Windfallen

  Lottie had been so deafened by the humming in her ears she'd hardly heard Adeline's next words.

  "Things will get better, dearest girl," she said. "You must have faith."

  "I don't believe in God." She hadn't meant it to sound so bitter.

  "I am not talking about God. I simply believe that sometimes the fates have a future for us that we cannot imagine. And to enable them we just have to keep believing that good things will happen."

  Lottie's rock-hard resolve had given a little then, and she had swallowed hard and determinedly looked away from Adeline's intense stare. But that meant her eyes fell upon the mural and its two incriminatory figures, and then her face had crumpled in frustration and anger.

  "I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in anything. How can the fates be looking out for us when they . . . when they deliberately twist things so horribly? It's rubbish, Adeline. Fanciful rubbish. Things aren't made to happen--people, events, they just collide, accidentally, messily. And then history rushes on and leaves the rest of us to struggle out of the mess."

  Adeline was very still then. She lifted her head fractionally and, raising a hand slowly, stroked the side of Lottie's hair.

  She paused, as if wondering whether to speak. "If he is meant for you, he will return to you."

  Lottie pulled back, shrugged a little. "You sound like Mrs. Holden and her ruddy apple peel."

  "You just have to be true to your feelings."

  "And what if my feelings are the least important part in all this?"

  Adeline was frowning, confused. "Your feelings are never the least important part, Lottie."

  "Oh, I've got to go. I've got to go." Lottie, biting back tears, grabbed at her coat and, ignoring the woman standing behind her, walked briskly through the house and up the drive.

  The following day, when she had rather regretted her outburst, she received a letter. In it Adeline made no mention of Lottie's temper but instead enclosed an address where she could be reached in France. She asked Lottie to stay in touch and told her that the only real sin was in trying to be something one was not. "There is a comfort in knowing you were true to yourself, Lottie. Believe me." She signed it, peculiarly, "a friend."

  Lottie felt the letter in her pocket as she sat watching Joe dress the front of the Daimler with white ribbons. She didn't know why she was carrying it around still; perhaps just having an ally gave her some sense of comfort; without Adeline there was no one she could talk to any longer. Joe she listened to as one did a fly buzzing around a room, with indifference, occasional mild irritation. Celia had been pleasant enough, but the two girls had neither sought out nor prolonged any contact with each other.

  And then there was Guy, whose bemused, unhappy face haunted her, whose hands, skin, scented breath invaded her dreams. She could not bear to be near him, had not spoken to him since their meeting in the beach hut several weeks earlier. It was not because she was angry with him, although there was an anger there; it was because, if he spoke to her, pleaded with her, she knew it would weaken her resolve. And if he still wanted to be with her, even after all this, she knew she could no longer love him in the same way. How could she love a man prepared to leave Celia in that condition?

  He hadn't known when Celia told her, but he must know now. He had stopped following her around, stopped leaving notes in places he knew she would find them, little scribbled pieces of wretchedness shouting TALK TO ME!! in blunt pencil. It had been easy for her to stay close to Mrs. Holden, to ensure they were never alone. He hadn't understood at first. He must understand now; Celia had said she was going to tell, and he no longer even looked at Lottie at all, but turned a little away from her in any gathering, his face closed and joyless, so that neither of them could directly witness the other's misery.

  She tried not to think of what might have been. For, painful as it would have been, she could have forced that cruelty on Celia while Celia still had the chance of finding someone else. How could she leave her to disgrace now? How could she bring disgrace on the very family that had saved her from it? And then other days she felt furious with him; she could not believe that Guy could have shared that closeness, felt those things with Celia. They were the only two people in the world to have felt like that, the only two to have glimpsed those secrets. They fitted like gloves; he was the one who had said it. Now, perversely, she felt betrayed.

  "Why?" he'd whispered at her when they'd been briefly alone in the kitchen. "What have I done?"

  "It's not my place to tell you," she'd said, pulling away from him and quaking internally at the fury and exasperation on his face. But she had to be cold. It was the only way she could get through it. The only way she could get through any of it.

  "I'll give you a ride back up, then, shall I? Lottie? Lottie?"

