The Four of Us (11 page)

‘Such a posy of wild flowers used to be known as a tussie-mussie,' Eva, Kiki's mother, had once said when she'd told her how much she loved the painting.

Her heart felt as if it were being painfully squeezed. She'd grown deeply fond of Kiki's parents and, now that she would no longer be sleeping at Petts Wood during the week, she was going to miss them.

‘And they'll no doubt feel they same about you,' Geraldine had said when she'd told her how much she was going to miss living half of every week at Petts Wood. ‘Mrs Lane can cope with answering calls from patients now, though, can't she? I mean, she hasn't had a drink since coming out of the drying-out clinic, has she?'

‘No,' she'd said. ‘She's absolutely sober.'

As one of the school governors got up to say a few words she thought, not for the first time, how odd it was that sobriety had made no difference at all to the tensions between Kiki's parents. The major difference was that instead of being so solitary, Mrs Lane had formed a close friendship with a woman who had been a fellow patient, and now was out and about with her, at exhibitions and concerts, all the time.

‘And now,' Miss Featheringly was saying in her cut-glass voice, ‘one of this year's school leavers, Kiki Lane, is going to sing for us.'

Artemis drew in a deep, ragged breath.

Geraldine said a rare word of prayer.

Primmie felt the fingers round her heart tighten even more painfully.

Kiki moved to the front of the stage, slipped the strap of her guitar over her head and settled the guitar comfortably against her body.

It was the first time Primmie had ever seen Kiki about to sing in public, not wearing a ton of eye make-up, black leather and suicidally high-heeled boots.

In school uniform, and without all the accoutrements of the stage persona she had created for herself, she looked unbelievably young.

Kiki struck a chord on the guitar, looked straight at her and grinned.

‘Don't do it, Kiki!' Primmie whispered fiercely beneath her breath. ‘
Please
don't do it!'

In a rich, husky alto, Kiki began singing the old English folk song ‘Greensleeves'. It was a perfect choice. A choice that couldn't, in a million years, offend anyone.

Primmie let out the breath she had been holding and grinned back at her, happily aware that she was living through one of Kiki's finer moments.

Three days later they were all four in the garden at Petts Wood. It was a cloudless day and a heat haze hung over the distant view of the Weald. Nearer, on the golf course that formed the garden's lower boundary, a small group of golfers was walking and every so often they could hear the faint thwack of a club hitting a ball.

‘And so your engagement party is definitely going to be held at Cedar Court and not the Connaught?'

The speaker was Artemis and Primmie, lying on her tummy on a travel rug, felt a surge of amusement. Geraldine's forthcoming engagement to Francis was becoming almost as central a topic of conversation with Artemis as it was with Geraldine.

‘Yah,' Geraldine responded languidly from a gently swinging hammock. ‘Both Francis and I always wanted the party to be held at Cedar Court. It was Uncle Piers who was holding out for the Connaught.'

‘And though Uncle Piers is footing the bill, you're getting your own way?'

This time the speaker was Kiki and Primmie rolled on to her back, throwing an arm across her eyes as a shield against the sun's glare. It was hot. Very hot. The lavender Kiki's mother had planted in lavish drifts amongst Bourbon and Damask roses was alive with bees and scent hung as heavy in the air as smoke.

‘Of course I am,' Geraldine said easily. ‘Uncle Piers was only rooting for the Connaught because he can't bear the thought of hundreds of guests trampling Cedar Court's lawns.'

‘Is that where the main part of the party will be? Outside, in the grounds?'

Again it was Artemis, in a nearby deck chair, who was speaking.

‘It's where the dance floor is to be set up.'

‘And the stage and sound systems.' This was Kiki.

There came the sound of iced lemonade being poured from the thermos jug into a glass.

‘The Atoms aren't going to be playing all night, are they? There is going to be another kind of band, as well? A band that will be playing some nice smoochy music?'

At the edge of anxiety in Artemis's voice, Primmie's amusement deepened. Geraldine and Francis's guest list read like a mini
Almanach de Gotha
and Artemis had made no secret of how high her hopes were of snaring herself a blue-blooded boyfriend.

‘There is, but I rather think The Atoms will have a larger share of the evening.'

