Chapter 21
21
‘There’s nowhere to actually park at the restaurant, Fabian.’ I looked over at the stunning eighteenth-century former farmhouse that was The Beech Tree restaurant in Ilkley. ‘Gosh, that is so pretty.’
‘Nearly as gorgeous as our cottage.’ Fabian smiled.
‘Actually, you’re right. They must have been built around the same time.’ I attempted a smile myself, but was feeling sick with nerves at the thought of meeting the arrogant Gillian Carrington for only the second time. Virtually ignored by Fabian’s mother on the one occasion I’d been presented on a plate for the woman’s approval chez Carrington, I really wasn’t ready for another dose of the same.
‘Hang on, I can park here.’ Fabian pulled the Porsche onto a side street. ‘Oh, and there’s Jemima with Bruce.’ I looked across the street to where Fabian’s sister and her lovely new man were alighting their own vehicle.
‘Hi, you two.’ Jemima sprinted across the street, narrowly avoiding the wheels of a Sunday cyclist who swore something unpleasant, before hugging me and then Fabian. ‘Are you ready for this?’ She grinned. ‘Lunch en famille . The four of us under inspection from Ma?’
‘Fabian says your parents haven’t met Bruce yet,’ I said, linking with Jemima’s arm.
Jemima shook her head. ‘No, we’ve both been so busy we’ve not really had a chance to go down south. Bruce went back to his dad’s in Newcastle when Fabes and I went back home for Christmas.’
It was a great comfort to have another outsider in Bruce, whose Geordie accent was even more pronounced than my Yorkshire one, up for inspection at this lunch.
‘Hi, Robyn. How you doin’?’ He grinned in my direction, squeezing my hand slightly, and I knew, despite his being one of the north’s top oncologists, he was as nervous as I was. ‘Come on, let’s do this.’
Roland, Gillian and Julius Carrington were already seated at a round table near the stained-glass window and, as the men stood in greeting, Gillian remaining regally enthroned, Claudia, Julius’s wife, appeared at my side from somewhere. A mirror, probably, I surmised, marvelling at the large, immaculately outlined and lipsticked mouth that surely she couldn’t have actually been born with? Her very black eyebrows formed two perfect arches, her long straight hair was pulled back tightly from high contoured cheekbones and, as she turned to greet Jemima and Fabian, Claudia’s profile now towards me, I could only think of a cartoon cod. Goodness, where on earth did she put those lips when she went to bed at night? Glancing now at her husband, I realised that was probably a superfluous question.
‘Robyn. You are looking more than fabulous.’ Julius pushed back his chair and came forward to meet me, his hand immediately on my pink wool backside, remaining there despite my attempting to edge away. ‘Do come and sit next to me so that we can catch up.’
‘Catch up?’ I wanted to knock his hand from my bum but, trapped between the standing and kissing Carringtons and the edge of the beautifully dressed table, found I was unable.
‘Ah, Robyn, my dear. Do come and join us. How lovely to see you again.’ Sir Roland Carrington was at my side, kissing my cheek and seemingly genuinely happy to see me. ‘How’s life with you? Hmm?’
‘Good, good, thank you.’ I felt myself begin to relax. Maybe the Carringtons were not the enemy I’d conjured them up to be after that one awful meeting with Fabian’s family in the summer? A glass of Sauvignon Blanc down me and I might actually be purring contentedly in the bosom of my in-laws. The thought made me smile and, as I took the proffered chair from Julius – unable to come up with a polite reason not to – Sir Roland patted my arm.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘just let me go meet this young man of Jemima’s she’s kept from us all these months.’
‘A glass of champagne?’ Julius was already pouring me a glass as I sat down beside him, searching across the table for Gillian Carrington, the woman who had made so patently obvious her disapproval of, not only my heritage, but also my West Yorkshire working-class background and my career on the stage. Would she approve any more of my working as a teacher in a northern sink school?
