The Judas Tree, page 2
She laughed. ‘That’s not a beard. That’s not bothering with a razor for three days.’
He smiled. ‘You love me rough and ready.’
‘I don’t have a choice, do I?’
He leant forward and grazed his scratchy skin lightly against her cheek. ‘No, I’m sorry Mrs English, you’re well and truly stuck with my scarecrow chic.’
They walked hand in hand up the driveway. The gravel crunched beneath their feet and the still summer air was filled with the delicate smell of burning oil from the flares which lined the way. As they neared the house the noise of the party – exuberant music and a rumble of chatter and laughing – grew. Harmony’s stomach pitched with nerves. She glanced at Will. Relaxed and nonchalant as always. Nothing fazed him. She was envious of his ability to walk into a party like this without a worry, confident and at ease, eyes glistening with anticipation, not even a whiff of apprehension at the prospect of a room full of strangers.
‘Can you believe they re-gravelled the drive?’ he said. ‘Christ, imagine having so much money you’d redo the bloody drive for a party.’ He laughed. ‘When Ian told me the budget for the champagne I nearly choked.’
Harmony wasn’t surprised; if you were as wealthy as Ian said he was, re-gravelling the driveway was nothing. ‘From what Emma’s let slip over the past few months, the drive is the tip of the iceberg.’
Will clapped his hands together and grinned. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Can’t wait to get in there and start gawping.’
They reached the entrance to Emma and Ian’s imposing Georgian pile. There were three stone steps leading up to the front door on which were scattered a few handfuls of red rose petals. Harmony remembered Emma telling her they were supposed to look like wedding confetti, but seeing them now they reminded her of drops of blood and she was careful not to tread on them as they walked up the steps. The heavy door opened and they were greeted by a man in striped grey trousers and a black evening jacket who balanced a tray of champagne flutes on his white-gloved hand.
He bowed his head in greeting. ‘Welcome to Oak Dene Hall,’ he said, with theatrical solemnity.
Harmony smothered a smile; she had to admire her friend’s attention to detail. Emma hadn’t mentioned a butler, almost certainly because she knew what Harmony’s reaction would have been. They’d been friends since primary school, but sometimes Harmony wondered if they had anything in common outside a deep affection and shared memories. They were different in almost every way. Harmony loved to travel and devoured books, was dedicated to her work, never went to the gym and rarely wore make-up. In contrast, Emma’s world consisted of a few square miles of rural Oxfordshire, the shops of Bond Street and Knightsbridge, and innumerable Instagram pages showcasing pristine beaches, gourmet cooking, and aspirational interior design. Emma had been planning this party – meticulously – for months. Harmony was also turning forty that year and had made Will promise there’d be no celebrations. She didn’t even want a card. She’d be perfectly happy if the day passed without mention; like a dirty secret it was best kept hidden, not due to vanity but because of what the milestone symbolised. That she was past her best. That time was running out.
Will thanked the man and took two glasses of champagne. ‘I know you’re driving,’ he said, as he handed her a glass. ‘But you should try this; it’s one of the best we stock, from a tiny vineyard that doesn’t usually supply outside of France. It’s very easy drinking.’
She took the glass and they walked over to the circular table in the large entrance hall that held a huge vase of flowers and a bowl of tropical fruit that spilled over the shining mahogany like a nineteenth-century still life.
Will lifted his glass and she clinked hers against it. ‘Cheers,’ he said, leaning over to kiss her.
She took a sip of champagne. ‘It’s delicious.’
He grinned. ‘I knew you’d like it. I’m glad Ian came to me. God knows what he’d have ended up with if left to his own devices. I’m not sure he could tell champagne from bleach—’
‘Shhh, Will.’ She smothered a laugh and glanced over her shoulder. ‘Someone will hear you.’
He laughed.
‘Will?’ she said, with a certain reticence. She fixed her eyes on her glass, watching the stream of tiny bubbles race to break the surface of her drink to leave a thin, fleeting foam. It was no doubt a terrible time to raise the subject, but this was the most relaxed they’d been in ages.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been thinking about things over the last week or so.’ She glanced towards the front door but the butler in the grey striped trousers was too busy bowing to be interested in eavesdropping.
