Page 98 of Kissing Games
‘Then who was it? Bandit?’
‘Mum,’ Rory replied quietly.
‘What the fuck? Yourmum?’
Rory lowered his voice further. ‘She shot him with a tranquiliser dart and Zoe helped load him in the boot of the Rolls. They handed him off to one of Mum’s friends a few miles out of town and he drove Vlad down south and dumped him in a hedge near Heathrow.’
Charlie started laughing. ‘Holy shit, Rory, that’s fucking epic. Did you know?’
His friend shook his head.
Charlie bent over, holding his stomach. ‘That makes it even funnier. Jesus Christ, the women in your life. Fuck me. You’d better never piss Zoe off again now she’s been schooled by your mother.’
Rory shook his head slowly as he smiled. ‘Mate, that thought has already crossed my mind.’
Chumleigh Underbottom was predominantlythe home of the well-to-do. It was the kind of place that Americans like Brad Bauer envisioned when they thought of Jane Austen and Shakespeare. The buildings were all at least two hundred years old, their upper-middle-class inhabitants appearing to be only a few years behind. Wisteria grew up the sides of the cottages, the yew trees in the churchyard predated Christianity, and the only nod to modernity was that the old red phone box now contained a defibrillator rather than a telephone.
Charlie stared at the house, nerves stabbing at his stomach. His parents lived in the old rectory, a beautiful Georgian house, built to last out of Bath stone. It was set back from the road down a sweeping gravel drive, but Charlie had parked out on the road for a quick escape in case everything went south. It was a beautiful summer’s day and the grounds were perfect. There was not a faded bloom or dandelion in sight. He’d arrived early, and the caterers were setting up tables and chairs around the garden and inside an open-sided marquee. It was a scene of bucolic perfection.
He opened the heavy front door and stepped quietly into the hallway. The tiles were ancient and worn from years of footfall. Fresh flowers ran up the banister in front of him, and to his right, next to an umbrella stand, stood an ancient grandfather clock.
Come on, mate, you’ve got this.
He squared his shoulders. Down the long hall from the front door was a wooden door, the top half paned with glass, which led straight onto a large open-plan kitchen. He could see his parents through it; his dad, tall and lean with thick white hair, his mother, shorter with shoulder-length white-blonde hair. They looked like models from a cruise liner advert. He watched his father pull his mother in for a kiss, gently cradling the back of her head.Holy shit!Charlie had never seen them kiss like that before. Had he even seen them kiss at all? His mother had her arms around his father and Charlie saw one of his dad’s hands move down the curve of his mother’s spine, down to cup her—
He dashed left into the drawing room, completely confused. His parentslovedeach other? They werephysicalwith each other? He let out a shocked laugh, then wanted to punch himself for his blind naivety.You’re such a twat.Who was he to decide what his parents were like? How could he pass judgement on their relationship with each other, their thoughts and feelings, when such judgements were based on the myopic view of a self-absorbed teenage boy, then that of a surly, angry adult? Was it taking him this long to finally grow up and take his head out his arse?
He looked around at the room that was most familiar to him. The drawing room had a fireplace, antique upholstered chairs, oil paintings passed down through generations, shelves of leather-bound books and a baby grand piano. The room smelt exactly the same as it always had. A mix of coal dust, musty books, wood polish and flowers. Opposite the fireplace was a sash window looking out on the garden. It was so big that on hot days it could be opened and you could easily step through it. It was currently closed, but he could see people moving around the garden outside preparing for the party.
He sat at the piano and lifted the lid. In front of him, resting on the top, was a collection of silver photo frames. His parents on their wedding day, his sister on hers, both sets of grandparents on theirs. Then one of his sister at her passing out ceremony and one of him at his. Finally there was a more informal photo of him and his sister as children, their arms around each other, smiling in the garden. He looked happy. He remembered being happy.
He settled his hands over the keys and played some arpeggios. It felt like rediscovering an old friend, the two of them immediately slipping back into their original intimacy. He stilled. What should he play? The answer came immediately. The eighteenth variation from Rachmaninoff’sRhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, his mother’s favourite.
Charlie smiled and let his fingers glide over the keys. The variation started simply, the melody building slowing before opening out and soaring like a bird. He closed his eyes, letting the piano sing.
He heard the door open and looked up. His parents were in the doorway. His father was standing behind his mother, holding onto her shoulders, staring at him as if for the first time. His mother’s eyes were full of tears.
He stopped playing, his own eyes blurry.
‘Hi, Mum, hi, Dad,’ he said, thickly. ‘Happy anniversary.’
The afternoon passedin a dreamy haze of cucumber sandwiches, strawberries and cream, champagne and good feelings. Charlie threw open the windows to the drawing room and played Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’ as his parents came out to greet their guests. His parents’ old friends seemed genuinely pleased to see him and thrilled he was playing the piano again. One by one they came to ask for requests until Tabitha climbed in through the window with a glass of champagne and shut it behind her.
‘They could at least tip you,’ she grumbled.
He indicated the glass. ‘Is that for you or me?’
She pulled a face. ‘You, unfortunately.’ She handed it to him and sat down on the nearest chair with a thump. ‘Honestly, I’ve got such a rep on the base as a booze hound, everyone knew I was pregnant ten minutes after I took the test. I hadn’t even told Miles. I was presiding over a formal dinner and had to dash out to ring him after my bastard second in command held up a bread roll and asked if I had one in the oven.’
Charlie grinned and took a large glug. He grimaced. ‘Tab, you’re not missing anything. It tastes like shit.’
‘Nice try, little brother, I know how good it is. I had a sip of yours before I climbed in the window.’
He got off the piano stool and sat next to her.
She smiled. ‘It’s incredible to hear you play again. Thank you. I know today couldn’t have been easy, but you’ve knocked it out the park. And that tapestry thing you made for Mum. Honestly, one more kind and thoughtful gesture from you, and she’ll have an embolism.’
They sat in a companionable silence, Charlie’s heart full.
