liked children. He squeezed my thigh and I slapped his hand. During pudding he squeezed my thigh again and I pushed my chair back. Quite loudly. A few people turned to look. I pulled it in, knowing my face was flaming. Then I warned him, in no uncertain terms, that if he tried that again, I’d deck him. Bob looked astonished. Why, I could see him wondering, would I hit a man who really was my last and only hope? All there was left for Poppy Shilling in the man pool?

I’d shifted quite a lot of wine during dinner for obvious reasons, but even I knew I was more than well oiled when I swayed into the disco sometime later. I’d bided my time, waited at my table until most people had gone through, Sam and Hope included, I noticed. Finally I followed the throng, yet another drink in hand for courage. The dark little room, lined with tatty, leather-bound books, so presumably a library, was throbbing with drum and base and strobe light, packed to the gunnels with gyrating bodies. In the flashing light, I saw Chad standing on the edge of the dance floor. He still looked haunted. I glanced across, expecting to see Hope dancing with Sam. She was certainly dancing with someone, a blond chap, though; I could only see the back of him, couldn’t see his face. And not a clinchy number, more throwing herself around the floor in a sexy manner, lots of hip action. I was just wondering whether to go and talk to Chad when there was a voice in my ear.

‘Hello, Poppy.’

I turned too quickly and nearly toppled. A terribly attractive older man with silvery hair swept off a high forehead and twinkly blue eyes smiled down at me. He held my arm as I lurched towards him. ‘Oh – Tom! Hi, there!’