‘What things?’
Her heart skipped a beat. She was surprised how difficult it was to get the words out. She’d been over them again and again, toying with them like worry beads, but as she spoke they caught in her throat. ‘I think … I think we should … try again.’
‘Try again?’
‘Yes.’ She reached for his hand. ‘For a baby.’
His smile fell and his body tensed.
‘It’s been six months,’ she said quickly. ‘And, like I said in the car, I’m feeling good, back to normal really. And seeing you with the boys in the park the other day … I think we’re ready. I know it’s taken some time, but I really think we are.’ She paused, halted by his expression, a mixture of shock and confusion which said more than words could ever say. Her stomach turned over.
Will glanced at two women who were walking in their direction, full-length dresses trailing the floor, heads tipped together, sharing a joke behind raised hands like Cinderella’s cackling sisters.
‘This isn’t the right place to discuss this,’ Will said, watching them as they passed, his features stretched taut.
‘Does it need a lengthy discussion?’
‘Yes,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Of course it does. This has come totally out of the blue; I had no idea you’d been thinking about this.’
‘It’s all I think about.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Hello, my darlings!’
Harmony closed her eyes and swore quietly at the sound of Emma’s voice. She should never have brought this up at a party. Stupid and impulsive. They needed time and space, and now she had to put on a show and pretend everything was OK. She turned to face her friend who was dressed in black from shoulder to toe, the taut satin fabric sparkling with what looked like ten thousand beads and sequins.
‘Thank God you’ve arrived!’ Emma threw her arms around both of them and kissed each of their cheeks in turn. ‘I was beginning to worry you weren’t coming!’
‘As if we’d miss it.’ Will turned his smile on like a light.
‘You look amazing, Em.’ But her words sounded forced, her mind too full of Will’s reaction, the way he’d looked at her as if she’d pulled out a gun.
Emma beamed. ‘You do too!’ she said. ‘It’s criminal you spend all your time in jeans and a sweatshirt. I’d kill for a figure like yours.’ Then Emma leant forward, her face suddenly serious. She gave Harmony a hard stare. ‘Darling? Are you OK?’
Harmony nodded. ‘Will and I were having a bit of chat, that’s all.’ She paused for a beat as Emma began to express concern. ‘We’re fine. Honestly.’ Harmony gave Will a tight smile to prove how fine they were.
Will smiled back and put his arm around Emma’s shoulders and squeezed. ‘All good,’ he said. ‘I’m just hoping you’ll let me have the first dance with you.’
Emma squealed. ‘Oh, yes please! Now, enough serious talking, let’s have some fun! Oh,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘You’ve got your camera, haven’t you?’
Will patted the bag that hung over his shoulder. ‘Of course.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘It would be great to get some photos of people while they still look gorgeous. Will you take one of Harmony and me now?’
Without waiting for him to answer she stood next to Harmony and put her arm around her waist. ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘You really don’t have an ounce of fat on you, do you? My stomach’s a horror show, like a hot cross bun with all the flab and C-section scars.’
Harmony smiled weakly then leant in towards Emma and posed for the photograph.
‘See you in there,’ Emma said, as she trotted down the hallway towards the throb of the party, lifting a hand and shrieking a greeting to another of her friends.
Neither Will nor Harmony spoke immediately. Harmony rested her hand on her tummy – flat, muscular and barren – and her throat constricted. Would these flashes of sadness ever stop? The desperate grief that had come with her miscarriage had been hard to endure. The only time she’d felt anything like it was when her mother died, but at least then the loss had been tangible, an actual known person physically gone, a person of whom she had memories and photographs. It was far easier to miss her mother’s hugs or the way she stroked her forehead at bedtime than it was to miss a baby she’d never met. She was painfully aware she was mourning a concept, an unknown foetus barely the size of her thumb – four point one centimetres, the books had told her – no name, no face, even gender unknown.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, with a heavy sigh. ‘Tonight isn’t the right time to talk about it.’ She tried to smile. ‘I wasn’t thinking. It just came out.’
