Olivia’s Luck (2000) (39 page)

“He lolls about at home, scratching his bum and getting in my way,” said Molly, preparing to throw the rib bones to her two Border terriers, who were sitting bolt upright, quivering with excitement.

“What my dear wife means,” said Hugh, leaning conspiratori-ally towards Sebastian, “is that when I’m not making passionate love to her on a sultry afternoon amongst the buttercups, I am in fact, rehearsing for my play.”

“Ah, and that is?” Sebastian brightened.

“Oh, dear boy, sweet of you to ask, to take an interest and all that, but it’s very much a fringe thing. On a considerably lesser stage to the one you inhabit, playing to seriously dwindling audiences, and at a little-known auditorium, a modest venue just off the Hammersmith Broadway.”

“The Lyric? D’you mean the new Simon Gallway play? The Roman one, um –
Death of a Conqueror’s Son?
”

Hugh nearly fell off his chair he was so excited. “Yes!” he rasped, nearly choking on a rib bone. “Fuck me, yes! Have you seen it?”

“Certainly I have. It was excellent.”

Hugh’s chest expanded until it was fit to explode, his face went purple.

“Well then, surely you recognise me!” he squeaked. “I’m on stage the whole time!”

Sebastian’s eyes widened. “You are? Blimey, I only saw it a few weeks ago, but…” he frowned. “Oh, hang on. You’re the centurion, right?”

Hugh shook his head excitedly. “No!”

“Er, well. The lead?” he said, somewhat doubtfully. “Peter the Great?”

“Warmer, getting warmer!” Hugh leapt up and down and hopped about excitedly.

“Er, Peter the Great’s son? Michaelias?”

“Hot! Really hot – so close!”

Sebastian frowned. “Peter the Great’s…other son? Alexander?”

“That’s it!”

“But – isn’t he…dead?”

“Precisely! From the word go! I’m the corpse!”

“Oh!”

“Front of stage the whole time,” he said proudly, “lying doggo and deceased. Remember?” Hugh collapsed flat on his back in the daisies to demonstrate, eyes shut.

“Oh, er, well, yes. I do now. You were…unforgettable.”

“Wasn’t I just?” beamed Hugh, sitting up. “If I say so myself I was
bloody
unforgettable. Yep, I really got into that part.” He reached for his glass of Pimm’s and took a satisfied swig. “It’s all in the breathing, you know,” he informed us importantly, waving his glass about. “All in the oesophagus control.”

“He made me see it four times,” muttered Molly, leaning back wearily and shutting her eyes in despair. “I was eight months pregnant, feeling ghastly, and it was like a sauna in there. And he keeps berating me because I won’t go again. And he does nothing! He just lies there, for God’s sake!”

“Ah, but I
feel
dead, Molly,” he urged. “I actually feel it, and I convey my deceased state to the audience. Seb here will back me up, won’t you, Seb? Oh – and I’ll tell you someone else who will, someone else who was sitting at my feet in the front row, looking starry-eyed at my performance, drinking from the muse. Old Imo and Hugo whatsisname, the conductor!”

“Imo came?” said Molly. “You didn’t tell me that. Gosh, that was sweet of her.”

“Sweet!” He gasped. “
Sweet!
Why so? I’m not a
charity
, my darling. They came to marvel, to be enlightened! One doesn’t rattle one’s tin and give generously to poor old Hugh!”

“So they’re still together,” I mused. “That’s nice, and it must be a record for Imo. Have you spoken to her recently, Moll? I haven’t seen her since the concert.”

“I asked her to come tonight,” said Molly, sucking the orange from her Pimms, “but she was frantic in the gallery and couldn’t really speak, except to say she had a work thing to go to, so she couldn’t come. I did ask how things were going, though and she said she was besotted.”

“Really! With him?”

“Well, presumably. She didn’t say, but I imagine so. I should think Ursula’s wetting her pants at the prospect.”

“I saw the pair of them the other night, actually,” said Sebastian. “The Mitchells asked me to dinner and, having refused two invitations, I thought it only politic to go.”

“Ah,” I grinned. “So Ursula
is
becoming your benefactress. I knew she would.”

“I must confess I had that same, slightly uncomfortable feeling,” he grimaced.

“And was Hugo there too?” demanded Molly. “Playing footsie next to Imo and shooting her hot looks over the vichyssoise?”

“He was, although not next to her. I suspect even Ursula’s not that obvious. I sat next to Imogen, actually. I thought she was charming. Very easy on the eye and much less intense than her mother.”

“Oh
God
, yes,” I agreed.

