Having only had the courage to open the joint bank statement that morning and seen the abyss of their overdraft, Georgie’s smile fell heavily among the bric-a-brac. She knew she ought to roll up her sleeves and help Marigold or Kitty, but somehow she felt paralysed in her high heels and too shy to talk to people who were too shy of her fame to talk to her. She found Ferdie sitting on a haybale eating a choc-ice. All his bounce had left him.
‘I’m sorry, Georgie. I’d go and look for him if he hadn’t lumbered me with this fucking pony. I thought I’d cured him of bunking off.’
The fortune-teller was hidden in a little white tent under the taller of the chestnut trees. As Georgie’s nails were clean after washing her hair and the queue had almost dried up, she decided to test her fate.
Outside, a sweet-faced woman with long dark hair was trying to quiet an adorable, but fretful, baby, and telling two pretty little red-headed girls, ‘Mummy won’t be long, then we’ll go back to Robinsgrove and swim in the pool.’
Next moment a red-headed girl stumbled out of the tent, tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘Oh Daisy, I can’t bear it,’ she wailed to the dark woman. ‘He’s not going to leave her.’
Georgie realized to her horror that it was Julia. There was no way of avoiding her. She was wearing a white shirt, blue schoolboy shorts and black pumps and the combination of tawny freckled skin and russet hair was absolutely stunning.
‘Oh Georgie — I’m so sorry. I tried to keep away today,’ sobbed Julia, ‘but I couldn’t help myself. He’s not going to leave you. You’re so lucky to have him.’
‘Come on, Julia.’ Daisy put an arm round her heaving shoulders. ‘Let’s go home. I’m so sorry,’ she turned to Georgie, ‘I do hope you’re OK.’
Georgie was not. Kicking off her beastly high heels she ran off to find Guy who was surrounded by eager helpers including Joy Hillary and Lady Chisleden, and having his photograph taken for the local paper as he pinned a tail on the donkey.
‘Got a tenner?’ he called out to Georgie.
‘No, I have not,’ hissed Georgie. ‘If you’re not worth a fortune, you’re certainly worth a fortune-teller. I’ve just bumped into Julia and Daisy France-Lynch.’
‘Julia and Daisy?’ Guy didn’t miss a beat. ‘How good of them to look in. Perhaps they could sell some of their paintings here next year, Joy, and give you a percentage. D’you know Daisy? She’s so sweet. There’s so much local talent.’ Then, turning to Lady Chisleden, ‘I think cocoa gives a better flavour actually, Gwendolyn. My mistake this year was to use drinking chocolate.’
‘I do not believe I am hearing this,’ said Georgie. ‘Guy, did you know Julia was coming?’
‘Of course not, I haven’t spoken to her for months. Settle down, Georgie.’ Guy drew her aside. ‘Think of other people rather than yourself for a change.’
‘Time for you to draw the raffle,’ interrupted Joy Hillary, whose eyes were on stalks.
‘I’ll make an announcement,’ said Guy striding off.
‘I do hope I win the Copenhagen dinner service,’ said Joy. ‘It’s so good of Hermione to donate it.’
‘Gives her another excuse not to invite anyone to dinner,’ muttered Meredith to an exhausted Kitty. ‘She’s already got three sets in the attic. She gets one every time she sings “Wonderful Copenhagen” as an encore in the Danish Opera House.’
Among other raffle presents were a basket of fruit from The Apple Tree, a set of crystal glass donated by the local antique shop, dinner for two from The Heavenly Host and an array of bottles from The Pearly Gates.
Georgie was mindlessly scuffling round in the drum praying that she wouldn’t pull out Julia’s ticket when everyone was distracted by a piercing shriek from the flower-tent. Ancient Miss Cricklade, who had only just left her post at the Nearly New Stall to check how many prizes she’d won, came scuttling up to Marigold.
‘All my wine’s been drunk,’ she screamed. ‘That’s three bottles and it’s him what’s done it.’
On cue out of the flower-tent, supported by Miss Paradise ’89 and ’90 with their crowns askew, came Lysander with his legs running away in every direction and his eyes crossing.
‘
‘Georgie!’ He tried to focus. ‘Oh Georgie, darling, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. When are you going to make your speech?’
Then Georgie flipped.
‘Piss off,’ she screamed, advancing on him with her bouquet. ‘Just piss off you little fucker to your playpen and never come back again.’
There was an appalled silence.
‘Georgie,’ wailed Lysander.
Desperate to reach her, he lunged forward, tripping over a guy rope and lumbering into the raffle table, sending everything flying with a deafening crash. The Copenhagen dinner service was in smithereens, as were the Waterford glass and the bottles from The Pearly Gates.
‘Put not your trust in princes,’ murmured Bob.
‘Time for a natural break,’ said Meredith who was quite hysterical with laughter.
Hermione, who had hysterics of a different kind, was whisked inside the vicarage by Joy Hillary. Guy seized control of the microphone telling people to leave now to avoid broken glass, assuring them that the raffle would be drawn at a later date and all the winners would get their prizes in due course.
‘And that little shit is going to pay for them,’ he said grimly as he switched off the microphone.
After the broken glass and china had been swept up, organizers and helpers retreated to the vicarage for a well-earned drink while the money was counted. Georgie, who was shaking with mortification, only wanted to slope off home but Guy insisted she came too.
‘You’ve made a complete fool of yourself, Panda. You owe it to the committee and to me to put in an appearance and show a bit of contrition.’ The moment they entered the vicarage, he was off congratulating stall holders.
Hermione, as a result of smelling salts, two large whiskies and a vat of buttering up, was recovered enough to draw Georgie aside. Having misinterpreted Georgie’s tight lips earlier, she said: ‘I want to put your mind at rest. Guy admires me — very much indeed — it was so caring of him to buy my posy, but I’m far too much of a friend of yours to encourage him. Anyway he’s not my type.’
‘Why d’you kiss him on the fucking mouth every time you see him?’ Georgie was appalled to hear herself saying.
‘Oh Georgie.’ Hermione put her head on one side. ‘I thought by showing you everything was in the open, you’d realize nothing was going on.’
This time misreading Georgie’s stunned silence for approval, Hermione went on: ‘We all feel so sorry for Guy, he’s such a darling man, so dependable and so different when you’re not around glowering at him like a wardress. He may have lied to you, but men do lie when they’re frightened. Anyway, any man of gumption keeps a mistress,’ Hermione lowered her voice. ‘You wouldn’t want to be married to a wimp. Take a leaf out of Kitty Rannaldini’s book and accept it. Brickie knows how to behave with dignity.’
‘Because she doesn’t kick against the lack of pricks,’ snarled Georgie.
‘Oh, I’m sure Rannaldini fulfils her every need.’
Stumbling away from Hermione, Georgie searched for a friendly face, but all the stall holders, holding their glasses of cheap wine like unexploded bombs, averted their eyes. Poor Guy to be lumbered with such a liability. Did liabilities always turn men into liars?
‘I wasn’t always like this,’ Georgie wanted to plead.
‘You all right?’ It was Marigold.
‘No, I’m not. That fucking Lysander!’
‘Hush.’ Marigold drew Georgie towards the window. The ledge was covered in dust. A vase of roses was dripping petals. Joy Hillary’s thoughts had been elsewhere this week.
‘And what were you doing letting Guy buy you drinks?’
‘I was thirsty,’ said Marigold apologetically, ‘and Ay do like him. Oh, Georgie, we’ve made six thousand pounds and Ferdie’s just given us a cheque for a thousand to pay for Lysander’s breakages.’
