shirtless streak across the hall.
‘Oh, Christ,’ says Fanny, sinking her head into her hands. She lets out a low moan. ‘Oh, Christ.’
Louis pulls her into a hug. He holds her tight, tighter thanhe needs to, and breathes in the sweet smell of her. And she breathes in the sweet smell of him.
They stay like that for a while, the two best mates, until one of them says something, makes some sort of brittle joke, and they both pretend to find it funny and slowly pull apart.
It’s as they’re awkwardly, reluctantly disentangling, that Grey McShane sweeps in. He stops at their table, towers above it. ‘There you are,’ he says, noticing her bloodshot eyes but showing no sign of being affected by them. ‘You’re not giving up on us already, are you?’
‘What? No. No, of course not.’
‘Well, you’d better get back there. They all think you’ve done a runner.’
She looks at him, confused.
‘We’ve got the children talking about you like you’re the bloody Messiah, Fanny.’
‘Really?’
‘We’ve got my stepdaughter, little Chloe, coming home every day, singing your praises. We don’t want to lose you just because some fat cow doesn’t like the look of you in your scanties.’
Louis snorts with laughter. Fanny turns to glare at him, finds it quite difficult to focus, and turns back to Grey.
‘He’s kind of right, though,’ Louis says. ‘You can’t let the fat lady push you around.’
Fanny nods, takes another slug from her drink. ‘Is she still in there? I don’t think I can face it if she’s still there.’
Grey shakes his head. ‘They left pretty much straight after you.’
‘Right then.’ Slowly, and with obvious regret, she pulls herself up from her chair. ‘Let’s—I’d better get on with it then.’ She pauses, sways backwards suddenly, steadies herself, and then with a scowl of concentration, ‘Actually,’ she adds, ‘it turns out I’m quite – very – pissed.’
‘Just don’t try to say too much,’ Grey says.
‘And I think,’ she tries to focus on Louis, ‘I should probably do this on my own, Louis, don’t you? If I just go back with Grey, it might maybe unruffle a few more feathers. I mean ruffle. Less. Fewer. Unruffle fewer feathers.’ She frowns. ‘It might go down better if I leave you behind.’
Louis is not especially disappointed. Fiddleford’s great limbo cotillion did not strike him as much of a party. Besides which it’s a nice evening. He thinks, instead, that he might roll himself a J and take a walk through the village. ‘I’ll meet you back here in an hour,’ he says. ‘OK? Good luck.’ He grins at her. ‘Don’t get any more pissed. Less. Fewer less pissed. Don’t drink any more if you can help it…’
10
Geraldine Adams looks rich. She is in her early forties and her hair, short and brown, with tasteful russet lowlights, is exceptionally well cut. She and her husband Clive used to be as important as Geraldine’s haircut still implies but in actual fact, eighteen months ago, the Adams family joined that annoying group of former yuppies which newspapers call the ‘downsizers’.
They’ve even been the subject of a newspaper feature themselves. (They have it framed in their downstairs lavatory.) There was a massive colour photograph of Clive and Geraldine and the son, Oliver, leaning smugly against a fivebar gate, with the village of Fiddleford nestling behind them. In the article Clive and Geraldine swear that they have never felt happier, and that their ten-year-old son Oliver is so happy with the new rural life that he’s taken to voluntarily switching off the television.
‘Ollie’s got to the stage now where he can’t stand processed food,’ Geraldine told the journalist, called Richard. ‘He simply won’t eat it, Richard! Fortunately for us there’s a marvellous commercial vegetable garden here in Fiddleford, so every morning before school, off Ollie and I trog to MessyMcShane’s Organic Kitchen Garden. You know
‘Oh, Christ,’ says Fanny, sinking her head into her hands. She lets out a low moan. ‘Oh, Christ.’
Louis pulls her into a hug. He holds her tight, tighter thanhe needs to, and breathes in the sweet smell of her. And she breathes in the sweet smell of him.
They stay like that for a while, the two best mates, until one of them says something, makes some sort of brittle joke, and they both pretend to find it funny and slowly pull apart.
It’s as they’re awkwardly, reluctantly disentangling, that Grey McShane sweeps in. He stops at their table, towers above it. ‘There you are,’ he says, noticing her bloodshot eyes but showing no sign of being affected by them. ‘You’re not giving up on us already, are you?’
‘What? No. No, of course not.’
‘Well, you’d better get back there. They all think you’ve done a runner.’
She looks at him, confused.
‘We’ve got the children talking about you like you’re the bloody Messiah, Fanny.’
‘Really?’
‘We’ve got my stepdaughter, little Chloe, coming home every day, singing your praises. We don’t want to lose you just because some fat cow doesn’t like the look of you in your scanties.’
Louis snorts with laughter. Fanny turns to glare at him, finds it quite difficult to focus, and turns back to Grey.
‘He’s kind of right, though,’ Louis says. ‘You can’t let the fat lady push you around.’
Fanny nods, takes another slug from her drink. ‘Is she still in there? I don’t think I can face it if she’s still there.’
Grey shakes his head. ‘They left pretty much straight after you.’
‘Right then.’ Slowly, and with obvious regret, she pulls herself up from her chair. ‘Let’s—I’d better get on with it then.’ She pauses, sways backwards suddenly, steadies herself, and then with a scowl of concentration, ‘Actually,’ she adds, ‘it turns out I’m quite – very – pissed.’
‘Just don’t try to say too much,’ Grey says.
‘And I think,’ she tries to focus on Louis, ‘I should probably do this on my own, Louis, don’t you? If I just go back with Grey, it might maybe unruffle a few more feathers. I mean ruffle. Less. Fewer. Unruffle fewer feathers.’ She frowns. ‘It might go down better if I leave you behind.’
Louis is not especially disappointed. Fiddleford’s great limbo cotillion did not strike him as much of a party. Besides which it’s a nice evening. He thinks, instead, that he might roll himself a J and take a walk through the village. ‘I’ll meet you back here in an hour,’ he says. ‘OK? Good luck.’ He grins at her. ‘Don’t get any more pissed. Less. Fewer less pissed. Don’t drink any more if you can help it…’
10
Geraldine Adams looks rich. She is in her early forties and her hair, short and brown, with tasteful russet lowlights, is exceptionally well cut. She and her husband Clive used to be as important as Geraldine’s haircut still implies but in actual fact, eighteen months ago, the Adams family joined that annoying group of former yuppies which newspapers call the ‘downsizers’.
They’ve even been the subject of a newspaper feature themselves. (They have it framed in their downstairs lavatory.) There was a massive colour photograph of Clive and Geraldine and the son, Oliver, leaning smugly against a fivebar gate, with the village of Fiddleford nestling behind them. In the article Clive and Geraldine swear that they have never felt happier, and that their ten-year-old son Oliver is so happy with the new rural life that he’s taken to voluntarily switching off the television.
‘Ollie’s got to the stage now where he can’t stand processed food,’ Geraldine told the journalist, called Richard. ‘He simply won’t eat it, Richard! Fortunately for us there’s a marvellous commercial vegetable garden here in Fiddleford, so every morning before school, off Ollie and I trog to MessyMcShane’s Organic Kitchen Garden. You know
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