“Wouldn’t be difficult,” added Molly.

“But scary,” warned Hugh, wagging his finger.

“Imo? No, why?” I said, but I knew what he meant.

“Oh, come on, Liwy, Ursula’s overeducated her. Any fool can see that. All those violin lessons at four and cuboid maths at five – you feel you can’t open your mouth without her thinking – Christ, what a berk!”

“Entirely valid in your case,” said Molly, getting up. “More booze, anyone?”

We drank on and on, and I had far more than I should have done, first because I wasn’t driving, but also because I felt I might need it. I’d shaved my legs, you see. And my armpits. And as Molly dolled out the strawberries and cream, I gazed at Sebastian as he chatted animatedly with her and wondered just how reckless I was being here. Not very, I decided, taking another swig of Pimm’s, and eyeing him carefully, and anyway, he’d won the bet. The one I’d made with myself in the bath, earlier on. It went – why string him along if you’re not really interested, Olivia? Then – well, I’m not stringing him along, I really like him. Then – OK, so if you really like him, how about it? You said you wanted to get back to the land of the living. Well, live a little, for Christ’s sake! At this point, in the bath, I’d seized the Gillette G2 from the soap dish and depilated furiously. But only, I’d told myself, shaving away like a demon, if I’m totally bowled over by him tonight. Only if he makes me laugh; only if I can look at him without thinking of Johnny; and only if he goes down well with Molly and Hugh – although why this should come into the equation I’ve no idea since Johnny had never got on particularly well with Hugh, thinking him camp and theatrical – ‘dodgy’ was how he’d once described him – whilst Hugh, who was as straight as a Roman road, had, in turn, found Johnny just a little too hearty and macho for his artistic taste.

I studied Sebastian now, roaring with laughter at something Hugh had said, head thrown back, wiping tears from his eyes, that narrow, intelligent face creased with mirth. He caught my eye as he shook his head in bemused wonder at Hugh, and I grinned back happily, holding his gaze for just a little longer than was strictly necessary. As I finally looked away it struck me, rather gloriously, that some time later this evening, I was indeed, going to live again. Some time tonight, after all these arid months of mere existence, I was going to uncurl my dry, dusty old roots and drink again, feel the sap of life. I wondered, with a jolt, if I could remember how to do it. Nah, course I could. Just like falling off a bicycle. I frowned, blearily, into my drink. Hang on, wasn’t I mixing my metaphors a bit here? And if I
was
going to do it, where the devil was my cap? Gathering dust in my bedside drawer probably, beside an unmade bed and – Hell, when did I last change the sheets? Suddenly I felt my courage begin to slip through my fingers like fine sand. I hastily took another gulp of Pimm’s.

Molly came back, armed with a fresh jug, and crouched down between the boys to gather up some strawberry bowls, demanding to know what they were laughing at. Sebastian told her that Hugh had fallen asleep on stage one night and had snored so loudly he’d had to be surreptitously kicked awake by. Peter the Great.

“Not so surreptitiously,” gasped Hugh. “Apparently I was out for the count. He nearly broke my ribs!”

“You never told me!” Molly shrieked throwing a napkin at him. “You old fraud – getting into the part, my eye – you never told me that!”

I got up to help her clear away, determining at the same time to tell her of my little seduction plan. I needed encouragement and boy, would she encourage me. “Go for it, Liwy!” I could hear her saying. “This man is perfect. This is exactly what you need!”

I followed her into the kitchen, and as she wiped her eyes on a tea towel at the sink, still hooting and dissolving with laughter, I stared at her.

“How are you managing this, Molly?”

“What?” she gasped.

“All this hilarity. You haven’t laughed like this for weeks!”

“Oh!” She pulled up her dress. “Plastic pants! Huge ones, absolutely marvellous, men’s ones actually. Bought them in Boots this morning, and padded them out with stacks of those wingy ST things Hugh brought back from the shoot. I was so bloody sick of sitting around po-faced as if I had a cucumber up my bottom, I thought – damn it, I’m going to have a laugh tonight. Honestly, I’ve practically got a nappy on here, Liv, and I can skip – ” she demonstrated across the kitchen – “I can dance – arabesque – lah-lah-lah!” Her arms flew out and her leg shot up all of two inches behind her. “Well, almost. And I’m sure I could straggle some gorgeous hunk’s shoulders if I really – Shit!” she squeaked, suddenly clutching herself.

“What!” I leapt forward.

She peered down. “I’m leaking!”

We gazed in frozen horror as torrents of liquid poured down her legs.