  Joe was peering through the window at her, one hand resting on the roof. He looked animated, cheerful, at ease for once in his environment. "You'd best get out at the top of your road, though. Mrs. Holden will probably want the car turning up empty."

  Lottie nodded, forced a smile, then closed her eyes, listening to the solid clunk of the car door closing and the well-lubricated hum of the engine as Joe turned the ignition.

  Just a few more hours, she told herself, clutching the letter a little tighter in her hand.

  Just a few more hours.

  ALL BRIDES WERE BEAUTIFUL, THE SAYING WENT, BUT Susan Holden was entirely sure that her Celia was the most beautiful that Merham had seen in a good while. With her three-layered veil and lined satin dress, tailored precisely around that size-eight figure, she knocked Miriam Ansty and Lucinda Perry's efforts the previous year into a cocked hat. Even Mrs. Chilton--at the time a great admirer of Lucinda Perry's rather daring violet-cream-colored going-away ensemble--conceded it. "She's certainly easy on the eye, your Celia," she had said after the ceremony, her clutch bag tucked under her bosom and her feathered hat tipped at a daring angle. "I'll say that for her. She's easy on the eyes."

  More than that, they looked a beautiful couple: Celia, her eyes glistening becomingly with tears as she held the arm of her handsome young husband, he looking stern and a little nervous, as they all did. If he hadn't smiled as much as she would have liked, Mrs. Holden wasn't entirely surprised; at her own wedding Henry hadn't smiled properly until they were upstairs by themselves, and even then only after several glasses of champagne.

  And Freddie and Sylvia had lasted the whole ceremony without fighting. Well, there was that surreptitious kick during "Immortal, Invisible," but Sylvia's dress had camouflaged the worst of that.

  Mrs. Holden allowed herself her first sip of sherry, sitting carefully on the gilt-backed chair at the top table, looking down at all the tables below them, the great and the good, she liked to think, of their town. Considering how little time they'd had to plan the wedding, it had all gone rather well.

  "You okay, Susan?" It was Guy Bancroft Senior, leaning over conspiratorially in his chair, a broad grin lighting up his face. "I meant to mention in my speech that the bride's mother is looking particularly fetching this afternoon."

  Mrs. Holden pinked and bridled elegantly. It was that Autumn Berry lipstick. It had become rather a lucky one for her.

  "Well, I think you and Mrs. Bancroft looked particularly elegant, too."

  It was certainly true in Dee Dee's case; she was wearing a turquoise two-piece in silk shantung with little silk slingbacks in the exact matching shade. Mrs. Holden had been plucking up courage all afternoon to ask her whether she'd had them made specially.

  "Ah. Yes . . . Dee Dee always scrubs up well."

  "Sorry?"

  "Looks just as good in a pair of shorts and bare feet, though. A real outdoors girl, is my wife. My son takes after her. Or should I say, your son-in-law . . ." He laughed. "Guess all this is going to take some getting used to, huh?"

  "Oh, we already think of you as part of the family."

  If only Henry would look a little happier. He was staring disconsolately out at the sea of
friends, picking at his food and occasionally muttering something to his daughter. Far more than occasionally refilling his glass. Please don't let Henry get too drunk, she prayed silently. Not in front of all these people. Not today.

  "I had to congratulate Mr. Bancroft on his delightful puddings." It was Deirdre Colquhoun, breathless and resplendent in an empire-cut coatdress made of pink damask (Freddie had insisted noisily that he knew the old sofa she'd got the fabric from; Susan Holden cast a quick look around to make sure he was nowhere near) and gesturing toward the collapsing displays of exotic fruit and cut-glass bowls of fruit salad. There were no hardened apples, morello cherries, or tinned pineapple to be found in these; there were instead sliced kumquats, paw-paw, and mango, dissected star fruit and opaque lychee, flesh of a color and texture unknown to the English guests. (They consequently gave many a wide berth, sticking to what they knew. Like plum. And orange. Real fruit, as Sarah Chilton surreptitiously muttered to Mrs. Ansty.)

  "What a marvelous display you have put on," Mrs. Colquhoun murmured admiringly.

  "All fresh, all flown in by airplane yesterday morning." Mr. Bancroft leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette beneficently. "I might add that they were cut and peeled by Honduran virgins."

