The Party Season Page 5

I put down the receiver with a smile. It's late on Saturday morning and although I knew Dominic was turning up today he didn't mention when or how and I never thought to ask. I wander through to the kitchen and pick up an apple. 'Aunt Winnie,' I say between bites, 'Dominic is at the station.'

  'That's nice, dear.'

  'Hmmm.' I munch in silence for a few seconds. 'I think he might need picking up.'

  'You have been more than twenty minutes,' Dominic hisses at me while he swivels his foot on his cigarette. He kisses Aunt Winnie and pats Jameson. 'I had to use the loo in there. Look, I've caught a squint.' He screws up one eye in a thoroughly overdramatic fashion.

  'Why didn't you come by car?'

  'Because the traffic was so appalling last time I thought the train would be easier. But my mother never told me about the dangers of travelling with Irish nuns.' He puts on an Irish accent, 'Glory be child, he's a great fella that Jesus, absolutely top-hole. You're an eejit for not wanting to be around him, so you are. Have you read the book?' He reverts back to his normal accent, 'Obviously I replied "which book?" which was like a red rag to a bull. You see, public transport. You leave yourself wide open to conversion with Irish nuns. You'd think they'd have a warning about it, wouldn't you?'

  'What about the Tube? Don't you count that as public transport?'

  'People don't talk to you on the Tube.'

  We squash ourselves into the back of the Mini. Dominic is respectful of Jameson's prior claim to the front seat.

  'They are a great race, the Irish, aren't they?' comments Aunt Winnie. 'I once sat opposite an Irish bloke on a three-hour train journey. He got out a five thousand-piece jigsaw, started it on the table and then at the end of the journey swept it all back into the box again. I had the sky end. It was jolly tricky.'

  'I read in the paper about an Irishman who was dead at his desk at work for five days before anyone noticed,' adds Dom. 'Apparently he was always either really pissed or really hungover and so usually sat with his head cradled in his arms. It was only on Saturday, when they remembered he never came in at weekends, that they discovered he was dead. Now that's the kind of company I would like to work for, not your Mafia-like ex-boyfriend's father's one. So is the vicar talking to you again?' he asks Aunt Winnie.

  She grins wickedly and starts to give us the low-down on a new accumulation of village mishaps, climaxing in her nearly running the vicar over. It seems my Aunt Winnie has found a new sport called vicar-baiting. The village's new happy-clappy vicar called Jason arrived about six months ago and made the mistake of calling on Aunt Winnie within a week. So he's not quite as happy-clappy now – in fact, he's probably close to a nervous breakdown. Aunt Winnie says she's sure that God wouldn't begrudge her a little harmless fun, especially since the BBC axed Eldorado.

  We trundle down to the village pub as Dominic pronounces himself incapable of lasting the whole three-minute drive without a drink to break the journey. We sit in the inglenook by the fireplace of the Oak and Lion, having been led straight there by Jameson who knows his local and his favourite seat well. Aunt Winnie tries to decide where she has got to in the pub's mammoth wall of whiskies. The pub landlord has rather helpfully put them in alphabetical order for her. Aunt Winnie is somewhat fond of whisky, hence Jameson's name, and once she finishes the wall she just starts again.

  'I think I was in the "I" section, Izz. Can you remember?'

  'I think you were, I remember having a conversation about Islay.'

  'So we did. Then I'll have something beginning with 'J', please, Dom. And a bag of crisps for Jameson. Cheese and onion please.'

  'His wish is my command.' Dom turns to me, 'Izz?'

  'Er …' I'm always a bit stuck when it comes to drinking in pubs. I never know what to have. And a white wine spritzer always seems too twee for words in the company of hardened alcoholics like Aunt Winnie and Dom. 'Whatever you're having,' I say bravely, almost instantly regretting the words.

  Dominic wanders off to the bar. There's a slight pause. 'Aunt Winnie?' I say, for something has been bothering me since this whole Monkwell thing started, 'how did we come to rent a house on the Pantiles estate and not at the army digs? Was it just because of the stables for Mum?' It's amazing what you don't query in childhood. I remember my parents buying Sophie and me mugs with our names on them when we were about ten, but they had run out of Isabel so they bought an Isaac one instead and sold it to me on the grounds that it was my name in French. If they could get that past my razor-sharp consciousness you can see why it never crossed my mind until now to ask why we moved to the Pantiles estate.