“God, that’s more than a leak, Moll!”

“My waters! Quick – a bucket!”

“No, no, the loo, hurry – it’s closer!” I bundled her towards it.

“No!” she hissed suddenly, digging her heels in. “I’ve got to keep some! My midwife told me to, so they can test the amniotic fluid. Get a plastic bag!” She clamped her legs together, bug-eyed with alarm now.

“Where?” I flew wildly round the kitchen.

“Top drawer – there,” she pointed. “Hurry!”

“They’re huge!” I wailed as I pulled a vast John Lewis carrier bag from the dresser.

“Never mind!” she squeaked. “Just get some of this ruddy stuff!”

I crouched down between her ankles, trying desperately to catch some drops and actually feeling faintly hysterical now. Her legs were no longer dripping, just wet, and the deluge was all over the floor.

“Oh, Moll, I can’t!” I gasped hysterically.

“Get a spoon!” she shrieked. “Look, there’s a big puddle. Oh, go away, Digger!” Digger the Border terrier, keen to join the party, looked frightfully excited and all set to clean up. I hurriedly shut him in a cupboard.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Molly,” I yelped, bending down again, frantically spooning away, “you should be at the hospital, not worrying about your amniotic fluid – HUGH!” I flung over my shoulder.

“What?” drifted laconically up from the garden.

“GET IN HERE – NOW!!!”

I reached down deep into my lungs for this, and it did the trick. Hugh and Sebastian arrived at the double, just as Molly, tottering across the floor towards her husband, collapsed stiffly on his neck like a paperhanger’s board.

“It’s coming,” she moaned. “Finally, Hugh! Ten bloody days late, but it’s actually, finally coming!”

Sebastian, childless, and probably having only ever seen births on episodes of
Casualty
, where it all tends to happen in ten seconds flat on the floor of a phone box, looked horrified. “What, here? Now?”

“That’s it, mate,” said Hugh, grasping his shoulder. “This is how she wanted it. On all fours on the kitchen floor, that was her birth plan. Glad you could join us. I’d like you down at the works end, if you will. Wash your hands.”

“No no,” I said hurriedly, seeing Sebastian’s aghast face. “He’s joking. She’s got a while to go yet, and Molly’s not into painful home births either. Come on, Moll, let’s get you into the car.”

“We’re off, we’re off!” chortled Hugh joyfully, hopping about from foot to foot. “God, I wonder what it is. It’s just like Christmas, isn’t it!”

“Hardly,” snarled Molly.

“Never mind, my love, we’ll have you there in a jiffy and it’ll soon be over, you’ll see. Come on, my sweet.” He helped his huge wife, who seemed to have gone completely rigid now, out of the kitchen, then abruptly lunged back to grab a pewter hip flask from the dresser.

“Hang on, Moll!” He supported her with one hand and filled the flash expertly with whisky with the other. “Pain relief,” he grinned, slipping it into his pocket. “In case her agony is too much for me to bear.”

“Oh, the pain,” she moaned, clutching her tummy.

“What – already?” he asked anxiously.

“No, no, I’m just remembering. I want everything, Hugh,” she warned him, staggering out, “everything that’s going, remember that.”

“I will, my love.”

“I want epidurals, pethidine, gas, injections – whatever’s going I want it. Unconscious will be just fine. Tell them, Hugh.”

“I’ll tell them, my pet, don’t you worry.”

“And don’t forget to put a ciggy in my mouth as soon as I come round.”

“It’ll be my first priority.”

“And your case?” I asked anxiously, following them out of the front door.

“Boot of the car,” she gasped, “packed and ready. I knew this would happen, knew it would come in a rush, be a bloody emergency. Oh, bye, everyone!”

She turned, halfway down the path, and waved, grinning from ear to ear, suddenly enjoying the moment. Hugh braced up beside her with a huge cheesy grin, never missing a potential audience opportunity.

“Bye, all,” he cried. “Back soon!”

“Bye!” Sebastian and I yelled back enthusiastically. It was a bit like waving to a royal couple on the balcony.

“And good luck!” added Sebastian as Hugh helped Molly into the car.

“Thanks, mate!”

Moments later they were away, roaring off in Hugh’s ancient MG, roof down, waving frantically, when suddenly – my hand shot up in the air.

“
Stop!
”

Hugh obediently squealed to an emergency halt in the middle of the lane. His head swung back. “What!”

“You’ve forgotten Henry!”

Molly and Hugh exchanged horrified looks then – “Shit!” in unison.

Hugh performed an immaculate three-point turn in the middle of the lane and came roaring back.