Gillian, tall, raw-boned and red-haired, offered an on-off smile across the white starched tablecloth and cut glass. ‘Hello, dear. How are you?’
‘I’m very well, Gillian, thank you. And you?’ Oh hell, should I have addressed her as Mrs Carrington rather than Gillian? Lady Carrington? Your Honour, Judge Lady Carrington even? Which came first? Lady or Judge? I knocked back the champagne, immediately refilled by Julius, who appeared entertained by my obvious nervousness.
‘So, dear, we meet again on your home territory.’ Gillian lifted a glass of Evian to thin pale lips, eyeing my second glass of alcohol with patent disapproval.
‘Home territory?’ I wanted to laugh at that. Was the woman throwing down a gauntlet? The bell sounding and gloves on in readiness for a second round of confrontation?
‘Oh no, of course.’ Gillian offered a little smirk. ‘You’re in West Yorkshire, I believe? Huddersfield, Bradford, Midhope…?’
‘As well as Ilkley and Wetherby.’ I smiled. ‘Everyone appears to think because Ilkley is so pretty it must be in North Yorkshire along with Harrogate and Richmond.’
At my correction of her geographical knowledge, two tiny spots of colour appeared in Gillian’s already red-veined cheek and I wondered idly if, drinking water instead of the quite delicious champagne that was sliding down very nicely indeed, the woman wasn’t perhaps a recovering alcoholic. Gillian, obviously put out, not just at my presence at the table, but now at my cheek at correcting her in front of her whole family, turned instead to Bruce, who was being introduced to Claudia.
‘You’re a consultant ornithologist, I believe?’ Claudia tinkled merrily, flashing Bruce, not only large doe eyes, but a quite magnificent view of her sumptuous chest, which was totally at odds with the rest of her stick-thin figure.
‘Ornithologist?’ Bruce appeared somewhat nonplussed and then laughed raucously, the sound booming across the table and into the restaurant until Gillian offered up a pained expression in his direction. It gave much comfort to know I wasn’t the only one not to meet with Lady Gillian’s approval.
‘Oncologist, darling,’ Julius drawled. ‘Shame, he’s not – he’d have been well suited to working out what goes on in that bird brain of yours.’
Flushing, Claudia glared at her husband and I felt sorry for the girl. What must it be like to be married to such a horrible man? I thought, not for the first time, how glad I was that he and Fabian were only half-brothers, Gillian having married Sir Roland after seeing her first husband off to an early grave.
A waiter was hovering, obviously desperate to get everyone seated and orders taken. The restaurant was busy and, having worked at Graphite, I offered a smile of sympathy in his direction.
‘Right, right, come along, let’s order.’ Sir Roland was in an effusive mood. ‘Jemima, my darling, come and sit next to your old dad and tell me where you’ve been working and which part of the world you’re heading off to next.’
‘If she’d stayed at Carrington’s, she wouldn’t be heading off anywhere but back to London.’ Gillian sniffed. ‘Mind you, if that were the case, we wouldn’t have needed to be dragged halfway up the country to have lunch.’
‘You wouldn’t have come up to see me, Mum?’ Fabian smiled, but I knew he was put out.
‘Oh, you’ll be back in London very soon, Fabian.’ Gillian arched an eyebrow in his direction. ‘Once you’ve got over this ridiculous idea of finding yourself. Of leaving your vocation.’
‘I’m not convinced law was ever my vo?—’
‘But of course it was. You were a superb defence barrister. You’re a Carrington. All Carringtons go into the business of issuing justice.’
‘Er, and I’m not a Carrington, then, Ma?’ Jemima arched her own eyebrow, but didn’t appear overly upset.
‘Oh, you, Jemima!’ Gillian tutted. ‘You always were contrary. Always determined to do your own thing with no thought for the firm. But Fabian…’ Gillian flashed me a look of dislike ‘…was well on his way, after being one of the youngest barristers in London, to be made KC. And now, to give it all up, to?—’
‘OK, I’m going to have the crispy Arlington egg,’ Roland interrupted loudly. ‘There’s a new head chef here, I believe?’