  She shrugs slightly. 'Your parents thought it would be good for you and Sophie to be in the country for a while. And as I recall, my dear, you also wanted to ride horses.'

  'Me?' I say incredulously. Surely she is thinking of a different Isabel, or should I say Isaac. This Isabel/Isaac wouldn't like to come within a metre of those smelly, hoof-stomping creatures.

  'Your mother rode quite a bit and I think you got it into your head that you wanted to ride too. Of course, as soon as you fell off you decided that you didn't really like it.'

  I lean forward eagerly. 'Was I travelling at speed when I fell off? Attempting some sort of jump?'

  'No, dear, the horse was standing stock still in the yard at the time. You just lost your balance.'

  Ah. This is probably the reason I have conveniently erased the entire episode from my memory. That and the smell.

  'But how did my parents know the Monk—' I persist but Dominic's return interrupts us. 'I was feeling inspired by my nun so I got myself a Guinness,' he says.

  'I hate Guinness.'

  'I know, so I got. you a Drambuie and ginger ale.' Obviously.

  He unceremoniously plonks two glasses on to the table and then goes back to collect his Guinness, which is breathing or settling or whatever they do to it.

  'Are you sure I was on "I" before, Izz?' asks Aunt Winnie.

  'Maybe it was "T"?'

  'Ho hum, down the hatch anyway!'

  We chink glasses and I take a tentative sip of my Drambuie and ginger ale. Interesting mix of flavours. I look over towards Dominic who is talking animatedly with the landlord. He is laughing at something, his head thrown backwards, and I find myself grinning too. Dom has the largest, most infectious smile I have ever seen. He's lovely-looking in a foppish kind of way, not usually my cup of tea, but very appealing when the man in question is as open and unarrogant as Dom. He has dark blond hair which at first I thought was artfully untidy but have since learned is simply untidy, a slim build and an engaging face. Extremely well-connected too; his family is renowned in London circles and Dom is considered to be very much the eligible bachelor. But even if I wanted to marry him, I doubt he would return the compliment. You see, I have just found out he's gay.

  Dominic has no shortage of admirers but I have started to see a pattern emerging. He has never actually pursued any of these girls himself. His Aunt Agnes, presumably desperate for great-nephews and -nieces, regularly places girls in his path and Dom dutifully trots them around the block a couple of times and then politely bids them farewell. Girls from work, on the Tube, in the local coffee shop have all at one time or another pressed their numbers into his hand and begged him to call them. But instead of becoming big-headed by this and casually bedding them all, Dom takes them out, shows them a wonderful time, listens to all their problems and then duly deposits them back from whence they came.

  I have never probed him about his actions because when your best friend is male it is sometimes difficult to talk about these things, but I did presume he'd had his wicked way with some of them although I never knew for sure because he never brought them back to our flat. Therein lies my error. Dom is a male of the pink-blooded variety. Definitely. How do I know? Because one of his ex-dates told me so. I was busy at a drinks party only a few weeks ago when a girl called Cecily came up to me and re-introduced herself. We stood chatting for a few minutes and then she said, 'It's such a pity about
Dominic, isn't it?' I was slightly mystified, wondering what on earth he'd done now, when I noticed she was trying to clock my reaction. Oldest trick in the book. So I casually agreed that it was a bit of a pity and looked meaningfully back at her. Then it all came out in a rush – how he had told her he was gay but was still confused himself about it and could she keep it to herself. Which she obviously couldn't.

  I was completely and utterly shocked. Not at Dominic being gay; I couldn't care less if he is or not. I was shocked that he hadn't told me. I like to think I'm his best friend and yet he hadn't said a thing. And then things started slotting into place. The lack of a girlfriend, his penchant for Kylie, his old-fashioned plimsolls, the way he loves to verbally dissect everything and most of all his NICENESS. Yes, all the signs had been blazing and I had failed to see them. That was almost exactly four weeks ago. I remember so precisely because a day later Rob finished with me and things took on a different perspective. There were obviously more immediate issues to think about than Dom being gay. Now everything has settled down again there just never seems to be a good time to talk to him about it – I can hardly say would you mind passing the salt and, by the way, when were you thinking about coming out? over supper. Besides, these things are private and I sort of think that when he is ready to tell me he will.