  Mrs. Colquhoun went quite pink. "Goodness . . ."

  "What are you saying, Guyhoney? I hope you're not being a naughty boy!" Dee Dee leaned back on her own chair to see him, exposing a fair length of tanned thigh as she did.

  "She never lets me get away with anything." But Mr. Bancroft was smiling.

  "You get away with far too much for your own good."

  "With you looking like that, sweetheart, can you blame me?" He blew her a noisy kiss.

  "Well . . . anyway. The displays look wonderful." Mrs. Colquhoun, a hand to her hair, began to make her way unsteadily back to her table.

  Mrs. Holden turned to look at her husband. That was definitely his third cognac. She watched him swirl it joylessly around the balloon glass and swallow it with a kind of grim determination.

  Oh, why did he have to develop one of his moods today?

  LOTTIE, A SEATED REFEREE BETWEEN FREDDIE AND Sylvia, realized she had begun to feel unwell again. She had not felt herself for days; unsurprising, she told herself, when her whole being wanted to curl up somewhere hidden and quietly die. For the past month she'd felt detached, as if she were moving through fog, hearing and seeing other people only from a distance. It had been something of a relief; when she was occasionally forced into feeling--if she happened upon Celia wrapping her arms around Guy's neck or heard her giggling conspiratorially with her mother about something he had said or done--then the pain that pierced her felt almost unbearable. It was real: sharp, determined, punishing. The fog's descending brought with it a relief.

  But this was different. She felt physically unbalanced, as if her blood, like the waves, insisted on rushing away from her when she moved. Food she eyed with suspicion. It tasted wrong, held no pleasures. The gaudy displays of fruit she simply could not look at; they were too bright, as if their very cheerfulness were a direct snub to her.

  "Look, Freddie. Look."

  Sylvia had opened her mouth wide, revealing the well-masticated contents of her plate.

  "Sylvia." Lottie looked away, closing her eyes. She heard Freddie's chuckle of delight and then a return "Gaaah," his own mouth's contents exposed.

  "Pack it in, you two."

  Joe was seated on the other side of Freddie. He wasn't family, but Mrs. Holden had evidently decided to put him at their table anyway. Lottie didn't have the energy to feel resentful about it. The longer the afternoon went on, the more she had begun to feel rather grateful.

  "You okay, Lottie? You're looking a bit pale."

  "Fine, Joe."

  She just wanted to go home and lie down on her bed and stay very, very still for a long time. Except home didn't even feel like home anymore. Perhaps it never had been. Lottie gazed around her at the reception, her habitual low-key feeling of dislocation threatening to become something more overwhelming, to swamp her.

  "Look. I've poured you some more water. Drink a bit."

  "Sylvia. Sylvia. How many grapes can you fit in your mouth?"

  "You really don't look good. Hope you're not coming down with another bug."

  "Look. I can get loads more than you. Look, Sylvia. Look."

  "You've hardly touched your food. Go on, have a drink. Make you feel better. Or I could get them to do you a little warm milk--that's meant to settle your stomach."

  "Please don't go on, Joe. I'm fine. Really."

  Guy's speech had been very short. He had thanked the Holdens for their hospitality and for putting on such a splendid spread, his parents for the wonderful desserts and for putting up with him, and Celia. For becoming his wife. The fact that he had said this with no huge enthusiasm or romantic flourish was of little comfort. She was still his wife.

  And Celia. Celia sat there with her bewitching smile spread across her face, her veil becomingly framing her elegant neck. Lottie couldn't look at her, shocked by the depth of hatred she now felt for her. Knowing that she had done the right thing was no comfort at all. Being true to herself, as Adeline had put it, was even less. If she could only persuade herself that she hadn't meant what she'd felt, then she could move on.

  But she had felt it.

  Oh, God, but she just wanted to lie down. Somewhere dark.

  "Shall I help you to a bowl of trifle?" said Joe.

  THE GUESTS WERE STARTING TO GET RESTLESS. IT WAS time, Mrs. Holden decided, for the newlyweds to head off, in order that some of the older ladies could head back home before it got too late. Mrs. Charteris and Mrs. Godwin were looking a bit weary, and the whole back table had already got their coats.

