Cooper Jilly - Emily

‘Did you see Rory Balniel’s wee bride?’ said one.

‘Pur lassie, so bonny,’ said the second. ‘She might as well have married the divil.’

‘There’ll be trouble ahead,’ said the third. ‘Now young Dr Maclean’s back again.’

Then they suddenly saw me, coughed, and started taking a great deal of interest in a sack of turnips.

The feeling of unease I’d had since the first night of my honeymoon grew stronger. Another fortnight passed. I had to stop fooling myself that our marriage was going well.

I was so besotted with Rory I wanted to touch him all the time; not just bed touching, but holding hands and lying tucked into his back at night like two spoons in a silver box. But Rory seemed to have no desire to come near me, except when he made love to me, which was getting less and less often.

I tried to kid myself he was worrying about work. I knew about geniuses, secretive, more temperamental, of finer grain than ordinary mortals, and more easily upset. I tried to talk to him about painting, but he said I didn’t understand what he was doing and, anyway, talking about it ruined it.

I was in the kitchen one morning. I had learned to be quiet when work was going badly, the clatter of a pan could drive him mad. He wandered in yawning, rubbing a hand through his hair, looking so handsome with his sleepy, sulky face, I felt my stomach tighten.

‘Do you want some coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

Feeling more like a normal wife, I went into the kitchen, started percolating coffee, and sighed inwardly for the days when Nina and I had lived on Nescafé. I thought of the beautiful, haunted girl in the blue Porsche.

‘I keep seeing Marina Buchanan,’ I said.

Rory looked at me. ‘So?’

‘Not to speak to,’ I stammered. ‘She’s terribly beautiful. Shall we ask them to dinner?’

‘I’m sure they’d enjoy your cooking.’

I bit my lip. I didn’t want a row.

‘I’m sorry about my cooking. I am trying.’

‘Sure you are, extremely trying.’

‘Rory, please, what’s the matter? What have I done? You haven’t laid a finger on me for at least four days.’

‘You can count up to five? That is encouraging,’ said Rory acidly.

‘Most newly weds are at it all the time,’ I said.

‘We might be, if you were less unimaginative in bed. I’m surprised all your exes didn’t expect something a bit more exciting.’

I jumped back as though he’d hit me. Sometimes there was a destructive force about Rory.

‘God, you bastard,’ I whispered. ‘If you were a bit more encouraging, I might be less unimaginative. And if I’m no good in bed, why the hell didn’t you say so in the beginning?’

‘I was probably too drunk to notice,’ he said.

‘I hate you!’ I screamed.

I stormed out of the room, rushed upstairs and threw myself on the bed, bursting into tears. Five minutes later I heard a door slam and his car driving off down the road.

I cried for hours. ‘He’s only doing it to hurt me,’ I kept saying, trying to reassure myself. I got up, washed my face and wondered what to do next.

I thumbed through a magazine. You could have pulled corks with the models’ hair. I liked music but you couldn’t listen to records all day. I supposed I could put on a deeply felt hat and go for a walk.

I sat up, dismayed: I realized I was bored. No-one was more aware than I that boredom was a mark of inadequacy. People with inner resources didn’t get bored. No; as Rory had discovered, I’d got hidden shallows. I went to the fridge and ate half a tin of potato salad.

There was a knock on the door. Delighted, I leapt to my feet and rushed to open it. There stood Marina Buchanan, quivering with nerves as if even now she might turn and run. She was lovely, if haunted, in a red coat and long black boots, her shining Titian hair blowing in the wind like a shampoo commercial. Her mouth was large and drooping, her face deathly pale, and there were huge blue shadows underneath her extraordinary eyes. I understood everything my mother had told me about Garbo. I wished I hadn’t eaten that potato salad.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Marina Buchanan.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘I’m Emily Balniel.’

‘I know,’ she said, ‘Coco sent me a postcard suggesting we should get together.’

‘Oh, how lovely,’ I said. ‘Come in and have some coffee or something.’

‘How nice it looks,’ she said, gazing in admiration at the drawing-room.

‘Let’s have a drink, not coffee,’ I said. ‘I know one shouldn’t at this hour of the morning, but it’s such a celebration having someone to talk to.’