  As Dom wanders back over to us, fishing in his pockets for his cigarettes, his mobile begins to belt out the Batman theme and he retrieves it from his back pocket. He has one of those flash phones where you can pre-programme the ringtone to indicate who's calling. I, for instance, am Hong Kong Phooey. Which is why I forever regret telling Dom the story about how my necklace got caught in a filing cabinet at work and it took them more than ten minutes to free me.

  'Hello you!' he answers with an air of familiarity. Now I may be downright insensitive to some things but one thing I can spot is atmosphere. And there seems to be a jolly intimate one between Dom and whoever is on the other end of the phone. Besides which, Dominic obviously knows the person well enough to give them their own ring-tone. Jameson and I both prick up our ears; I would like to think it is because he is as interested in Dominic's love life as me but in actual fact it's because Scooby, the pub cat, has just entered the room. I listen intently while ostensibly playing with a beer mat but to no avail. I would challenge Morse, Frost or indeed Poirot to gather anything from the stream of 'Hmm … yes, I think so … hmmm … yeah …' Eventually Dom tells the caller to hang on and then walks outside to continue the conversation in private.

  'Did you hear that, Aunt Winnie?' I ask in a dramatic whisper.

  'Er, what?'

  'That.' I spit the word out emphatically.

  'What?'

  'Dom's conversation with Batman.'

  'There wasn't that much to hear, was there?'

  'I think he's seeing someone.'

  'How on earth can you come to that conclusion from that conversation?' asks Aunt Winnie in genuine puzzlement.

  'Now that I think about it, he's been a bit secretive of late. Keeps ending phone calls when I come into the room and then telling me it was a wrong number.'

  'Why wouldn't he tell you if he was seeing someone? I thought you told each other everything.'

  SMACK! I dramatically punch my fist into my other hand. 'Now THAT, Aunt Win, is the question. Why wouldn't he tell me?'

  'Er, I don't know. I've just asked you that.'

  I open my mouth to confess all my suspicions but close it again when I realise that Dominic probably wouldn't thank me for telling Aunt Winnie before he has even said anything to me. Luckily we're interrupted.

  'Who was that?' I ask innocently as Dom sits down at the table.

  'Oh, it was, er, Pete.'

  I bob my head around in an oh-so-it-was-Pete kind of way.

  'What's for lunch, Aunt Win?' asks Dom.

  We wend our way home after we've finished our drinks and Aunt Winnie busies herself putting sausages under the grill while Dom and I choose a bottle of homemade wine from Aunt Win's diverse collection. Ginger, raspberry, apple; the list goes on and on. We eventually settle for rhubarb. 'Two sausages or three, Dom?' asks Aunt Winnie. 'Just the two for me, thanks. On account of me being—' 'A vegetarian,' we both finish. We're used to Dom's idea of being vegetarian, which is selective to say the least and extremely part-time. He seems to think that having smaller portions of meat makes him a vegetarian. It is simply an attention-seeking device that allows him to get his meals before everyone else on aeroplanes. For a long time, whenever he was asked a question such as, 'Excuse me, can you tell me the time?' he would reply, 'No, I'm sorry, I'm a vegetarian.'

  With contented sighs Dom and I move ourselves and our beakers of wine towards the window seat. I check carefully between the cushions for the odd bits of chewed bone that Jameson likes to hide there; it took three trips to the dry cleaner's to get a bone stain out of my lovely lilac trousers. Having cleared any debris, I lean with my back against the wall, rest my legs on Dom's lap while he lights up, using his now empty cigarette packet as an ashtray, and take a tentative sip of my rhubarb wine.

  'Blo-ody hell, Aunt Winnie,' I say when I've managed to draw a gasp of air. This, I remember, is why I didn't mind too much about the bone stain at the time.

  'God,' says Dominic, blinking in surprise. 'You've brewed pure fire and brimstone. It kind of hits you just behind the eyes.'

  'Yes, I'm rather pleased with that one,' says Aunt Win, looking proud. We all agree that if ever Aunt Winnie wants to come out of retirement, wine-making should be her new career. 'How's work going, Dom?' Winnie asks.

