The Island Escape. Kerry Fisher
thanks.’ I took another gulp of champagne and waved to Octavia as she took her seat down the other end of the table.
I kept my hands in my lap, staring at the pattern on the elaborate silver cutlery. I didn’t want to look up in case people were whispering about me. I wasn’t sure I could even pick up my wine glass without knocking everything over and shattering Cher’s finest Waterford.
Michelle sat opposite me. As always, Patri – who loved a bit of pomp and ceremony – had had menus printed up. The waitress handed one to Michelle, who immediately called her back. ‘Has the mushroom soup got cream in it? I can’t eat venison. It’s barbaric. Did Cher organise any alternatives? Butternut squash risotto? Rice doesn’t agree with me. Could you see if they could make it with quinoa?’ The poor girl backed out to the kitchen, promising to see what she could do.
My heart sank as Simon plonked himself next to me. ‘Patri on the other side of you, is he? A rose between two thorns.’ He looked over at Michelle. ‘Alright, Miche? Better bring a packed lunch for you next time. Don’t want you eating the wrong thing and farting us out of the room.’
Simon looked round at Patri and me for approval. Patri clicked his tongue and frowned. Michelle hissed back at him whilst I concentrated on buttering my roll.
He turned to me, nodding at the bread in my hand. ‘Nice to see a girl with an appetite. Better not overdo it, though. Being back on the market and all that. Don’t want to get too chubby. Men like a bit of flesh, but not too much.’
I looked down at his stomach. It bulged out like a cushion between his braces. I slathered on a little more butter and ignored him, although I soon realised he was like a dog that creeps out from under the table to mount your leg as soon as the owners aren’t looking.
‘So. Approaching the New Year as a single girl, then.’
‘It’s early days. I’m still coming to terms with it.’
‘Must be a bit lonely.’
Patri saved me by banging his spoon on a wine glass with a satisfying ching. ‘Before I get too piddled, Cher and me would just like to welcome you all to our New Year’s Eve dinner. I did too much waiting on tables when I was younger, so I’m not doing it any more. In this house you’ve got to help yourself, or ask one of the Fillies.’ He pointed his cigar at the rows of wine on the sideboard. ‘On the plus side, you can have anything you want. If you go home saying, “Christ, that was a dry old do,” then you’ve only got yerself to blame. Buon appetito!’
Patri sat down, stubbing out his cigar on his side plate. ‘It’s me lucky night tonight, doll, sitting next to you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You doing OK? Where you living?’
‘I’m staying with Octavia at the moment. I discovered Christmas Day wasn’t a terribly good time to look for a house to rent.’
Simon was practically dipping his chin into my soup to catch the conversation. He stuffed a large piece of bread into his mouth. ‘Come and sleep in my spare room any time. You can pay me in blow jobs. Haha.’
He guffawed away, specks of olive ciabatta landing in wet blobs on my bare arms. I didn’t dare look at his wife. I tried to think of a suitable response, if such a thing existed.
But Patri wasn’t having any of it. ‘Simon. Shut up. Have a bit of respect.’ He’d put his spoon down and turned towards him, elbow on the table.
That familiar queasy feeling started to rise, panic that confrontation was on its way. I smiled, blocking Patri’s view of Simon. I caught sight of Michelle’s pursed lips out of the corner of my eye. ‘It’s fine, it was only a joke, Patri, come on.’
Simon patted my arm, not the slightest bit abashed. He drained his glass. ‘Roberta knows how to have a bit of fun, don’t you, sweetheart?’
Patri settled back in his chair, but his gold signet ring tapped out irritation on the surface of the table. I glanced over at Michelle. She touched her spoon to her lip before pushing the bowl away. It was going to be a long evening. I looked down the table for Octavia. She had her head thrown back, laughing at some new friend’s joke. Even Jonathan looked jolly for once, though he usually cheered up when he was drinking other people’s Pouilly Fumé rather than his own supermarket special.
By the time the main course arrived, my fragile brave face was cracking. Patri had devoted himself to listing Scott’s shortcomings, waving his forefinger about to make his point.
‘Never liked the way he spoke to my dog, porco cane. Never trust a bloke who drinks that bloody Mexican beer. Madonna, should’ve been doing a thank-you dance to the love gods that you was prepared to put up with him.’
That took him through seconds of venison and thirds of celeriac – or ‘cheleriac’, as Patri called it. There were moments when Patri was so accurate about Scott’s failings – ‘Only saw the good in himself, that one’ – that I had to smile. I knew he meant well, but the communal need to lambast him at every opportunity made me feel a total idiot for marrying him in the first place. I was terrified that a laugh might turn into a sob at any moment. On the upside, Simon was finding himself fascinating elsewhere, recounting anecdotes about going on a deer shoot to some bored faces opposite. Michelle had sucked in half of her face with disapproval, but I couldn’t decide whether that was related to Simon’s hunting stories or whether her entire life was failing to live up to her expectations.
Just when I thought I might be able to guide Patri away from me and onto the other guests, the pecan pie arrived and he changed tack, sifting through his social network for replacement husbands. ‘Maybe Sharky. Bit old for you, early fifties. Good bloke though. Spends his summers in Antibes. Got a nice pad in the Bahamas.’ Now and again, he’d shout down the table to Cher. ‘Oy, doll. Freddie got divorced yet from Queenie? How about him for our Roberta here?’
Then Cher would call him a daft old bugger and tell me to take no notice. ‘Half of them are ex-cons, Roberta. Don’t you be getting mixed up with them. You’ll have to dig up the cash in the back garden before you can go to Waitrose.’
Then she cackled at her own joke while Octavia mouthed, ‘Are you OK?’ at me.
I decided to take some respite from smiling by escaping to Cher’s downstairs cloakroom. It was like something out of a Parisian hotel with gilt mirrors, feathers and fairy lights. I killed a bit of time working my way through her range of creams, starting with the lavender hand balm and finishing with a rub of spider lily body lotion into my elbows and calves. Smelling like a florist’s stall couldn’t be worse than Patri’s cigars. I examined the various perfumes and aftershaves. Cher’s favourite, Poison, gave me a headache. Charlie reminded me of my teenage years. Issey Miyake Pour Homme. Very fresh.
No homme to buy it for.
I picked up a smoky purple bottle. Soul. Hugo Boss. Scott’s favourite. I sprayed some on my wrist. A picture of Scott getting dressed, clean-shaven, shirt open, flashed into my mind. I banged the bottle back down. I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and get back to the party. Michelle was waiting as I came out. ‘Sorry. Didn’t realise I was holding everyone up.’
‘How’s it going, Roberta?’
‘Fine. I feel a little strange on my own, but Patri and Simon are looking after me.’
‘I suppose we’ll have to keep an eye on our husbands now you’re single. Simon doesn’t like Sloaney brunettes anyway.’
I looked at her to see if she was joking, but her eyes were all squinty and suspicious. Everything about her was sharp and jutting, like an aggressive toothpick. Inappropriate jokes were obviously the uniting factor in the Lawsons’ marriage.
Scott had always schmoozed Simon and Michelle for Simon’s City connections. It dawned on me that I didn’t have to toe the couple line any more. ‘Don’t worry. You’re safe. I don’t like fat bullfrogs.’
I click-clacked back across the foyer without waiting for her reply.