Forget Me Knot (7 page)

“Yes, but on you it looks good,” he laughed.

Underneath the soot, she was blushing.

“Right,” she said, “I’d better get going.” She looked at her watch. It was just after nine-thirty. She had been due to meet Toby and his mother at the Ivy more than two hours ago. She assumed they had gone ahead with dinner without her and would still be there.

“Although I’m not sure the doorman at the Ivy is going to let me in looking like this.” Even if her face didn’t look too bad now, there was still the question of the massive patch of soot on her jacket. On top of that, her stockings, already grubby from the soaking she’d received earlier, were now full of holes.

“I’m sure they’ll let you in once you explain.”

“Hope so.” She held out a hand for him to shake. “Thanks again for keeping me sane,” she said.

“Anytime.” He smiled, taking her hand in his. “And good luck with the wedding.”

“Thanks.”

She headed down Long Acre. Her pace was brisk, occasionally breaking into a run. She was desperate to get to the restaurant before Toby and Lady Penelope left. She couldn’t run for very long, though. Her high heels made it impossible.

She’d gone a few hundred yards when it struck her that she knew virtually nothing about the man who had so skillfully prevented her from turning into a hysterical, carpet-chewing loon. She didn’t know his last name, what he did for a living or where he lived.

How rude of her to have said good-bye without at least getting his address so that she could send him a bottle of something to say thank you for his kindness.

By now she was a few yards from the restaurant. As she broke into a trot again, a memory of something she had said in the elevator came flooding back. She felt her face flush. While she was drunk, she’d told Dan about her relationship with Toby. She’d revealed details. Intimate, personal details. Her pace slowed to a walk as she remembered telling him how they hardly ever did it. Then the phrase
trying
to force jelly into a letter box
leaped into her mind. Abby was horrified that she could have displayed such crassness, such lack of discretion, not to mention such disloyalty to Toby. Abby was so full of embarrassment that she could feel her pancreas turning scarlet.

“Omigod,” she heard herself blurt out, “a perfect stranger is
au fait
with my fiancé’s penis.” A couple of passing teenage girls, dressed up to the nines, heard the remark and burst into giggles. Suddenly her regret that she and Dan hadn’t exchanged addresses or phone numbers turned to immense gratitude. At least this way she wouldn’t have to face the humiliation of seeing him or speaking to him ever again.

ONCE ABBY HAD EXPLAINED
about being trapped in the elevator, the restaurant doorman and maître d’ couldn’t have been kinder. The maître d’ directed her toward Toby’s table and said that a very large brandy—strictly on the house—was on its way. The last thing Abby felt like was more alcohol, but she didn’t want to appear ungrateful by refusing.

Abby headed toward the table. The restaurant was packed, and a couple of times she had to stand to one side to let a frazzled, plate-laden waiter get past.

At first she didn’t notice Toby coming toward her. “Omigod, Abby,” he called out. “Sweetheart. Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.” As soon as she saw him, she quickened her pace. His arms were open to receive her.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re still here,” she said, virtually throwing herself at him. His eyes immediately went to the lapels of his gray Dunhill suit jacket.

“Abby, you’re covered in soot.”

“I know. Sorry. Oh, God, it’s all over your suit.” She pulled away.

“It’s fine, really. Not to worry.” He began flicking his lapels. “So, come on, you still haven’t told me what happened.”

“Omigod, it was so scary. You won’t believe it. The elevator broke down at Covent Garden tube, and a police rescue team had to winch me and this other chap up the elevator shaft.” The relief at seeing him, combined with the adrenaline still in her body, caused the words to tumble out of her in an excited, breathless stream.

“Bloody hell! You sure you’re not hurt?”

“I’m fine. I tried to phone you, but we were so far down, there was no signal.”

“But you never take elevators,” he said.

“I know, but I was running late. I knew taking the elevator would save time, and somehow I forced myself to do it. You have no idea how petrified I was.”

