‘I always think Lydia looks very nice,’ said Flora, whose own taste ran to French jeans and plain white T-shirts, and things from the Harvey Nick’s sales for more formal occasions; ‘for a woman of her age.’
‘Miaow!’ cried Simon, and they both laughed. One thing which cemented their relationship was that gin always put them in a good humour; so generally they drank some every evening.
‘And that’s another thing,’ said Simon.
‘What is?’ said Flora.
‘Well, her age. I mean, Lydia: it was one thing when one first knew her; fair enough; loose cogs – you expect them when they’re in their twenties, early thirties. Missed the first bus, but there’ll still be a few more; but now, ten years or so later – well: precious few buses. Probably none. Probably missed the last one. And there she still is loose-cogging around the scene, just getting in the way – it’s embarrassing.’
Flora was appalled. ‘Well, really!’ she exclaimed. ‘How –’
‘And then she has to make a meal of it,’ said Simon, ‘with all those jumble-sale outfits. And that itty-bitty flat of hers. And she always wants a lift. She’s just so pointless.’
‘Mother of God,’ said Flora.
‘You what?’
‘Mother,’ said Flora. ‘Of God.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Honestly, Simon. If you could hear yourself. The cruelty. That poor woman. What has she ever done to you?’
Simon had been recalled, unexpectedly, to sobriety. He considered the question. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘She just depresses me.’
‘Ah,’ said Flora. ‘Yes. I see. Yes. Make me another drink will you? There’s just time for another before we eat.’ She watched while Simon made the drink. Lydia was sometimes a bit of a downer, that was a fact; but she couldn’t quite tell why. Oh, Mother of God: pray for us sinners.
When Flora had got herself married, and then Claire, and then Louisa – well, it rather left Lydia out in the cold, one could say: not that she seemed to care. Well, to be sure, it was – then – early days yet: it was a bit early for caring. But still: they (and Alison Brooke, who had vanished to New York, and who therefore did not in the same way thereafter count) had all been friends together, and it was a bit tricky, insofar as they still were, to keep Lydia in the frame when she had no husband or other partner. It was not such a fag while she was still youngish, and attractive – ish! said Simon – but it got trickier by the year. And now she was forty-ish, and it required a certain breadth of vision even to pose the question of whether or not she was, still, attractive. Ish!
‘Attractive? Lydia? You must be joking!’ said Simon.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Robert, husband to Louisa. ‘She’s not bad, is she?’
‘If you go for that style of thing,’ amended Alex, husband to Claire.
‘Lydia is beautiful,’ said little Thomas. ‘I love Lydia.’
‘Lydia has lovely clothes,’ said Nell. ‘She gets them from jumble sales. Can we go to a jumble sale, Mum?’
‘Lydia is pathetic,’ said Janey. ‘Please don’t ask her to come with us to France, Mum. She’ll ruin everything.’
‘How unkind you are,’ said Flora. ‘How do you mean, pathetic?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Janey. ‘She just is. She tries too hard.’ People often did, with Janey, for she had a critical mien, but it was not a bit of use; it was indeed the worst thing one could possibly do. Janey was one very tough young woman.
Five years ago, when Thomas was a tiny baby, just home from the hospital, and Simon had had to go away on location for six weeks, Lydia had come to stay, because with Nell having been but four years old – although Janey was eight and reasonably self-sufficient – it was all a bit much for the rather flighty au pair: and Lydia had been – providentially, for the Beaufort household – between (as she so often, after all, was) jobs.
‘But she’s been absolutely wonderful,’ cried Flora. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without her.’
Simon was always in an illish temper when he got back from one of these away-assignments, little new baby or no little new baby – ‘See how much fatter he is since Daddy went away! Who’s my fat little boy? Who’s my little fatty? Who’s Mummy’s little darling! Who’s this? This is your Daddy – yes, Daddy – smile for Daddy!’
Simon took the child and cuddled him, awkwardly at first and then with more aplomb, and said, over the baby’s downy head, ‘But really, Flora, she doesn’t need to stay here any longer, does she, now that I’m back? I’d have thought she’d have been off out of the place by the time I fetched up – not installed in that kitchen with the girls making meringues as if she bloody lived here. When does she mean to go?’
The baby was becoming restless and Flora took him back. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘She’ll go soon, I expect. As soon as she gets the vibe you’re giving out. Just carry on, Simon. Make her feel unwanted. I’ll lay odds we’ll see her calling for a taxi by suppertime.’
Simon ignored the irony in these remarks and simply asserted that he would be more than happy to take Lydia home himself. ‘Where’s she actually living these days?’ he said.
‘Oh, Maida Vale-ish,’ said Flora vaguely. ‘You know.’ She had never actually been there.
‘I don’t,’ said Simon, ‘but I mean to find out.’ He turned to leave the room.
‘If you say even one word,’ said Flora, ‘to make her feel de trop I shall never have anything more to do with you.’
He was half out of the door but he turned back to face her. ‘Now, would I do that?’ he said.
He went down to the kitchen where Lydia and the eight-year-old Janey (looking fairly tough already) and the four-year-old Nell, all dressed in striped aprons, were sitting contemplating the meringues, all set out on a wire rack.
‘We’re waiting for them to get cold,’ squeaked Nell. ‘Then we’re going to put whipped cream inside them, and then we’re going to eat them!’
‘I say,’ said Simon. ‘It’s an orgy.’
‘What’s an orgy?’
He caught Lydia’s dark brown (almost black) eye. ‘It’s a feast of pleasure,’ he said drily.
‘We’re not going to eat them all,’ said Janey very seriously. ‘We’re going to have one each. The rest are for pudding tonight.’
‘Ah,’ said Simon. Lydia stood up.
‘Gabriella should be back any minute now,’ she told him. ‘There’s a casserole in the oven for supper – she’ll do the rest. So when we’ve finished this meringue business I’ll begin making my way – as long as you don’t need me for anything more here. I was actually just about to go up and sort this out with Flora when you came in. I’ll go and do that now. See you in a minute, girls!’ She left the room.
Oh God, thought Simon, she couldn’t have overheard anything, could she? Surely not – they’d been two floors away. ‘She’s in the nursery!’ he called out to her, as Lydia went up the stairs.
She returned ten minutes later. She looked perfectly happy. No, she couldn’t possibly have overheard us, Simon assured himself. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘that’s all fixed. Simon, Flora told me that I must ask you if you’d mind taking me home