The Loved Ones by Hughes Mary-Beth

Author:Hughes, Mary-Beth [Hughes, Mary-Beth]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2015-06-01T16:00:00+00:00

13

Derek Voose kept an austere workaday duplex on Mount Street and a famous cottage in Goring. Just a hop, he said when he called Jean the morning after Nick’s celebration party at Annabel’s. We all need a postmortem, dear girl. Come for a quiet supper; bring the princeling. You’ll barely know you’ve left London. Emma will be there, he added, as if that needed saying. And Anna Percy-Flint, who adores you.

Jean said yes, curious to see the fabled place. The scene of the social crimes Emma Hocking loved to report on the following Monday evenings over spaghetti carbonara. Soused, stoned, and randy was the usual roundup. But other details, Burt Bacharach dropping in and noodling on the piano, Peter Lawford running to the off-license for a forbidden brand of gin in the charwoman’s Rover. Giving her a wet kiss in exchange for the dented bumper. The poor woman nearly had a heart attack on the spot, said Emma. All this made it sound intensely glamorous, even as Emma was waving it all off as business, business. Derek said on the phone and Emma agreed later, this would be a quiet gathering, just the family. Jean knew she was stupid to be flattered but she was.

The smaller drawing room opened onto a garden they’d glimpsed driving in as the sun went down. Dahlias and more dahlias in the summer Emma told Jean. He’s a fiend for the beasts; can’t talk him into another bloody blossom. Now it was just urns and hedgerows and dry leaves. The snug room with saffron walls—a paint like patent leather—had seating in a wide navy blue satin U before a fire. Birch logs piled in an artful display, enough to last the night.

True to his word, it was a quiet gathering. Derek fed them motherly food. A gluey-tasting shepherd’s pie and a trifle for dessert. Potatoes and cream and more cream. Cognac handed round had takers dozing off in fat armchairs. But those still awake nodded in agreement that the night before, the big celebration, had been a hit. Derek mentioned the marvel of Jean’s dress. A red silk Jean Muir found by Emma. He ticked off a list of women who’d looked hideous. And that was it. A strange letdown, as if all that preparation had produced nothing at all. I’m sure I got everything wrong, she tried, smiling.

What’s that? Derek looked around at her blinking, waiting to understand, then roared, Not a bit of it, darling! And then he was on to the next event. Some boring obligatory pushy mess inflicted by Robin someone at Les Ambassadeurs. Can no one think of anything new?

Emma and Anna Percy-Flint had just settled down into private whispers when Nick wandered in from the next room and stood before them, waiting for a verdict, confident of the results. And so he should be, thought Jean, unscathed, that was Nick here. He laughed at these scrutinizing women and why not, what could they find wanting. She relied on this. She’d begun to believe in his resilience and thought she might even catch it in some way.

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