He kissed her sooty cheek. “I can imagine. You poor, poor thing. Look, I think after what you’ve been through, we should get you home. I’ll explain to Mother—”

“No, I’m all right… really. Though heaven knows what she’ll think of me in this state. I wiped my face, but there wasn’t much else I could do.”

He dabbed at the dirt on her shoulder and managed— partially, at least—to suppress a grimace. “Don’t worry. Once you’ve explained, I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“Your mother must be furious with me for not showing up.”

He managed a humorous eye roll. “Don’t worry, but suffice it to say, you haven’t made the best of impressions.”

Toby led her toward the table, flicking and dabbing at his suit as he went. “I have spent the last two hours listening to her grind on about how it’s not just manners but punctuality that maketh the man.”

Abby put her grimy hand in his. “Poor you. I’m sorry. I did try phoning you again as soon as I was out of the elevator, but all I got was your voice mail.”

“It must have been when I went to the loo. I left my phone on the table.”

“Didn’t your mother hear it?”

“Her hearing’s not so good these days.” By now they were almost at the table. “OK, remember, when Mother gets onto the subject of hunting, just go along with everything she says. Do not start challenging her.”

“Toby, stop panicking.” She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I promise I won’t let you down.”

The Dowager Lady Kenwood was seventyish, thick of waist and ample of bosom—exactly as Abby had envisaged. She was wearing a nondescript maroon velvet dress, which made her look like a giant pincushion. Save for a wonkily applied slash of scarlet lipstick, she wasn’t wearing a scrap of makeup. Her fine silver hair was drawn into an untidy chignon held in place by two large combs and a mass of pins. As she stood up to greet the soot-dredged Abby, her disapproving smile revealed a perfect set of yellowy-beige teeth, which clashed spectacularly with her red lips.

“Mother, I’d like you to meet Abby,” Toby announced, fiddling uneasily with the gold signet ring on his pinky.

Lady Penelope was looking Abby up and down. “Good grief, child,” she boomed, “whatever happened to you?”

“I’m afraid the elevator broke down at Covent Garden,” Toby volunteered nervously, “and Abby had to be rescued.”

“Do be quiet, Toby. I’m sure the girl is perfectly capable of answering for herself. And for goodness sake, wipe the soot off your nose.”

Toby instantly reached into his pocket and pulled out a hand-kerchief.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Lady Penelope,” Abby ventured. “And forgive my appearance. The police rescue team had to winch me up the elevator shaft, and it was pretty filthy.”

“How awfully tiresome. Still, you survived in one piece. That’s the main thing. I like a girl with gumption.”

This was tenderness of a sort, Abby decided. It came as a relief to discover that the woman wasn’t quite the dragon Toby had painted.

Her ladyship sat down and patted the seat next to her. “I need you on my right. M’ left ear’s next to damn useless these days.”

Abby sat down and Toby followed. Abby noticed that there were two empty coffee cups and an untouched plate of petits fours on the table. “You know,” Lady Penelope continued, “my mother wasn’t much older than you when she got caught up in the Siege of Mafeking. Saw all sorts out there. Didn’t do her the remotest harm. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was a tough old bird, I can tell you. So, Annie, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself.”

“Actually, Mother,” Toby broke in tentatively, “it’s Abby.”

“Abby?” Lady Penelope barked. “But I’m sure you told me her name’s Annie.” She turned to face Abby. “So, which is it? Come on, out with it. Make up your mind.”

“I’m Abby. Always have been.”

“Surname?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your surname. I take it you do have one.”

“Yes, it’s Crompton.”

“Crompton. Ah, that would be the Dorset Cromptons, I presume.”

Abby did some nervous throat-clearing. “No, the… er… the Croydon Cromptons, actually.”

“Croy-don?” Lady Bracknell in
The Importance of Being Earnest
couldn’t have uttered the name with more disdain.

At this point Toby leaped in: “Yes, but didn’t you say you thought you might be distantly related to the Dorset Cromptons?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m sure you did.”

Abby shot Toby a thin-lipped smile. “No, really, I didn’t.”

