‘They sound wacky.’
I’d failed, they’re not. George had the wrong end of the stick.
‘Not exactly. I’m too unrelaxed to be wacky.’
She laughed as if trying to put me at ease. ‘Boy, I’d love to see some one day.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, returning her smile. ‘It is kind of Lavender to have told you what I do.’
‘It’s only because she knows I can be such a bore about art. I guess she wanted to palm me off on you. Bad luck.’
‘You won’t bore me, I could talk about it forever.’ Slight exaggeration but I was throwing myself in. If I want to leave early I must make an impression.
‘What do you do?’ I asked.
‘I used to work for an antique dealer.’
‘And now?’
‘Now…’ It was as if I should recognise her by name. ‘Now I’m a presenter.’
‘Sorry, I should have known.’
‘Not at all. You will know. It isn’t out yet.’
‘When is it?’ I said, implying I had a TV.
(A documentary on antiques – it’s not as if I’d be missing much.)
‘11th May, BBC Two, 9pm. Not the first time I’ve said that. It’s been in a very long broadcast queue. Made it a year ago but apparently that’s how these things go. I suppose the editing takes a bit of time and then there’s the consents. Just so many rules these days.’ She huffed.
‘Is that for the owners?’
‘What?’
‘Is it consent from the people who own the antiques?’
George flung her head back and as her hand shook with amusement she miraculously managed not to spill any wine out of her glass.
‘How hilarious you are. It’s got absolutely nothing to do with antiques.’
I giggled as if it was the right thing to do.
‘I’m the face of a documentary on art fraud.’
‘Wow,’ I was startled. I couldn’t bring myself to say any more.
‘Had me down as an Antiques Roadshow go-er, did you?’
‘No, not at all.’ My cheeks were burning.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to today?’
‘Come on, you two,’ came Lavender’s order, ‘break it up a bit.’
She nestled her ample behind between us and offered up a plate of cold cheese vol-au-vents.
‘You mustn’t keep talking to each other.’ She shunted George’s shoulder. ‘Have you met James Crow?’
‘Hello,’ he said.
James Crow was very tidy, his accent hard to distinguish and the distance between his legs suggested he’d spent today playing golf. But before I could decide on any more, a sharp ‘Hello, I’m Jessica Jones’ came into my left ear.
This short thin woman in a stiff linen sack was clearly well practised in working a room. ‘You’re the only person I haven’t met yet,’ she beamed.
‘Susie Mahl.’ I smiled, thinking it unnecessary to shake hands.
Nevertheless hers sprung out and as our palms clasped she said, ‘Mahl, that’s unusual. Is it your married name or your maiden name?’
‘Maiden name.’
‘Ah, so you’re a professional like me. How nice.’
I looked a little confused and she explained, ‘When I met my husband I’d already established my career so I couldn’t possibly have taken his name. Rather a bold move in my day.’
‘What do you do?’ I asked, assuming she must be a high-flier.
‘I’m a part-time literary translator. French and Portuguese. And you?’
‘I’m a painter.’
‘You mean an artist?’
Amusingly, I think, Jessica is trying to confirm I’m not a painter-decorator without having to ask.
‘Yes, an artist who paints.’
‘And how do you know Lavender? She’s so good at mixing the ages.’
‘Tonight is the first time I’ve met her, but she knew my mother when they were young.’
‘What a lovely connection.’
I gave a light smile and asked the same question back.
‘Philip, my husband over there,’ she pointed at a man whose podgy hand rose as his fingers gave a little flutter towards us, ‘is her daughter’s godfather.’
‘So you’re good friends?’
‘Yes, I suppose I could have put it like that.’
‘But you’d rather give him a role.’ This popped out my mouth completely unintentionally. Oh crumbs, my thoughts are turning themselves into words, a sure sign I’m far too tired for this. I compensated with a huge smile confirming – for her – I completely agreed with how she’d put it.
‘Dinner,’ announced Lavender and I dived out the sitting room into the kitchen.
‘Suz, be a star and put one of these on each plate, please.’
I looked down at ten sandy potatoes glued to a baking tray and when I stretched for the oven gloves I was told, ‘Don’t worry with those. Everything’s been out of the oven a little while.’
For dinner we were having gammon steaks, baked potatoes and skin-on-the-top white sauce. The full plates were being fed through a hatch by which Philip stood helpfully laying them round the table. Names had been scrawled on pieces of notepaper and, once seen, people began to sit down.
‘Oh no, Suz,’ said Lavender, ‘I forgot this. Do be a saint and take it round.’
She handed me a packet of pre-chopped parsley, curly – urgh – and motioned for me to take a saucer off the Welsh dresser. I followed her instruction and left the kitchen. Little pinches of two fingers and a thumb sprinkled it on top of the thick white sauce.
‘Here you go,’ said Philip, swapping the herb in my hand for a full plate in his. ‘That’s us all done.’
I sat down next to the dapper drinks server and the stump of the table. That’s the end of the table with no one there. If it was my supper party I’d have had uneven sides, and a person at each end. Saving those like me from one-sided company and a high possibility of the conversation going dead. But come to think of it there’s something wonderfully relaxed about Lavender’s lack of pre-planning – or chaotic planning if you look at it like this. Doorbell – no answer; laid table – cold food; name places – uneven numbers. I’m all of a sudden rather amused by how this evening’s going to pan out. A far cry