‘You don’t have to be sorry.’ His voice was soft, eyes gentle. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. It took me by surprise, that’s all.’ Will reached for her hand then leant forward and kissed her forehead. She rested her head against his lips for a moment and closed her eyes; she felt desolate.
‘Come on.’ He took a step back from her. ‘Let’s get back to enjoying the criminal extravagance.’
Harmony hesitated, wondering briefly if Emma would notice if she slipped away, past the ridiculous butler, over the petals on the steps, out to the quiet safety of the car and home. But instead she nodded and followed Will.
The party was in a marquee that butted up to the side of the house. It was accessed through the French windows in the living room, a high-ceilinged room with two huge sash windows, original plasterwork and a number of sofas carefully arranged with gold-tasselled cushions. She gasped as they entered the marquee. It was enormous, covering the entire rose terrace, the neatly clipped box hedging and flower beds incorporated into the design with garlands of flowers and strings of lights and what appeared to be a thousand candles decorating every surface. The navy material which swathed the roof was studded with tiny lights to look like stars. There was a table in front of them that held a cake that was more work of art than pudding with hundreds of perfect choux puffs piled three feet high with hardened glistening caramel flowing down them like lava. Waiters circulated with bottles of champagne and silver trays of geometric canapés. The tent heaved with beautiful people with shining white teeth and loud, confident laughter, vying to be heard over the music.
‘Bloody hell,’ Will said. ‘It’s Made in Chelsea does Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ He gestured with his glass. ‘There’s Ian, Oxfordshire’s answer to Gatsby.’ He started to walk towards Ian, but Harmony didn’t follow. He turned back to face her. ‘Are you coming to say hello?’
‘You go ahead.’ She tried to sound as relaxed. ‘I’m going to nip to the loo.’ She took a step backwards. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Do you want me to wait for you?’
‘No, I’ll find you.’
Harmony walked back out of the living room and down the panelled corridor towards the downstairs cloakroom. As she walked she straightened her shoulders and breathed deeply. Will’s reaction had unsettled her. They hadn’t spoken much about the miscarriage. They both found it hard. Will always managed to say the wrong thing somehow, upsetting her without meaning to, incapable of understanding the maelstrom of emotions she was battling. But was it really that surprising she wanted to try again? Maybe, as was often the case with Will, he needed time to get his head around it.
There was a woman in a short red dress waiting outside the loo. She smiled at Harmony as if she was about to engage in conversation. Harmony turned away, focusing her gaze on the photographs of the Barratt-Joneses displayed on a console table in the corridor. The photographs were all black and white and presented in a variety of silver frames. Some of the pictures – the better ones in her opinion – were Will’s. There was one he’d taken in his studio when Emma had insisted the whole family dress in blue jeans and white shirts and pose in front of a white background. Will had tried to convince her to go for something less hackneyed, a little edgier, but she was having none of it. So there they were now, preserved in manufactured perfection, Emma sitting beside Ian, with Abi on her lap, and Josh on the floor, all of them immaculate and smiling and lost in a sea of white. Then there was a photo of Ian and Josh out shooting, Josh a mini-me beside his father in matching flat cap and leather boots, holding aloft a brace of dead pheasant like a trophy of war. Abi in her ballet leotard, leg outstretched at the barre, almost regal in her grace and poise; Emma and Ian arm in arm in front of the Colosseum; Josh scoring a glorious try in an under-nines rugby match. A tinge of envy crept under her skin. Harmony pushed it away. What was she jealous of anyway? Not the money and she certainly didn’t resent her having children. She was happy Emma had a family. Maybe it was the way Emma’s life had panned out exactly as she’d intended, with no obstacles to negotiate, no trapdoors or landmines to surprise and derail her?
‘I’m not going to be poor when I’m older,’ she’d told Harmony when she was fifteen. ‘Being poor is absolute shit.’
‘You can’t predict the future.’
‘You can make choices, though, can’t you? And that’s my choice. I don’t want to be poor. I’m done with it.’
