James Melcombe-Smith (30), Conservative member for South Wessex, marries his childhood sweetheart Zillah Leach (27) at the chapel of St. Mary Undercroft in the Palace of Westminster. A likely candidate for promotion when the party leader reshuffles the shadow cabinet, Mr. Melcombe-Smith and his bride will defer their honeymoon in the Maldives until the House of Commons gets up for Easter on 20 April.
Minty wasn’t very interested in any of that but she admired the bride’s looks, considering her far prettier and better-dressed in her ivory slipper satin with cream and crimson orchids than Josephine in that ugly bright red. Josephine’s glare and curling lip still rankled, and Minty felt resentful. She turned to the inside page but it only showed this Melcombe-Smith person walking about in the country with a gun and the bride grinning like mad in a dirty old sweater with her hair all over the place, under a completely incomprehensible heading: OUTING? WHO HAS THE LAST LAUGH NOW?
The trouble with some newspapers was that the ink came off all over your hands. Minty went upstairs and had a bath. Jock’s ghost would be back. If not today, tomorrow-and if not tomorrow, next week. Because she hadn’t killed it. That dinner knife was a hopeless weapon. It simply made a ghost slip away for a while, escape, like any live person would when a weapon was waved at it. Next time she must be ready with one of the long, sharp knives if she wanted to be rid of him forever.
Chapter 9
A PRODUCTION COMPANY had asked Matthew to go on a program it was making for BBC2 Television. It was to be called Living on Air or something like that, and he was to be-well-the star, really. That is, he was to talk to people with problems similar to his own, interview them, and point up the differences between disparate attitudes to food. They’d make a pilot, and if that was a success it might lead to a series. Michelle was delighted. Matthew was so much better-looking since he’d been on Fiona’s regime and he had such a beautiful speaking voice.
“It always reminds me of that newscaster,” said Fiona. “What’s he called? Peter Sissons.”
“They must have picked him because he sounds so nice,” said Michelle.
Fiona doubted that. They’d obviously picked him because of his column and because he looked like one of those men you saw pictures of who’d been in Japanese prisoner of war camps. But she didn’t say so. The two women were in Fiona’s conservatory, drinking chilled chardonnay, while Matthew was at his computer, writing this week’s “Anorexic’s Diary.” It was the prettier sort of conservatory, a white, curlicued crystal palace, with white cane furniture, blue cushions, a cane-and-glass table, and a great many little bonsai trees and tall ferns and spider plants in blue ceramic pots. Beyond the glass could be seen Fiona’s small walled garden in which spring flowers bloomed and a fountain played.
“Jeff will be home in a minute,” said Fiona, for all the world as if her boyfriend had a job and commuted like the neighbors. Then she went on, embarrassing Michelle, “You don’t like him, do you?”
“I don’t really know him, Fiona.” Michelle was finding this very awkward, but asked so directly, she had to speak out. “I admit I have wondered-and Matthew’s wondered-if you’re not being…well, a bit precipitate, marrying someone you’ve only known for a few months.”
Fiona didn’t seem put out. “I know that this is the man I’m certain I want to spend the rest of my life with. Please try to like him.”
He lives off you, he’s rude, he’s insincere and cruel, thought Michelle. He’s a liar. These feelings must have shown in her face, though she expressed none of them aloud, for Fiona had begun to look distressed. “When you know him better you’ll think differently, I know you will.”
“All right, my dear, I admit I don’t much care for him. No doubt it’s as much my fault as his. Since he’s going to be your husband, I’ll try to get on better with him.”
“You’re always so reasonable and fair. Have some more wine?”
Michelle let Fiona pour another inch of chardonnay into her glass. It was supposed to be fattening, but she’d noticed that most of the people whose preferred tipple it was remained disconcertingly thin. She’d been strong and not eaten a single one of the salted almonds in the dish on the table. Resigned, she asked, “Have you fixed a date for the wedding yet?”
“Believe it or not, we can’t find anywhere to have our reception. Apparently, everyone wants to get married in millennium year. It was going to be June but we’ve had to move on into August. That’s where Jeff is now, trying to find a venue.”
Surely he could have done that on the phone, thought Michelle. Still, she was delighted the wedding was to be postponed. As for trying to like him, it was more probable that every week that went by was likely to begin the eye-opening she and Matthew hoped would enlighten Fiona as to Jeff’s true nature. “Church or register office?”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be either now, does it? Jeff’s been married before so it can’t be church but the idea might be to have it in some hotel with the reception there afterward.” She paused to listen to the front door opening and closing. “Here’s Jeff now.”
He came through the dining room and down the step. Smiling, as usual. An honest face like one of those American politicians, thought Michelle, perfect teeth, earnest frown lines, and deep blue eyes that looked straight into yours. He bent over Fiona and kissed her like some film actor coming home to his wife. Michelle, who didn’t want it, got a kiss too, a light peck on the cheek.
“How’s the Thin Man?”
“Very well, thank you,” said Michelle, angry but speaking in an equable tone because she wouldn’t for the world offend Fiona.
“I hear he’s going to be on TV.” Because there was no glass provided for him, Jeff took Fiona’s almost empty one, filled it, and knocked back half. “You want to get on it too, Michelle, and see if you can be the new Little and Large. Oh, don’t look like that, Fiona sweetheart, it’s only my way. I ought to know better. Listen, I’ve found a wonderful place in Surrey where they’ll marry us and serve a splendid dinner afterward. Twenty-sixth of August-how about that?”
“It sounds perfect,” said Michelle, thinking it was a long way off. “I must go, Fiona. Thank you so much for the lovely drinks.”
“I’ll see you off the premises.” For some reason Jeff winked stagily at Fiona. He escorted Michelle to the door and sent, as was his peculiar habit, his “kindest regards” to Matthew. The front door shut rather sharply before she was halfway down the path.
“That,” said Fiona, who wasn’t usually critical, “was rather rude. You can be very hurtful, you know.”
Concern could entirely change his face. It became at once pained. Saddened, sympathetic. “I know. I’m sorry, my sweet. I suppose I can’t help thinking that people who allow themselves to get so fat must be stupid.”
“Michelle’s not stupid.”
“No? Oh, well, you know best. Shall we have another bottle of wine?”
“It won’t be cold.”
“Easily remedied by popping it in the freezer for five minutes.”
He remedied it. While waiting for the wine to cool, he decided to take her out to dinner, spend part of the rather large sum of money he’d won on a horse that afternoon. He got out two clean glasses, put them on a tray with the wine, and went back. “How about I call Rosmarino and take you out to dinner, my darling? I mean I take you out.” Pouring the wine, he was inspired. “I’ve been investing in the Net and I’m doing rather well.”
She knew all about that, as of course she would. “I didn’t know you had shares in anything. How clever of you. But be careful, won’t you, Jeff? We don’t know much about these companies yet-pipedream@bankwell.co.uk and cashflow@marvel.com and whatever. Their profits may all be on paper.”