Fabian nodded gratefully in his father’s direction, obviously glad to get Gillian off his back. ‘A new culinary lead I believe is the term these days, Dad.’ He scanned the menu and I knew he was taking it all in, excited by the innovative dishes. ‘Celeriac, I think,’ he went on.
‘Celeriac?’ Claudia looked mystified. ‘I thought the new culinary lead was someone called Celino?’
‘Celeriac, my darling, is a knob celery…’ Julius tutted.
Only one knob at this table, I thought, grinning to myself.
‘…and on the starter menu.’ Julius gave Claudia a look. ‘With pickled mushrooms and coriander yoghurt. I’ll join you, Fabian.’
‘Pressing of rabbit, I think,’ Gillian barked, not looking up from the menu.
‘Ooh, no, not rabbit!’ I spoke before I could stop myself.
‘You have something against rabbits, Robyn?’ Gillian stared in my direction.
‘Well, not per se: I actually love rabbits; I just don’t want to eat one.’ I found myself going red as everyone, including the waiter, turned in my direction. ‘We have Roger at home, you see. You know, it would be a bit like eating Boris.’
‘The ex-prime minister?’ The young waiter, unable not to, joined in the conversation. ‘Blimey. You’d have a mouthful there!’
‘The dog.’ Fabian laughed. ‘And Roger is the house rabbit.’
‘You have a house rabbit?’ Gillian stared at me. ‘Hopping around the kitchen?’
‘And the sitting room. If he’s feeling particularly put out with Mum or my sister, Sorrel, he’s not averse to hopping up the stairs to mark his territory on our beds.’
‘Goodness. How… how northern .’
‘Whippets and coal in t’bath, Robyn?’ Bruce grinned in my direction.
‘Aye, lad,’ I said, straight-faced, enjoying the banter. ‘The bath…’ I emphasised the flattened vowel ‘…in front o’ t’fire every Friday night. Whether we need it or not.’
The waiter – Marcus, according to his name tag – finally managed to take everyone’s order for starters and mains before moving to clear the one remaining place setting of its cutlery and glasses.
‘Please, would you leave it?’ Gillian instructed, laying a hand on Marcus’s arm.
‘Oh, there’s someone still to come?’ Marcus appeared worried, glancing up at the large antique clock on the far wall.
‘If they can make it.’ She smiled. ‘They might just join us for dessert.’
‘Who else is coming, Ma?’ Jemima pulled a face. ‘It’s supposed to be a family lunch. Bruce and I want to tell you something…’ She turned to Bruce, reaching across the table for his hand.
‘Sorry, Mr and Mrs Carrington.’ Bruce smiled. ‘I should have asked your permission…’
‘Permission?’ Roland turned to Gillian and then back to Bruce.
‘I’d like permission to marry your daughter.’
‘And, just to be clear, if you don’t give permission, tough.’ Jemima laughed. ‘We’re getting married next month.’ She turned to Fabian. ‘Sorry, Fabes, should have told you really.’
‘Next month ?’ Gillian stared. ‘But that won’t give us time to send out invitations, choose the cake, actually find a venue…’
‘Don’t want any of that,’ Jemima said cheerily. ‘We’re off to Mauritius. Just the two of us.’
‘Oh, not one of these beach jobbies? Please, don’t say that, Jemima.’ Gillian looked so taken aback, I almost felt sorry for her.
‘But what about your family, Bruce?’ Roland, I could see, was visibly upset at not being allowed to accompany his only daughter down the aisle.
‘Just my dad at home now,’ Bruce said. ‘I’ve no siblings and I don’t think my dad will be too upset at missing out on a big do.’
‘Right. Well, congratulations, then.’ Roland turned to kiss Jemima and then shake Bruce’s hand. ‘Welcome to the family, Bruce.’
‘Glad to be here.’ Bruce grinned.