We had the most tremendous gossip. She didn’t seem haunted any more, just slightly malicious and very funny. She adored Coco, she said, but couldn’t stand Buster. She wasn’t very complimentary about her husband either.

‘He’s terrific between the balance sheets, so it means I can have everything I want, but I’m getting a bit fed up playing Tinker, Tailor with the caviar…’

I giggled.

‘Where’s Rory?’ she said.

‘Out painting.’

She looked at me closely. ‘You look tired. Has Rory been giving you a hard time?’

‘Of course not,’ I said firmly.

‘Don’t get sore, I’m not being critical, just realistic. Rory’s divine-looking, he exudes sex-appeal the way other men breathe out carbon dioxide, and he’s got terrific qualities.’ She paused as if trying to think what they were. ‘But he can be difficult. Where other people make scenes, Rory makes three-act plays. When he’s upset he takes it out on other people, he always has. My brother, Finn, is difficult, but in a more predictable way, and he’s not spoilt like Rory, or bitchy either. Rory’s always trying to send Finn up, but it doesn’t work because Finn couldn’t care less. And although Rory’s always had everything, somehow Finn makes him feel inadequate. They hate each other’s guts, you know,’ she added in satisfaction. ‘There’s bound to be fireworks — the island isn’t big enough for both of them.’

She got up and wandered round the room. I looked at that wild, unstable loveliness, and wondered what had possessed her to marry an old man when she could have had anyone.

‘Why don’t you both come to dinner on Thursday?’ I said.

‘That’d be lovely, but you’d better ask Rory first.’

At that moment Rory walked in.

‘Hello, Rory,’ she said softly, and then when he didn’t answer immediately, she went rattling on.

‘It would be nice if you could learn to say hello sometimes, Rory. With six months’ practice you might even learn to say, “It’s a lovely day”.’

I steeled myself, wondering what sort of mood he was in now, but he turned round, then came over and kissed me on the mouth, quite hard.

‘Hello, baby, have you missed me?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said, snuggling against him, feeling weak with relief.

Then he looked across at Marina, and ice crept into his voice. ‘Hello, Mrs Buchanan, how’s marriage? Still making Hamish while the sun shines?’

I giggled. ‘We’ve been having a lovely gossip. I’ve asked Marina and Hamish to dinner here on Thursday.’

I was determined the dinner party would be a success. For the next three days I cooked, polished and panicked, determined Rory should be proud of me. On the afternoon of the day they were coming, I was well ahead; the house gleamed like a telly ad., all the food was done. The only thing we needed was lots of flowers. There were none in the garden, but I’d noticed some gorgeous roses in a garden down the road. I set off, still in my nightie — flimsy and black. I’d been so busy I hadn’t even bothered to get dressed.

It was a warm day for the time of year, the wet grass felt delicious beneath my bare feet. I ran past ancient fruit trees and overgrown shrubberies, and started to pick great armfuls of roses.

I was just bending over, tearing off one huge red rose with my teeth, when I heard a furious voice behind me.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

I jumped out of my skin and spun round, aghast, the rose in my teeth like Carmen. A man towered over me. He must have been in his early thirties, he had dark red hair curling over his collar, a battered, freckled, high-complexioned face, a square jaw, a broken nose, and angry hazel eyes. His face was seamed with tiredness, his mouth set in an ugly line — but it was still a powerful, compelling, unforgettable face.

‘Don’t you realize this is private property?’

Then I twigged. This must be Finn Maclean. I stared at him, fascinated. It was not often one came face to face with a legend.

‘Didn’t you know you were trespassing?’

‘Yes, I did. I’m terribly sorry, but no-one’s ever picked any flowers here before. It seems such a waste to leave them. I didn’t know you’d turn up.’

‘Evidently,’ he said, taking in my extreme state of undress. ‘Who are you, anyway?’ he asked.

‘Emily,’ I muttered. ‘Emily Balniel.’

For a second there was a flicker of emotion other than anger in his face. Was it pity or contempt?

‘I’d have thought Rory was rich enough to afford his own roses. I suppose you’ve picked up all his habits of doing and taking exactly what you like?’

‘No, I haven’t, and you can keep your rotten roses,’ I said, and threw the whole lot at his feet.

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.