Chapter Nineteen
2pm, Kendric House Ballroom
It goes well. Better than I ever dared hope. For a start, Bill loves everything and raves about my scones.
“Light as air, and crumbly. They’re perfect.” He slathers blackcurrant jam on top of clotted cream and takes bite after bite.
Even better, he and the professor sit side by side and chat happily. If nothing else, I’m glad to have given my grandfather a chance to see his son. Also, I’m starting to suspect, after the flowers, that the professor might just be the nice person Haneen told me he was.
I sit next to Jack to make sure he has a good time. He particularly enjoys the chocolate cake. “I lived in France for a time. They have good cakes there, but yours is better.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him it came from Sainsbury’s. Raff must guess he winks at me. “Why were you in France, Jack?” he questions the old man to keep him talking.
“I was a television producer.” He waves a careless hand as if talking about being a waiter. He tears a bit off his ham sandwich but seems to be losing his appetite.
I offer him another slice of chocolate cake, hoping to keep him engaged. “Don’t you love French films?”
He grimaces. “Not me. I worked on news and current affairs for the BBC European desk. France for ten years then moved to Geneva at the United Nations offices.”
Raff meets my eyes over Jack’s head; we’re probably thinking the same thing. This interesting man who once worked at the heart of world events, now he’s treated like a worthless nuisance by those paid to care for him.
The old man dozing in his chair in front of Colombo on endless repeats has gone. In his place is a funny, clever man full of stories about filming interviews with Fidel Castro and Nelson Mandela and Yasser Arafat. Even his eyes shine.
When I glance around the table, now I see them differently. Men and women who must have been strong and vibrant once. They all have stories, just like Jack.
“I went there on my honeymoon,” Philomena chimes in. “Don’t go to Switzerland unless you like pork sausages and cheese. Every meal was cheese fondu or sausages chopped into a salad with cheese. I had the runs for the entire week.”
“Not how you want to spend your honeymoon.” Deniro laughs. “I took my wife on a cruise of Alaska and the Arctic, ahhh” – he sighs dreamily – “green forests as far as the eye can see. I tell you, the air is so clean, it’s like cut crystal. We sat on deck at night, drinking white wine and watching the Northern Lights.”
It starts a cascade of everyone talking about their honeymoons or romantic holidays. Raff, Llewellyn, Alex and me look like the outsiders since none of us are married. Well, I guess Llewellyn has a girlfriend except she never seems to be around. It can’t be going well because he has a wistful expression as the conversation becomes animated and raucous around us.
Everyone eats a lot because, as Bill puts it, this is much better than whatever dinner they’re cooking up back at The Glyn. So, I make more sandwiches and fresh pots of tea.
DeNiro smacks his lips. “This is almost as good as Cylon tea I used to love.”
“I never got into that whole dark intense taste,” Philomena pops another triangle of buttered bread on her plate. “My favourite used to be Darjeeling.” She closes her eyes as if savouring the memory. “Subtle, citrusy and delicious.”
“That’s a very girlish tea.” DeNiro isn’t impressed. “And I bet you liked it with a slice of lemon and drank it from a china cup with flowers on the rim.”
Surprisingly, it’s Llewellyn who comes to her defence. “I never got into dairy milk with tea,” he says with a polite smile at both. “It obscures the taste. If I’m not having black tea, then I prefer oat milk. It’s milder.”
DeNiro gives Llewellyn a tragic look. “Oat milk? I don’t see you turning down clotted cream.”
“Yes but you don’t see me stirring it into my tea.” He proves the point by taking a huge bite of his scone with lashings of clotted cream.
Everyone eats a lot. There’s nothing more gratifying after hours of cooking than the sight of people hoovering up everything.
They eat in between funny anecdotes and more than a few risqué confessions. Even Vanessa, elegant, beautiful with her white hair in a sleek French twist is telling a furiously blushing Llewellyn how to please a woman.
“You have to woe her early on, we ladies need time. You can’t heat us up in the microwave. Start your foreplay early in the day.”
“What?” Alex asks, intrigued. “Like after lunch?”
She gives him a reprimanding look. “No, I mean after breakfast, during breakfast.”
“We have jobs and busy—”
“Don’t be soft.” Philomena giggles looking directly at his lap. Alex, who I thought was fairly unflappable, suddenly squirms. “Just tell her something sexy.”
“Something like” – Vanessa says – “ I can’t wait to have you all to myself tonight. Or You wearing a thin bra or you’re just pleased to see me? That kind of thing, just to let her know you fancy the hell out of her.”
Shirley must have heard because now she interrupts her conversation with Meredith to say, “Us women aren’t like you. You switch off at work, but we can have more than one thought in our heads. So, all day we’re thinking about this, and slowly warming up.”
“When you’re on your lunch break,” Vanessa continues. “Send her a message. I hope your thighs are rubbing together like silk. I can’t wait to be between them.”
Raff almost chokes on his tea. Everyone is openly listening. Actually the older guys are listening openly. We are playing with our food, pouring tea, doing anything to avoid looking at Vanessa or catching anyone’s eyes. Seriously, these women are all too frank.
“Then when you come home and she’s busy with something like cooking, just walk up behind her and trail a finger down the back of her neck. Hello sexy . Before you go to change out of your work clothes.”
“That’s right.” Philomena agrees. “That’ll get her going in the love quarters.”
A shiver runs through me. Quickly I pretend to stir my tea to hide it. Alex has his legs crossed. And Raff is looking at the floor as if he’s trying to read it.
“You see? Men don’t really understand foreplay. It’s that slow burn that works. By the time you kiss her, if you’ve done all that early stuff, she’ll be a wildcat in your arms.”
I hate to admit it, but Vanessa isn’t wrong.
“What I always hated,” Shirley says after finishing her cucumber sandwich and reaching for another. “It’s when you’re in the heat of the moment and all naked in bed, and the guy asks you, what do you like ?” She puts on a deeper voice for that last question.
“Jeez, I hate that too.” Philomena laughs. “Just when you want to close your eyes and lose yourself in the feeling, he wants you to teach him lessons.”
All three women guffaw.
“It’s only because you women are hard to understand,” Bill objects.
“And speaking of questions at the wrong time.” DeNiro looks at all the women at the table, including me. “That thing you love to ask. ‘What are you thinking?’ has to be the worst question on God’s Earth.”
“Bloody Hell, yes.” Gethin lifts his arms up as if begging God for help. “Just when you’re coming down from the whole business.”
I get up to refill the sandwich platter and notice the end of the table where the teenagers sit. They are watching and listening avidly. Shit! They’re probably too young for the X-rated conversation.
Raff clears his throat. “How did we get here from Nelson Mandella and Yasser Arafat?”
The whole table cracks up laughing.
Yes, the afternoon has been a wonderful success. Until they come to board the minibus and things take a bad turn.