Emily

Chapter Ten

Although I was seething with rage, I didn’t mention the incident to Rory when I got back; he was in too bad a temper. I started tidying the drawing-room.

‘I wish you wouldn’t hum nervously when you do things,’ he said. ‘Stop fiddling with those leaves, too, they look awful enough as it is.’

‘You only notice them because Marina’s coming.’

I went into the kitchen and slammed the door. First Finn, now Rory. I thought I was going to cry, but it would only make my eyes red, so I took a large swig of cooking wine instead. Then I suddenly realized I hadn’t put out any napkins, and had to rush upstairs, pull them out of the laundry basket and iron them on the carpet.

Maddeningly, Marina and Hamish arrived twenty minutes early, so I had no time to tart myself up. I wondered if Marina did it deliberately. She looked staggering in a slinky, backless blue dress which matched her eyes. But even I was unprepared for Hamish. He must have been close on sixty, with nudging eyes, an avid grin and yellow teeth. But he’d got himself up like an out-of-date raver: thinning grey locks clustering over his forehead and down his back, sideboards laddering his wrinkled cheeks, a white chamois leather smock, lots of beads and jeans several sizes too small for him. He looked like an awful old goat. Rory, who looked devastating in a grey satin shirt, couldn’t stop laughing.

‘Marina, darling, what have you done to him?’ he said in an undertone. ‘He looks like an octogenarian ton-up boy.’

‘I’ve made an old man very hippy,’ said Marina, and giggled.

‘Don’t you like his smock? A touch of white is so flattering close to the face when you reach a certain age.’

They were convulsed with mirth. I think I would have been shocked by their malice if Hamish hadn’t been so awful, lecherous and pleased with himself.

We all drank a great deal before dinner.

‘I’m thinking of growing a beard,’ Hamish said.

‘I don’t like beards on boys or girls,’ said Marina.

‘Are you still taking singing lessons?’ Rory asked Marina.

‘I drive over to Edinburgh once a fortnight. It’s a long way, but worth it. I usually stay the night. It gives Hamish a break.’

‘To get up to mischief,’ said Hamish, giving me a wink that nearly dislocated his eyelid.

No one really noticed the dinner, not even when one of my false eyelashes fell in the soup. Marina ate nothing; Hamish was obviously frightened his trousers were going to split. Rory never ate much, anyway. I cleared the plates and served each course; I might have been a waitress. Walter Scott was having a field day finishing up in the kitchen.

There were strange undercurrents. I felt as though I was watching a suspense story on television where I’d missed the beginning and couldn’t quite work out what was going on. Hamish rubbed his skinny leg against mine. Any moment he’d get a fork stuck into it.

After dinner Marina turned on the gramophone. She and Hamish danced. Hamish looked absurd, flailing about like a scarecrow in a gale. Marina moved like a maenad, her red hair flying, her face transformed by the soft light.

Rory sat watching her, his face expressionless. He had been drinking heavily all evening.

Finally she flopped down beside him on the sofa.

‘Did you ever finish that water-colour of the harbour?’

He nodded. ‘It’s in the studio.’

‘May I come and see it?’

They went next door.

Hamish looked dreadful now, grey and exhausted. He went off to the loo and I wandered into the studio to see the painting they were talking about.

Suddenly, I froze with horror. They hadn’t bothered to turn on the studio light, and were standing near the window in the moonlight.

Marina stood there vibrating, a foot away from Rory; her face glowed like a pale flame.

‘Why did you marry her?’ Her voice dropped an octave.

‘Oh come on,’ Rory said, ‘let’s say I wasn’t wanted any more.’

‘To punish me, to put me on the rack. You can’t believe I married Hamish for anything but his money, but she’s something entirely different.’

She turned on her heel and was coming towards me; it was as though I was frozen in some terrible nightmare.

‘Marina, wait,’ I heard Rory say.

‘Oh go to hell,’ she said, but the longing and ache in her voice were quite unmistakable.

She didn’t see me as she came into the drawing-room. ‘Hamish, I want to go home,’ she snapped.

Her face was turned away from him, only I could see it was wet with tears. Rory didn’t even bother to come out and say goodbye to them. I went back into the studio, my legs hardly holding me up.

‘Rory,’ I said, ‘I think we ought to have things out.’

‘I’ve nothing to have out, nothing.’

I realized he’d reached that pitch of drunkenness that was about to explode into violence, but I didn’t care.

‘What’s going on between you and Marina? Why was she hanging around when we arrived? It was she who sent the wreath, wasn’t it? And her whom you rang up the first night of our honeymoon? I want to know what it’s all about.’

‘Nothing, nothing. We were brought up together, that’s all. Anyway,’ he snarled, ‘you asked her to dinner. Now get out of my way.’ He pushed me aside. ‘I’m going to sleep in the spare room, and don’t come crawling into my bed in the middle of the night.’