The conversation was once again becalmed. “So,” Carole battled on, “I now know about all your immediate family, do I?”
“Except, of course, for Uncle Robert.”
“Oh yes – Uncle Robert.”
In her echo of Gaby’s words, for the first time Marie Martin displayed genuine enthusiasm, and also her French origins – the ‘t’ at the end of the name was silent.
“He’s Mum’s brother.”
“Always a very lively person to have around. And he’s always adored Pascale. Having no children of his own, he thinks of her almost as his own daughter. You’d like him, Carole. Everyone likes my brother Robert. Don’t they, Howard?”
Her husband nodded, though quite possibly he hadn’t heard the question.
“Yes, Robert’ll certainly be at the wedding. He’s areal live wire. We must get him to do a speech. He’s very funny when he does public speaking – just a natural at it.”
Inwardly Carole flinched. Over the years she’d suffered from too many public speakers who were naturals at it.
“Actually, I’ve had a thought…” Now her brother had been mentioned, Marie Martin seemed quite happy to take over the conversation. “Perhaps Robert could give you away, Pascale.”
“No.” The suggestion stung Gaby. “Dad will give me away. It’s always the father who gives the bride away. You only get someone else to do it if the father’s not around.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” But Marie sounded disappointed. And her next words made it seem as if she was trying to convince herself. “Your father’ll do it absolutely fine.”
“It’s all very exciting,” Carole observed meaninglessly. “Everything about the wedding.”
“Yes. You will like Robert,” Marie repeated. Her brother seemed to be her prize exhibit. As a couple, the Martins might not have much to show for themselves, but they did at least have Robert. “It’d be nice if you could meet him before the wedding.”
“Yes. I’d love that.” Unease encouraged fulsomeness in Carole.
“I know!” Her mother’s sudden boldness was so out of character as to prompt a curious look from Gaby. “We’ll give an engagement party for you and Stephen.”
“Oh, I don’t think we really want that.”
But Marie Martin was impervious to the warning in her daughter’s eye. “Yes, you’ll love it. It’ll make your dad and me feel better about not making the wedding arrangements.”
“Mum, you don’t want the trouble of anything like that. It’d be a lot of hassle.”
“I’m not suggesting we do it in the flat. We’ll go to one of the local hotels, and get them to cater it.”
“I really don’t think – ”
“There was that hotel you went to that function at, wasn’t there, Howard? You remember, last Christmas.”
Her husband opted for a ‘Yes’, which he reckoned was a safe response to most questions.
“What was it called now?”
This he seemed to hear, because he replied that he couldn’t remember.
“We’ll find out when we get back home. And I’ll have to sort out a date when Robert’s free. But it’ll be such fun.”
If it was anything like the lunch, Carole wasn’t so sure about that. But further discussion of the engagement party was stopped by the arrival of a waiter with the three starters. When conversation was reestablished, Marie, after her brief flurry of animation, had shrunk back into her shell.
Still, there was one topic on which Carole genuinely wanted to check the Martins’ opinion, and this seemed as good an opportunity as any to broach it.
“Marie, Howard, I’m sure you’ve already had this discussion with your daughter – but I wondered whatyou thought about a newspaper announcement of the wedding?”
Alarm flickered instantly in Gaby’s eyes. “Steve and I have talked about it further, Carole, and we’ve decided we don’t want any announcement.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t going to be stopped by that. “I just wondered, though, what your parents thought. I mean, to me, an engagement doesn’t seem complete until it’s been trumpeted abroad in the national press.”
Marie Martin’s face had lost the little colour with which it had started the lunch. Her eyes widened as she murmured, “No. I don’t want it in the press. Nor does Howard. We don’t want anything about it in the press.”
And Carole realized that what she could see in the woman’s face was not just self-effacement, but fear. And that, indeed, except for the brief moment when she had proposed the idea of an engagement party, Marie Martin’s predominant emotion throughout the lunch had been fear.
There was something of which she was desperately afraid.
? The Witness at the Wedding ?
Five
“And the phone has been ominously quiet too.”
“Gita, all your friends know you’ve been ill.”
“Thank you for the word ‘ill’.”
She smiled wryly. “But I wasn’t actually thinking about my friends. It’s been very silent on the professional front too. No editors ringing me with offers of work.”
“Time enough for that.”
Gita grimaced. “Not that much time. I am a freelance; I need some kind of income.”
Jude grinned. “I would say this is very encouraging news.”
“What?”
“The fact that you’re worrying about work. It shows you’re getting back to normal. Come on, let me top up your wine.”
“You know, on the instructions for the pills, it says one should avoid alcohol.”
“Yes, I know it says that, but I’m afraid you’ve ended up in an environment where you can’t avoid alcohol. You’re here in Woodside Cottage with me. No escape. Social decency, apart from anything else, demands that you accept my hospitality.”
“Well…”
“Besides, you’re not about to drive or work heavy machinery. The worst that can happen is that you feel drowsy. And if you feel drowsy, then all you have to do is fall asleep.”
“Which is what I seem to be doing most of the time, anyway.”
“Exactly. It’s your body telling you it wants lots of lovely, delicious mindless sleep.”
“Hm.”
“Which can be assisted by copious draughts of alcohol.”
“In that case…” Gita shrugged, and held out her glass, which was topped up with Chilean Chardonnay. “Cheers.”
There was a silence after they had both taken substantial slurps. Then Jude spoke. “If there are people you want to see – you know, people you want to invite down here, that’s fine.”
Gita gave a strained grin. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’m quite ready for that.” She looked troubled. “There
“That’s fine. Just go at your own pace. Don’t rush yourself. There’s no pressure.”
“Except, as I say, the financial pressure of making a living.”
“Don’t worry about it. As I say, time enough.”
“Mm.” Gita reached out and took her friend’s hand. “I’m not going to spend every minute while I’m here saying, ‘Thank you, Jude.’ I’m going to save it up for one big eruption of gratitude when I leave. But I would just like to say it now – a little keep-you-going thank you. Thank you very much, Jude.”
“Gita, it’s my pleasure.”