There was dry amusement in Geraldine's voice and Primmie wasn't surprised. The Atoms was the rock group Kiki had been singing with ever since she had ditched Ty. More professionally managed than the group Ty had been a roadie for, their advert for a singer had been placed in
The Stage
and Kiki had had to go to a rehearsal room in Leicester Square to audition before being taken on with them.

Though they didn't indulge her passion for late-fifties and-early-sixties rock songs, they did play some of the hippest clubs in south-east London and Kiki hadn't the least doubt that, now she was free of Bickley High and able to concentrate on her career full-time, the only way she was going was up.

‘Geraldine's engagement party is going to be a great showcase for me,' she'd said after seeing the names on the guest list. ‘Everyone who's going is the sort of person who throws large parties for anything and everything, and after Geraldine and Francis's party the only band they're going to want to hire is whatever band I'm singing with.'

‘And the best thing about
The Atoms
being hired by Geraldine,' Kiki was now saying, ‘is that at private gigs the hirer has a say in what is played.'

Primmie opened her eyes and pushed herself up into a sitting-position. ‘Don't tell me. All of a sudden, Geraldine's favourites are going to be Brenda Lee and Little Eva numbers.'

‘And Cilla's “Anyone Who Had a Heart” and Dusty's “Losing You”,' Kiki added gleefully.

‘And what about Bobbie Gentry's “Ode to Billy Joe”?' Primmie asked, putting her two-penn'orth in.

‘More to the point, what about some more ice? The lemonade is warm.'

‘If you want more ice, Geraldine, you go for it,' Kiki said, not stirring. ‘I'm too hot to move.'

Equably Geraldine slid out of the hammock and reached for the turquoise wraparound blouse she'd picked up in a flea market and that she'd shed when they had begun sunbathing.

Primmie watched her which a mixture of admiration and disbelief. The white linen trousers Geraldine was wearing were also vintage forties, wide-legged, with turn-ups and very Marlene Dietrich. By rights, she should have looked a ragbag. Instead, she looked incredibly cool – in every sense of the word.

‘Has Geraldine told you that she's written a couple of songs for me?' Kiki asked, still lying prone as Geraldine began walking barefoot over the grass towards the house.

Primmie hugged her knees, gazing down the long lawn and over the golf course to where the Kentish Weald shimmered beneath the azure blue bowl of the sky. ‘Are they good?' she asked. ‘Are you going to use them?'

‘They're love songs. More Nina Simone than Brenda Lee. But it's time I was working on a variety of musical styles and if we can get the music and the vocal arrangement right …' Her eyes gleamed. ‘If we can do that together, if I can come up with my own material, then I'll definitely have an edge where my singing career is concerned.'

‘Why didn't you ask me to write some songs for you?' Artemis said, aggrieved. ‘I like writing poetry.'

‘Song-writing isn't poetry, Artemis, or at least not the sort you have in mind, and you can't read music and Geraldine can.'

Primmie closed her eyes, wondering, if she tried hard enough, whether she could perhaps write songs.

Artemis was obviously being persistent because the next thing she heard was Kiki saying exasperatedly, ‘Of course it matters, Artemis! I spend hours debating with Geraldine whether a chord should change to a flat or a sharp.'

Geraldine's shadow fell across her, bringing Kiki and Artemis's conversation to a halt.

Primmie opened her eyes.

‘As well as a fresh jug of lemonade I've brought some choc ices from the fridge-freezer. Your mother won't mind, Kiki, will she?'

‘No.' At the mention of choc ices Kiki sat up. ‘Anything in the fridge-freezer is there for anyone who wants it.'

‘Choc ices? Yummy.' Artemis reached for her blouse, which was lying on a pile of magazines, and put it on.

Geraldine handed them round and then, having put the jug of lemonade on the table, sat down cross-legged on the picnic rug beside Primmie. ‘You are all OK for what you're going to wear to the party, aren't you? I don't want any last minute flaps – and I want you all in full fig.' She looked pointedly at Kiki. ‘This is ball gown time and whatever family jewels you can lay your hands on.'