  He wrinkles his nose and pulls a face. 'I'm thinking of jacking it in.'

  This is news to me. I sit up. 'Since when?'

  'Oh, I've been thinking about it for a while now.' He doesn't quite meet my eyes and I know immediately that some sort of outside influence has been at work. And I could probably guess at 'Batman'. 'I really think it's about time I took my novel a bit more seriously. If I gave up my desk job then I could write full-time.'

  'What about money?' I ask.

  'Well, actually, I thought I could start working at a few more of your events, Izzy. I could work in the evenings and write during the day. You'd get me a bit of extra silver service here and there, wouldn't you?' Dom often comes and helps out at my events for some extra cash. He's very charming and everyone loves him. 'In fact, will you see if you can wangle me some work at the Monkwell event? I would love to see Pantiles!'

  'Of course,' I say, but my mind is elsewhere. I'm thinking that my last link with Rob will be lost.

  I spend most of Monday morning supposedly working on my laptop but in reality changing outfits every half hour or so.

  'What about this one, Aunt Winnie?' I ask from the top of the stairs.

  She looks up from practising her golf swing in the hallway. Jameson is wisely nowhere to be seen. 'Izz, darling, they are all starting to look the bally same.'

  'That's because you've already seen this one; it's the first outfit I put on this morning.'

  She looks a little fatigued at this piece of information. Just don't wear any flowery stuff and then you'll look fine. Tell me what you're trying to achieve and then we'll see.' She abandons her swing and leans on the golf club for support.

  'I want to look efficient.'

  'The second one then.' She looks relieved at this apparently immediate decision. In days of yore it used to take a good few hours before Sophie would leave the house to go anywhere important. She takes up the golf club again.

  'And yet at the same time feminine? I don't want to look as though I'm too aggressive.'

  Aunt Winnie pretends to consider this but I know she's bluffing because she obviously lost interest in the subject about half an hour ago. I'm starting to bore myself as well.

  'The third one then.'

  I nod and disappear to get changed. I am inexplicably nervous at seeing the Monkwells again and I desperately want to make a good impression.

  Aunt Winnie shifts
down into second gear and urges the Mini on to new heights of speed. I close my eyes and try to think of positive things to say during my meeting with Monty Monkwell. I have an awful tendency to say the first thing that comes into my head when I'm nervous. At my first-ever job interview, when asked what I liked to do in my spare time, I completely lost my usual self-composure and said, 'I like to eat toast'. Not very professional.

  'Aunt Winnie? Have you seen anything of the Monkwell family recently?'

  'I've only seen the pictures of Simon in the papers. Haven't seen the rest of the family since you left Pantiles. You know that Elizabeth, their mother, died?'

  'Yeah, Mum told me. Quite a few years ago though, wasn't it?'

  She nods and I stare out of the window, lost in thought. Neither of us has been back to Pantiles for more than fifteen years. Although it is only about thirty minutes' drive from Aunt Winnie's house it might as well be on the other side of the world.

  Finally we start the descent into the Monkwells' valley, and I mean that in the proprietorial sense as they own everything as far as the eye can see. Little copses of trees and huddles of cottages dot the plush landscape to the left, separated occasionally by low-slung and sometimes collapsing dry-stone walls. I look over to the right and give a little gasp. Like something out of Jurassic Park, animals speckle the pastures.

  'Deer, Aunt Winnie!' I cry.

  Aunt Winnie glances at me in the mirror. It's the only thing she ever uses it for. 'Yes, darling?'

  'No!' I lean between the front seats and point off to the right. 'I mean, they're keeping deer now!' It is always a mistake to distract Aunt Winnie when she is driving. We mount the verge, drive along at a thirty-degree angle for a while and then plop back down on the tarmac.

  'They must be trying to make some money out of the estate,' I say, ignoring our little diversion.

  'Well, Simon is the eternal businessman! Stags can be very dangerous in season though. Wouldn't want to get caught out in the open with one of those.'

  I give Aunt Winnie a look. She says the same thing about all animals. Horses, pigs, cows. I think it's because she and Dominic love to see me running like hell on our walks whenever we come across any wildlife. I can never tell whether she is serious or not.