‘Great, I can put my ring back on now, then.’ Jemima reached for her clutch, taking out the small solitaire band and slotting it onto her finger. ‘Oh, yes, and there’s one more thing.’ She smiled. ‘You’re going to be a granny, Mum.’
There was a split-second stunned silence around the table before there were more congratulations from Fabian and Roland, both men standing to hug Jemima and shake Bruce’s hand. Gillian’s face held a rictus of a smile, but Claudia’s large eyes filled with what I could only read as pure envy. Interesting: a baby was obviously on Claudia’s Christmas list but not, I surmised, glancing across at Julius, whose hand was now being taken by his wife, on her husband’s.
And, for some unknown reason I couldn’t quite grasp, I suddenly felt left out. Fabian and I had been together longer than Jemima and Bruce. Had Sorrel’s pregnancy unsettled me? Was it, now I was almost thirty and no longer bound for West End stardom, my baby body clock telling me something? Fabian wasn’t meeting my eye as if to say ‘how about us?’, as happens in all good romance novels. Oh, I was being ridiculous. We had only been together nine months and for three of those we’d not been speaking. The last thing either of us wanted was a baby when we didn’t know where we were going to finally end up living; when Fabian was out of work; when all he wanted was to fulfil his dream of owning a restaurant. And a baby had never been on my agenda.
I reached for my glass of champagne, which, I saw, had been filled once more. I sipped at it, reminding myself I’d never been much of a drinker, especially on an empty stomach. Two glasses were my limit before I either fell asleep, talked too much, holding forth in a silly accent – I was particularly good at Scouse – or became downright combative. I glanced towards Julius on my left and, instead of concentrating on Claudia, who was still holding on tightly to his hand, he was staring at me. When I raised an eyebrow in his direction – what was he playing at when his wife so obviously needed his attention? – he smirked and turned back to his own drink.
I needed Fabian, needed to know he was there for me – there was so much undercurrent around the table I was afraid of being pulled under – but he was sitting between Bruce and Jemima, happily talking Mauritius, babies and the role of, not only uncle but, apparently, godfather as well. I was just about to start on the warm bread roll that Marcus had popped onto my side plate, for something to do with my hands, when my attention was caught by an exceptionally beautiful girl, probably around my own age, who had just come through the main door. Dressed in a fitted cream wool midi skirt, which showed off her amazing figure, as well as brown suede boots, which did the same for her long legs, and with beautiful swishy caramel hair to her shoulders, she was a vision of utter loveliness and I found I could only stare. As did the majority of diners at the other tables, turning heads; one woman even nudging her neighbour, indicating the girl.
Maybe she was famous? A local celebrity? Did Ilkley have celebrities along with its Cow and Calf stones on the moor and its song about being without a hat?
‘Darling girl.’ Gillian was instantly on her feet, giving all the attention and welcome she’d denied Bruce and me to the newcomer. ‘Do come and sit down – so glad you were able to join us. We’ve saved you a place.’ The girl’s invitation and subsequent appearance at the restaurant had obviously not been shared with all the Carringtons. There was a slight pause in the proceedings as everyone else – apart from Bruce, me and Julius – appeared slightly stunned and then there was more standing up, more kissing, and another bottle opened as Marcus and a second waiter hovered with our starters, unable to actually get through to place them on the table.
I glanced across at Bruce, who grinned, shrugged his shoulders and waited to be introduced.
‘Oh, sorry, how rude of me.’ Gillian Carrington paused, looking towards Julius for several seconds before addressing the girl. ‘Let me introduce you, darling, to our guests today.’ She turned to Bruce. ‘This is Bruce, who is apparently about not only to join the Carrington family but also to present us with our first grandchild.’ She then turned to me and, with what could only be described as a malicious smile, said, ‘And the girl next to Julius is Robyn, a friend of Fabian’s from West Yorkshire. And this , Bruce and Robyn, is the very lovely Alex Brookfield, my best friend’s daughter and particularly special friend to Fabian.’