Primmie licked a piece of chocolate from the corner of her mouth. ‘My family jewels will be diamanté, but my ball gown is going to be a knock-out. I'm having it made by Lauren Colefax's aunt.'

Lauren Colefax had been in their form at Bickley from the first year to the sixth and her aunt's reputation as a dressmaker was formidable.

‘The material is pale lemon taffeta and it's going to have a scooped neckline and huge puffed sleeves.'

She was aware of Kiki flinching and didn't care. ‘I'm going to look gorgeous in it,' she said with happy certainty.

‘I'm sure you are, Prim.' Artemis looked at her watch and rose to her feet. ‘It's nearly six and I have to scoot. My godmother is visiting this evening and I don't want to miss her.'

‘And I must go, too,' Geraldine said, rising to her feet in a movement as fluid and graceful as a dancer's. ‘Mummy has a meeting with the caterers this evening and I want to be in on it.'

‘And I have things to do and people to see as well.' Kiki stood up. ‘What about you, Primmie? Do you still want to clear everything out of the bedroom today?'

Primmie nodded. It wasn't something she really
wanted
to do, because she'd been too happy living half of every week with Kiki to be over the moon at finally removing all trace of occupancy from the room they'd shared. It was, however, a task that had to be done.

She picked up the two travel rugs and the thermos that had held the lemonade, glad that Kiki wouldn't be with her when she emptied her drawers and packed her books, sure that, when she did so, she would shed a tear.

Sunlight streamed through the windows as she went through the bedroom's bookshelves, separating her books from Kiki's. No one else was in the house. Kiki's mother was very seldom home, now. Jenny Reece, the friend she had made at the drying-out clinic, was a garden designer. A passionate gardener herself, Kiki's mother took a great interest in Jenny's work, travelling with her whenever she was visiting a new client. Simon wasn't in either, though he soon would be because his evening surgery finished at seven o'clock.

With her books stacked in the sports bag she'd brought with her, she turned her attention to the wall-length shelf of records. Only a few of the vast collection were hers. She removed a Frank Sinatra single and a Julie London single from between a whole raft of Gene Vincent and Little Richard albums and then, hearing a car enter the drive, halted. If Mrs Lane had come home, then she wanted to thank her for all her many kindnesses.

The front door opened and seconds later there came the sound of someone running up the stairs.

Primmie slid the records into her sports bag and walked out of the room on to the wide landing. The door to Mrs Lane's bedroom was open and there was the sound of drawers being opened in a hurry.

Walking across to the open door, she raised her hand in order to knock and announce her presence.

Her hand froze in mid-air.

Mrs Lane was scooping clothes from the drawers of her dressing-table and putting them into a suitcase that lay on the single bed.

‘I'm sorry,' she said, confused. ‘Are you late for something, Mrs Lane? Are you going away?'

Mrs Lane stood stock-still, a pile of lingerie in her arms. ‘Primmie! I didn't know you were here.'

There was such consternation on her face that Primmie moved towards her, certain that someone in the Lane family must have been taken ill and that Mrs Lane was rushing off to be with them.

‘What's happened?' she asked, deeply concerned. ‘Can I help?'

‘No.' Mrs Lane continued what she was doing. ‘No, darling Primmie, you can't help. I'm doing something I've wanted to do for ages.'

She dropped another pile of lingerie into the case. ‘I'm leaving,' she said starkly. ‘I'm leaving for good. Simon knows. I've already told him, but he doesn't believe me. He doesn't think I have the guts.'

Primmie stared at her, aghast. ‘But where are you going? Does Kiki know?'

Through the open window there came the sound of a short, sharp toot on a car horn.

‘I'm going to live with Jenny.'

As she was speaking she was taking dress after dress out of her wardrobe, laying them on top of the lingerie.

Primmie felt sick with helplessness, wondering what was going to happen when Simon Lane came home; when Kiki came home.

As if reading her thoughts Mrs Lane said, ‘I've left a letter on the hall table.' She closed the wardrobe door. ‘Please don't look so devastated, Primmie. Jenny only lives in Sevenoaks. I'll still be able to see Kiki whenever Kiki has the time to see me. And Simon will be … relieved. It isn't the end of the world and, for me, it's the beginning of a whole new one.'