girlfriend.”
Albert nodded noncommittally. He’d also heard from Ruthven, gaining the distinct impression in the course of the conversation that Ruthven was trying to discourage him from showing up. Fat ruddy chance, thought Albert. It had only put the seal on his decision to come.
“On the way down I was trying to remember the last time the whole clan was together like this. And I couldn’t. Remember, I mean. It seems that even on one or another of his birthdays, one or another of us was out of favor.”
“Out of the will, to be specific. Have you talked to him at all?”
“I rang to tell him I was on my way. Maria took a message.”
“I thought it was regrets only. I have no regrets.”
Sarah smiled. “What do you think the story is with-”
The pub door again swung open, fanning the fire into loud crackles of falling wood. This time, two lean black figures scurried in from the gloom.
George, shrugging out of a black leather jacket, glanced at the pair at the table, then looked around him, as if disappointed at the small audience. George never went anywhere he didn’t expect or hope for a crush of frenzied females to come out of the woodwork. Sarah didn’t recognize the girl who followed him in, flapping her arms and spraying water in all directions, surmising it was George’s latest semi-permanent, and searching memory for her name. Natasha, that was it.
Sarah and Albert made room for them at the table. Albert noticed that, by creating some unnecessary disturbance for the rest of the party, George managed to seat himself where he had the best view into the gilt- edged mirror hanging on the wall opposite. Also, that his girlfriend was left to fend for herself in disentangling herself from her coat, George being engaged in arranging his long blonde hair back into the artfully tousled look he paid a London salon to maintain for him, at a cost of the average working man’s weekly pay packet.
And they say actors are vain, thought Albert.
After exchanging the usual pleasantries (“If we’d traveled any farther, the wind would have sent us into a ditch,” George explained), the three siblings quickly turned to the topic uppermost in all their minds. Natasha, unsurprisingly, as quickly looked bored-she had heard it all a million times on the drive down-and hoved off in search of drinks.
“Right,” said George, clasping his manicured hands on the table in a without-further-ado manner. “I think we’re all agreed that we’ve got to put a stop to this farce. The question is, how?”
“I had thought a confrontation might be in order. What they call an intervention,” offered Sarah.
They both looked at her as if she were mad.
“He’s not a drug user,” said George, patiently, as to a child.
“I know that,” she said, with some asperity. “But what’s the alternative? I’ve never known reasoning with him one-on-one to produce the desired result. A show of force, on the other hand…”
“I think Sarah’s right,” said Albert.
“Should we include Ruthven?” she asked.
“No!” This from George and Albert simultaneously.
“He’ll only try to grab a bigger share,” said Albert, “and we’ll be back where we started. Provided, of course, the whole thing isn’t a joke to begin with.”
“He’s never gone this far before,” said George. “This is different, I tell you. Playing around with the will practically every week is one thing. This marriage is another. I want to know-I demand to know from him-what the arrangements are.”
“Demand, do you?” said Albert. “That will get you far. Besides, do you seriously believe he’s going through with it? I don’t. I think he’s playing games with us, hoping to spark a reaction. I’d be willing to bet there is no bride, he’s just making this up.”
“Why?” asked Sarah, wanting to believe he was right.
“Because of the way he’s gone about this. The invitation only last week. The fact that not one of us, so far as I know, has ever heard of or seen the bride before. It’s almost like he’s done the one thing he knew would send us all scurrying up here, as if he wanted us all on the spot, together, and this was the only way he could dream up that he was fairly certain would work.”
“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” said Sarah. “But the same thought occurred to me. Perhaps he’s just… lonely… wanting to see us all together, knowing it would take something like this to bring us running, as you say.”
“Fine family feeling at last? Decades too late for that. But… perhaps. He couldn’t just ask us in the normal way, that’s for certain,” said Albert. “Knowing we’d all suspect a trap if he did.” He took a long draught of his ale, wondering why it seemed to be sobering him up rather than having the desired, memory-obliterating effect. “God, for a normal father!” he added with feeling.
“Dysfunction breeds dysfunction,” Sarah intoned. “We’re all classic COA: Children of Alcoholics.”
“Speak for yourself,” said George, suppressing a glance at Albert. “I never once saw Adrian really drink to excess, come to think of it.
Nor Chloe, although it might have done her a world of good. She seems to be making up for lost time in more recent years, though.”
Albert nodded drunken agreement. Whatever led him to drink, he felt, it wasn’t his parents’ example, just his father’s continued existence.
Natasha had by this time returned to the table with drinks for herself and George (for which she had paid, Albert noted) and by mutual consent, or rather, bowing to the inevitable, the talk turned to George’s latest tour of the European art galleries, which tour he pronounced to be a triumph. He next launched into his plans for a working vacation in America the next year. Albert took advantage of the moment to study George’s companion. She was a stunner, and no question: coal black hair shimmered from a center part to frame high, delicate cheekbones on a heart-shaped face. She had strong dark brows and a high-bridged nose, features that would have overpowered most faces, but made hers that much more memorable. She wore the ubiquitous black sweater and slacks, but in an indefinably stylish way that recalled photos of Jackie O dodging photographers rather than the millions of young women who now wore that particular New York uniform. How a vapid dumbshit like his brother reeled these women in, Albert couldn’t imagine.
Seeing his eyes on her, she smiled and spoke for the first time, nearly reading his thoughts. It was a lovely smile.
“We’re all wearing black,” she pointed out. “You’d think we were headed to a funeral.”
“No such bloody luck,” said George.
4. THE HAPPY COUPLE
IT WAS SOME TIME later before the party of four was to be seen wending its reluctant way in the general direction of Waverley Court, a motley procession comprised of one red sports car, weaving somewhat less erratically than when it had arrived at the pub; one ancient Mini, this belonging to Sarah, that barely qualified as a passenger automobile apart from having the required number of wheels; and one roadster of timeless and well- preserved vintage containing George and Natasha. Having made the mistake of letting Albert take the lead, bobbing and weaving, they tooled faithfully behind him, not daring to risk overtaking in case he made one of his frequent and unexplained swings over into the oncoming lane. Fortunately, the wind had died and they were quite alone in this cortege, having earlier turned off the tarmac onto several miles of dirt road leading up to the manor house.
A final twist of the wheel-Sarah, following the red lights on the back of Albert’s car, could not at first tell if he was inexplicably veering off the edge again or merely following course-and Waverley Court hove into view. God, it was worse than she remembered. Although ablaze with light, there was nothing in its hulking mass as it rose from the surrounding mist that spoke to her of welcome. It only needed Mrs. Danvers running about the garden with matches and a can of petrol.
A silver Rolls Royce that could only belong to Ruthven was parked proprietarily at precise right angles to the steps leading up to the front door. She guessed, rightly, he and Lillian had arrived early in order to establish a