Toby glared back at Abby, who decided to see his glare and raise him a couple of eyebrows. Toby then turned to his mother: “I’m afraid Abby’s memory has a tendency to let her down on occasion.”

“What?” Abby came back, her voice high with indignation. “I have absolutely no problem with—”

“No engagement ring, I see,” Lady Penelope broke in.

“Er, no,” Abby said. “We haven’t quite got round to buying one. Toby’s been absolutely snowed under at work.”

Lady Penelope turned to her son. “Don’t leave it too long. The girl will think you’re not serious.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Abby said, smiling across at Toby. “I know he’s serious.”

“So, tell me, Abby, do you hunt?”

“Actually, no, I don’t.” Toby was looking at her as if to say: “Careful, now. Watch your step.”

“Why ever not? Healthy, strapping filly like you should hunt.” Several strands of gray hair had fallen from Lady Penelope’s untidy chignon and were hanging around her
face. She made a couple of feeble attempts to pin them back but gave up when the hair refused to stay put.

“The problem is,” Toby broke in, “that Abby doesn’t ride. But she’s definitely thinking of learning… aren’t you, Abby?”

“I am?”

“Yes.” Toby was nodding vigorously at her, begging her to follow his lead. “Don’t you remember we talked about getting you riding lessons?”

“If you say so.”

“Excellent,” beamed her ladyship. “We’ll have you riding to hounds in no time. I’m master of m’ local hunt, you know.”

“Yes, Toby did mention it. So, you’re a bit of an enthusiast, then?”

“Careful,” Toby mouthed.

“I’ll say. It’s excellent sport, not to mention jolly good exercise. And you meet so many people from so many walks of life. I’ve met surgeons, lawyers, politicians—all sorts. Toby, I insist you bring Annie to our next hunt ball.”

“Mother, it’s Abby.”

“Oh, do shut up, Toby. This constant hairsplitting is most frightfully tedious.”

Toby made no attempt to point out that calling somebody by the correct name rather than the incorrect one— particularly when that someone was his fiancée—most definitely wasn’t splitting hairs. Instead, he turned pink with embarrassment.

Abby couldn’t believe the change she was seeing in Toby now that he was with his mother. The woman undermined him constantly, and he made no attempt to stand up to her. It was astonishing. The confident, highly articulate hotshot
city lawyer Abby knew and loved had suddenly been reduced to a toadying, weak-kneed wimp.

On the one hand, she felt sorry for him. If at the age of thirty-four he was still petrified of his mother, heaven only knew what terror the women must have instilled in him when he was a child. On the other hand, Abby couldn’t help feeling massive disappointment that a grown man could allow his mother to dominate him in this way.

A waiter arrived with Abby’s brandy. She thanked him, but she still didn’t fancy it. What she did feel like, though, was food. It was only now that she realized how ravenous she was. She looked up at the waiter. “You know, I could murder a fat, juicy steak and a mountain of fries.” The waiter assured her it was no problem.

“I’m sure Abby would love to come to the hunt ball,” Toby said as the waiter took his leave. “Wouldn’t you, Abby?”

“Well, things tend to get pretty busy at work…” Another kick under the table from Toby. “Yes… er, absolutely. Of course, I’d love to come.”

“Jolly good. Jolly good. Toby can teach you to dance the Gay Gordons. He’s particularly good at it.”

Toby flushed hunting scarlet.

“So, Annie, tell me—what do your people do?”

“My people?”

“Your parents, girl. Your parents.”

“Oh, right. They travel quite a bit, but they don’t do a lot, really.”

“Ah, landowners, are they?” Lady Penelope said, apparently forgetting that landed gentry were pretty thin on the ground in Croydon. “How many acres do they have? What is it? Arable? Grazing?”

“Well, they’ve got a hundred-foot back garden, which isn’t bad for Croydon, and the grass must be pretty tasty, because from time to time next door’s rabbit burrows under the fence and munches at the lawn.”

“Really?” The expression on Lady Penelope’s face was giving every impression that she was in physical pain.