“Yes, that was the plan,” said Roger, “but things changed. Sandy and I decided to drive down together. She’s out looking at weekend cottages right now.”
“Weekend cottages?” It was too much to take in.
“Yes, Sandy thought since I had to come down anyway… I’ve been on at her about getting a place down here. We could be nearer to you.”
“A weekend cottage,” repeated the Major, still struggling with the implications of this person named Sandy.
“I’m dying for you to meet her. She should be here any minute.” Roger scanned the room in case she had suddenly come in. “She’s American, from New York. She has a rather important job in the fashion business.”
“Mrs. Ali is waiting for me,” said the Major. “It would be rude—”
“Oh, I’m sure she’ll understand,” interrupted Roger.
Outside the air was chill. The view of the town and the sea beyond was smudged around the edges with darkness. Mrs. Ali had parked her Honda just inside the curly iron gates with their depictions of flying dolphins. She waved and stepped from the car to greet him. She was holding a paperback and half a cheeseburger wrapped in its garish, oily paper. The Major was venomously opposed to the awful fast-food places that were gradually taking over the ugly stretch of road between the hospital and the seafront, but he was prepared to find her indulgence charmingly out of character.
“Mrs. Ali, won’t you come in and have some tea?” he said.
“No, thank you, Major, I don’t want to intrude,” she said. “But please don’t rush on my account. I’m quite fine here.” She indicated the book in her hand.
“We have quite a buffet inside,” offered the Major. “We even have homemade Madeira cake.”
“I’m quite happy, really,” she said, smiling at him. “You take your time with your family and I’ll be waiting when you’re ready.”
The Major was miserably confused. He was tempted to climb in the car and go right now. It would be early enough when they got back to invite Mrs. Ali in for tea. They could discuss her new book. Perhaps she might listen to some of the funnier aspects of the day.
“You’re going to think me impossibly rude,” he said. “But my son managed to come down after all, by car.”
“How lovely for you,” she said.
“Yes, and he would like—of course I told him I’d already arranged to go home with you….”
“No, no, you must go home with your son,” she said.
“I’m most awfully sorry,” he said. “He seems to have acquired a girlfriend. Apparently they’ve been looking at weekend houses.”
“Ah.” She understood right away. “A weekend house near you? How wonderful that will be.”
“I might see what I can do to help them with that,” he said, almost to himself. He looked up. “Are you sure you won’t come in and have some tea?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” she said. “You must enjoy your family and I must be getting back.”
“I really am in your debt,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough for your gracious assistance.”
“It’s nothing at all,” she said. “Please don’t mention it.” She gave him a slight bow, got in the car, and reversed it in a tight circle that flung gravel in a wide arc. The Major tried to wave but felt dishonest, causing the gesture to fail mid-arm. Mrs. Ali did not look back.
As her little blue car pulled away, he had to resist the urge to run after it. He had held the promise of the ride home as if it were a small coal in his hand, to warm him in the dark press of the crowd. The Honda braked at the gate and the tires squirted gravel again as it lurched to avoid the sweeping oval headlights of a large black car, which showed no shift or sudden braking. It only slid up the driveway and parked in the large open space the other guests had politely left clear in front of the door.
The Major, trudging back up the gravel incline, arrived slightly out of breath just as the driver reholstered a silver lipstick and opened her door. More from instinct than inclination, he held the door for her. She looked surprised and then smiled as she unfolded tanned and naked legs from the close confines of the champagne leather cockpit.
“I’m not going to do that thing where I assume you’re the butler and you turn out to be Lord So-and-So,” she said, smoothing down her plain black skirt. It was of expensive material but unexpected brevity. She wore it with a fitted black jacket worn over nothing—at least, no shirt was immediately visible in the cleavage, which, due to her height and vertiginous heels, was almost at the Major’s eye level.
“The name is Pettigrew,” he said. He was reluctant to admit anything more before he had to. He was still trying to process the assault of her American vowels and the flash of impossible white teeth.
“Well, that narrows it down to the right place,” she said. “I’m Sandy Dunn. I’m a friend of Roger Pettigrew?” The Major considered denying Roger’s presence.
“I believe he is talking with his aunt just now,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the open hallway as if by the merest glance he could map the invisible crowd upstairs. “Perhaps I should get him for you?”
“Oh, just point me in his general direction,” she said, and moved past him. “Is that lasagna I smell? I’m starving.”
“Do come in,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Pettigrew.”
“It’s Major, actually…” he said, but she was already gone, stiletto heels clicking on the garish green and white tiles. She left a trail of citrus perfume in the air. It was not unpleasant, he thought, but it hardly offset the appalling manners.
The Major found himself loitering in the hall, unwilling to face what was inevitable upstairs. He would have to be formally introduced to the Amazon. He could not believe Roger had invited her. She would no doubt make his prior reticence out to be some sort of idiocy. Americans seemed to enjoy the sport of publicly humiliating one another. The occasional American sitcoms that came on TV were filled with childish fat men poking fun at others, all rolled eyeballs and metallic taped laughter.
He sighed. Of course, he would have to pretend to be pleased, for Roger’s sake. Best to brazen it out rather than to appear embarrassed in front of Marjorie.
Upstairs, the mood was slowly shifting into cheerfulness. With their grief sopped up by a heavy lunch and their spirits fueled by several drinks, the guests were blossoming out into normal conversations. The minister was just inside the doorway discussing the diesel consumption of his new Volvo with one of Bertie’s old work colleagues. A young woman, with a squirming toddler clasped to her lap, was extolling the benefits of some workout regime to a dazed Jemima.
“It’s like spinning, only the upper body is a full boxing workout.”
“Sounds hard,” said Jemima. She had taken off the festive hat and her highlighted hair was escaping from its bun. Her head slumped toward her right shoulder, as if her thin neck was having difficulty holding it up. Her young son, Gregory, finishing a leg of cold chicken, dropped the bone in her upturned palm and scampered off toward the desserts.
“You do need a good sense of balance,” the young woman agreed.
It was nice, he supposed, that Jemima’s friends had come to support her. They had created a little clump in the church, taking over several rows toward the front. However, he was at a loss to imagine why they had considered it appropriate to bring their children. One small baby had screamed at random moments during the service and now three children, covered in jam stains, were sitting under the buffet table licking the icing off cupcakes. When they were done with each cake, they slipped it, naked and dissolving with spit, back onto a platter. Gregory snatched an untouched cake and ran by the French doors where Marjorie stood with Roger and the American. Marjorie reached a practiced hand to stop him.
“You know there’s no running in the house, Gregory,” she said, grabbing his elbow.
“Ow!” he squealed, twisting in her grip to suggest she was torturing him. She gave a faint smile and pulled him close to bend down and kiss his sweaty hair. “Be good now, dearie,” she said and released him. The boy stuck out his tongue and scuttled away.
