Bella

Chapter Nine

As a result of hangovers, none of them had gone down to the country until late on the day after Gay’s wedding. They all felt jaded. The only answer seemed to start drinking again.

It was Angora, probably at Lazlo’s instigation, who suggested they play table-turning. Everyone, except Bella, agreed with alacrity. A polished table and a glass were found; the lights were dimmed.

At first the glass produced no messages for anyone; then, chided by Chrissie that the spirits would not work unless they stopped fooling about, they started to concentrate.

The glass hovered a bit, then spelt out that Lazlo was going on a journey, which impressed everyone because he was flying to Zurich tomorrow night, and it told Angora she was due for measles.

Then it spelt Mabel.

‘We don’t know anyone called Mabel,’ said Angora.

‘Yes, we do,’ said Steve. ‘Bella, of course.’

‘Bella?’ said Rupert in surprise. ‘But she’s Isabella.’

‘No, she’s not. I’ve known her longer than you and her name’s not Bella. She was born Mabel Figge, to be exact.’

Bella blushed scarlet.

Angora gave a crow of joy. ‘You’re never called Mabel Figge!’ And she went off into peals of laughter. Chrissie grinned delightedly.

‘Shut up, Angora!’ snapped Rupert. ‘Let’s go on with the message for Bella.’

They all put their fingers on the glass.

‘G-o h-o-m-e’ it spelt out slowly. Then, suddenly, taking on a life of its own, it veered round the table, spelling out ‘T-w-o t-i-m-i-n-g g-o-l-d d-i-g-g-e-r.’

There was a long pause.

Then Bella screamed, ‘Someone’s pushing that glass!’

‘Darling,’ Rupert protested, ‘it’s only a game.’

‘And you can shut up!’ she shouted at him, and, jumping to her feet, she caught her bag on the edge of the table. Everything cascaded on to the floor, her mirror breaking.

‘And I hope it brings you all seven hundred years’ bad luck!’ she screamed.

She gave a sob and fled upstairs, locking herself in her bedroom and lying on her bed, crying just loudly enough for people to hear.

Later, Rupert came upstairs and banged on her door until she let him in.

‘You’re over-reacting,’ he said. ‘They’re only teasing.’

‘Throwing darts into a maddened bull, more likely,’ she stormed.

He started kissing her; then followed the inevitable row because he wanted to make love to her. Suddenly, the fight went out of her.

‘Oh well, go on if you must, I don’t care,’ she said listlessly.

Rupert stared at her for a minute.

‘Thanks,’ he said coldly, ‘but I never accept charity,’ and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

It was early dawn when she finally fell asleep, and late dawn when she woke up, head splitting, gravel behind her eyes.

Desperate for aspirins, she got up and wandered down the passage to the bathroom she shared with Angora.

There were no pills in the cupboard, only bath salts and cologne. She weighed herself on the scales. God, she was putting on weight. She must stop all this misery eating.

She got off the scales and turned them up seven pounds. That would screw up Angora and her flaming slimming diets.

On the way back, she paused outside Angora’s bedroom. The door was ajar. She peered in, uneasily breathing in the smell of French cigarettes, nail-polish and expensive scent. Then her nails bit into her palms as she realized there was no-one sleeping in the bed. Angora must be with Steve. Until now, Bella had nurtured a faint hope he was just chasing Angora to goad her into breaking it off with Rupert.

Now she imagined his suntanned hands caressing Angora’s body, her cloudy black hair on the pillow, her little gasps of excitement, her head threshing back and forth, as Steve drove her to the extremes of pleasure that Bella knew of old he was capable of. Then, later, the low laughter, the private jokes, the exchanged cigarettes, the sleeping in each other’s arms.

She sat on her bed for a few minutes, whimpering. It was impossibly hot already.

She got up and opened the shutters and stepped out on to the balcony.

The fields were white with dew, a heavy mist hung over the lake at the bottom of the lawn. The white climbing roses on their tall arches were touched with pink. On the tennis court birds were chasing worms; in the distance a train chugged.

The beauty of the view only intensified her misery. A light breeze caressed her bare legs and lifted her hair off her shoulders.

Suddenly, she heard a scrunch of wheels and, leaning over the balcony, she saw the ivy green Mercedes draw up in front of the house. Lazlo got out. He was wearing a red and white striped shirt and dark grey trousers, and carrying his jacket and tie.

Bella stepped out of his line of vision, but, through a crack in the shutter, she watched him yawn and stretch, breathing in the morning air. Then, whistling, he set off across the dew-soaked lawn towards the stables.

The next moment, she heard a door shut quietly and saw Angora, wearing a white silk dressing gown, steal across the drive and then the lawn, after him. Then she called his name. He turned round, smiled and walked back towards her.

There was a quivering expectancy about Angora, as though she was longing for him to take her in his arms. For a minute they talked in low voices, with Bella nearly falling off the balcony in her efforts to hear. Then Lazlo picked up a loose strand of hair which had fallen over Angora’s forehead and smoothed it behind her ear. She seemed to be arguing now; then he patted her cheek and nodded towards the direction of the house. Reluctantly she came running back across the grass and disappeared through the front door.

Bella opened her door slightly, but Angora didn’t come back to her room. Had she gone to Steve’s bedroom, or Lazlo’s?