Page 67 of Lessons in Life

‘Who else is coming, Ma?’ Jemima pulled a face. ‘It’s supposed to be afamilylunch. 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.’

‘Nextmonth?’ 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 withallthe 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. Andthis, Bruce and Robyn, is the very lovely Alex Brookfield, my best friend’s daughter and particularlyspecial friendto Fabian.’

22

JULY 1968

Eloise

‘Eloise!’ Muriel Hudson’s strident voice flew up the stairs at Hudson House like a pistol shot. ‘Come down from that bedroom. I need some help.’

Eloise, sitting cross-legged on the bed while poring over the photography books she’d borrowed from Beddingfield library that morning, tutted, hoping that if she ignored her mother she might go away. No such luck. There was a rattle of the door handle and then, when Muriel realised it was locked, she rapped smartly.

‘Why are you locking the bedroom door?’ she called impatiently. ‘What are you doing in there?’

Eloise sighed, but went to the door, turning down Emperor Rosko, who was holding forth on Radio 1 on her transistor.

‘What are you doing?’ Muriel repeated once she was in the room, and, seeing the dishevelled bedspread, added, ‘I’m sure they don’t allow sitting on one’s bed in Switzerland. And turn off that infernal noise, do, Eloise. Now, I need some help with these guest lists.’

‘Guest lists?’

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