  She decided that it should really be Henry's task. He had done very little during the reception--even his speech had been rather perfunctory--and she didn't want anyone making any comments. She excused herself from her chair and made her way along the long table to her husband. He was gazing at the table, apparently oblivious to the merry conversation around him. Mrs. Holden smelled the alcohol on him before she was even at arm's length.

  "Henry dear. Could I have a little word?"

  She flinched at the coldness of his gaze when he lifted his head. He stared at her for what felt like an age, the kind of stare that strips one of any sense of self-possession.

  "What have I done now, dearest?" he said. The "dearest" was spat out, like something foul-tasting.

  Susan Holden glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed. "You haven't done anything, dear. I just wanted to borrow you for a minute."

  She laid a hand on his arm, glancing around at the Bancrofts, who were deep in conversation.

  "I haven't done anything." He looked down, placed both hands palms down on the table, as if to push himself up. "Well, that makes a change, doesn't it, Susan dear?"

  Oh, but she had never seen him this bad. Her brain started ticking frantically, trying to weigh up the possibilities of getting him out of there without a public row.

  "Makes a change that for once it all appears to be satisfactory to you."

  "Henry." Her voice was hushed, pleading.

  "Well. Not often we all manage to come up to scratch, is it? Not often we meet the exacting standards of Merham's hostess with the mostest?" He was standing now and had started to laugh: a sharp, bitter laugh.

  "Darling. Darling, please, can we--"

  He turned to her in mock surprise. "Oh, darling, now, am I? Isn't that lovely? Now I'm your darling. Goodness me, Susan. I'll be lover next."

  "Henry!"

  "Mummy?" Celia had appeared at her side. She was looking at her father and back to Mrs. Holden. "Is everything all right?"

  "It's all fine, dear," said Mrs. Holden reassuringly, trying to pat her away. "You and Guy go and get ready. You should really be off soon."

  "All fine. Yes, Celia dearest. It's all fine." Dr. Holden turned and placed his hands heavily on
his daughter's shoulders. "You go off now and have a fine life with your fine young man here."

  "Daddy . . ." Celia was looking uncertain now.

  "You go off and stay beautiful and funny and as sweet as you are. Try your best not to nag and pick at him about things that don't matter. Try not to look at him as if he were a mangy dog when he happens to do anything that he might want to do . . . anything that doesn't involve sitting nicely and sipping tea and fretting about what everybody else thinks."

  "Henry!" Susan Holden's eyes had filled with tears. She raised a hand to her mouth.

  Guy was now standing behind Celia. He frowned, trying to gauge what was happening.

  "Oh, spare me the tears, Susan. Spare me another bloody dose of tears. If anyone should be crying in this place, it should be me."

  Celia burst into noisy sobs. Around them the tables had begun to hush. People were watching, glancing uncertainly at each other, their drinks stilled in their hands.

  "Daddy--why are you being so horrible? Please, this is my special day." Celia attempted to pull him back, away from the table.

  "But it's not just about this day, dearest Celia, is it? It's not just about the bloody wedding. It's about every bloody day afterward. Every bloody endless bloody day until death does you part." The last bit he had begun to shout. Susan Holden, with some horror, realized that they were now the main focus of attention.

  "Everything okay here?" called Mr. Bancroft.

  Guy placed his arm around Celia. "Fine, Dad. Er, why don't you come and sit down, Mrs. Holden."

  "Oh, don't bother," said Dr. Holden. "I'm going outside. You can finish your perfectly fine reception without me. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, the show's over. Your good doctor is just leaving."

  "You are a brute, Daddy," sobbed Celia as he made his way clumsily out through the tables of the Riviera's dining room. "I shall never, ever forgive you for this."

  "Cognac," said Mr. Bancroft, shaking his head. "Can get you like that sometimes."

  "Please get a grip, Celia dear," said Mrs. Holden, who was sitting down sipping at a restorative sherry, only the trembling of her hands revealing her own lack of composure. "People are beginning to stare."

  THERE WERE THREE WINKING LIGHTS DOWN AT THE mouth of the harbor. Fishing boats, Lottie had decided. The lights were too small for any other. Hauling their treasures from the seabed, from that cool, inky darkness, pulling them, silently gasping, into the suffocating night.