Every decision Emma had made since then was part of a grand plan that led to this very point: the large house, the wealthy husband, the perfectly turned-out children. Harmony had watched with amused fascination as her friend single-mindedly pursued what she perceived to be happiness. Often she’d been scathing of Emma’s undisguised aspiration, but looking at these photos, knowing how much the family loved each other, perhaps she had to admit the planning had worked. She was pleased for her friend. Of course she was. What kind of person would she be if she wasn’t?
Harmony glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the toilet door and saw the lady in red disappear inside as another woman came out, smoothing her dress as she passed. She looked back at the photos. Behind the family shots was one of her and Will with Emma and another couple of friends. They were on the beach at West Wittering, where they’d been camping for the weekend, drinking cans of lager and eating sausages cooked on a cheap disposable barbecue. She picked it up and smiled, stroking her fingers lightly over the faces in the photograph. They were all so young, so full of optimism and possibility. She stared at her own face. She was plumper back then, not overweight, but fuller, her face less angular, but even so she still looked masculine, she thought. Will’s mother had once described her as handsome and it was a good description. Her face was symmetrical with an aquiline nose, high forehead and pronounced cheekbones. That day her hair was brushed back into a ponytail and she remembered Will kissing the nape of her neck as she bent to blow on the struggling barbecue. When she’d turned to smile at him he’d mouthed: I love you. A few hours earlier, holding each other in two sleeping bags zipped together to make one, he’d asked her to marry him. She remembered the thrill she’d felt, lying in his arms in the sun-warmed tent, looking at him with tears in her eyes and nodding.
‘But you’re so young,’ Emma had said as they watched the boys throwing a rugby ball down by the water’s edge. ‘Why get engaged at twenty-two? I mean, what’s the point? How do you know it’s right? That he’s The One?’
Harmony had laughed. ‘There’s no such thing as The One! It’s a ridiculous notion. What if your The One is in India or Papua New Guinea and you never, ever met? And, anyway, I know Will’s right for me. It’s not as if we’ve just started going out; we’ve been together ages and he’s funny and different and kind. And we have amazing sex.’ She grinned at Emma then turned back to watch Will catch a high ball and fall backwards onto the sand in a fit of laughter, his strong forearms browned by the sun, blond hair falling over his face. ‘I love him, Em. I really, really love him, so much I feel I might actually explode.’
Then Will’s words echoed in her head like a spectral prophecy.
And you’re OK with not having children? Because that won’t change, Harmony. Promise me you understand.
‘Yes,’ she’d said, kissing him full on the lips. ‘I understand.’
But she hadn’t understood, not properly. She only really understood the day she lost her baby.
‘Are you waiting?’ The voice startled her. She turned to see a man behind her. He was very good-looking, medium height and slim build with chiselled, tanned features and thick dark hair swept back off his face. He wore a crisp white shirt that was open at the neck, no tie, no jacket. His eyes were dark, almost black, and he looked at her with such directness she felt herself blush.
‘Sorry?’ she said, putting the photograph back on the table.
‘Are you waiting to go in?’ He pointed at the cloakroom.
She looked and saw the door open, an array of scented candles flickering inside.
‘Oh, yes, I am. But I’m not desperate so go ahead if you’d like.’
He smiled a broad and generous smile. ‘No, after you. I’m not,’ he paused, amused, ‘desperate, either.’
Harmony blushed again. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll be quick.’
‘Take all the time you need.’
As she walked into the cloakroom she turned and mumbled another thank you before closing the door behind her. Harmony looked at herself in the mirror and shook her head; had she really just told that man she’d be quick? She was a liability in social situations.
She didn’t need to use the loo so instead she rifled through the basket of products that Emma had left beside the basin: a hairbrush, hairspray, a choice of lip glosses, perfume, a powder compact, and even a small case of expensive bronzing powder and a big fluffy brush to apply it. Had it been her own party she’d have forgotten to check there was toilet roll, let alone provide the contents of a chemist for her guests to use. She dragged the brush through her hair and gave her neck and wrists a spray of perfume.
