The Second Time I Saw You: The Oxford Blue Series #2 Page 3

  ‘Poor Emma. I know she and your father didn’t get on but she must be totally devastated.’

  ‘She’s not stopped crying. Despite their differences, she worshipped Dad. She had more chance of getting through to him than I did. Can you believe he told me he might possibly allow her to go to Saint Martins after all, as long as she settled down at school and got good A levels? He mentioned it to me just before he went out hunting, and I think he hoped she’d get good grades and maybe take a gap year and go up to Oxford after all, like he wanted. I nearly fell off my chair and he promised to discuss it with Emma when he got back.’

  ‘And Emma didn’t know he’d changed his mind?’

  ‘No, and it’s too late now. Too late to change anything.’ He snatches up his car keys from the desk and shoves them and his hands in his pockets. I’ve seen this defensive gesture before, when he saw me in the street, kissing Scott … being kissed by Scott.

  ‘Alexander, be careful …’ I hate the thought of him making the dark and lonely drive back to Falconbury in his current frame of mind, even though I know he has to go. He looks at me, a battle raging behind his eyes, then he says:

  ‘Lauren, come to the funeral with me.’

  This I never expected; this I don’t know how to deal with. ‘I … I … don’t …’

  His face shows something I’ve never seen in it before: desperation and panic.

  ‘I need someone there with me, someone who knows me from outside the family. I want it to be you.’

  This is the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a plea from Alexander. Everything else has been a demand or a request that he expects to be met. Looking up into his face, realizing what it’s taken for him to ask me for help, my stomach turns over and over. Even if I wanted to, how could I refuse?

  ‘Of course I will.’

  On the morning of General Hunt’s funeral, Immy stands by in my room as I button up my pea coat and arrange a dark-grey scarf around my neck. Outside, it’s a bitingly cold morning and the wind rattles the sash windows. It’s still only January, so I can hardly expect anything else.

  ‘I brought these,’ Immy says, holding out a fold-up black umbrella and a mini silver hip flask. ‘Dad left them in my room the last time he visited but I think you may need them. They’re de rigueur at English funerals.’

  ‘Thanks.’ With a brief smile, I take the umbrella and flask from her and lay them on the bed next to my handbag.

  Immy shoots me a sympathetic look, as if I’m the one who needs comforting. ‘How are you, hun?’

  ‘I’ve had happier occasions to look forward to but I guess I’ll get through it, and I can’t imagine how Alexander and his sister are feeling. I expect he’ll hide his feelings in public, like he always does. You know, I think there are two hundred people invited to the house, let alone all the villagers and officials.’

  Immy sits on the bed. ‘Have you seen much of him lately?’

  ‘Not since he came round to tell me the news about his father and that was almost a week ago. He’s called me, mainly to talk about arrangements for today, although he has confessed he’s worried about Emma. I think I’m the only person he feels he can talk to.’

  ‘That’s because you’re an outsider and let’s face it, he has no one else left, unless you count Rupert, and we both know he’s not the most sympathetic of people.’

  Actually, I’m thinking, General Hunt’s death gives Rupert de Courcey the perfect opportunity to drive a bigger wedge between Alexander and me. Rupert is Alexander’s cousin and studying at Wyckham with us. He’s also an old schoolfriend of Immy’s and she knows there’s no love lost between us, but he’s the last thing on my mind now.

  ‘Alexander has insisted I travel in the family funeral cortège. I’ve tried to say I’ll meet him in church but he won’t have it.’

  ‘Eww. Travelling in a family car will be horrible.’

  I shrug. ‘I know but he’s steamrollered all my objections so I think I’m travelling with an aunt and uncle on his mother’s side. He did hint that I could share the same car as him and Emma, but I flat refused. Imagine if I turned up in church behind the coffin with the two of them?’

  Of course I want to support him, but I’d hate anyone to feel I was inveigling my way into the family on an occasion like this. Even Immy looks surprised at this revelation. ‘Well, Alexander must think an awful lot of you to ask that, but I can see exactly why you’ve said no.’

  ‘Of course I refused. I don’t even know what’s going to happen to us after the funeral is over. We haven’t begun to sort things out between us, after The Scott Thing, but how could I leave him to face such a horrible time on his own?’

  Immy jumps up and hugs me. ‘You couldn’t.’

  My room phone rings and I pick it up while Immy hovers next to me.

  The hail clatters against the window as I put down the phone. ‘That was the Lodge. My cab’s here. Wish me luck.’

  I pull on a pair of dark-blue leather gloves, while she picks up the umbrella and flask.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ she says, with an encouraging smile, ‘there’s plum vodka in the flask and if I were you I’d make good use of it.’

  ‘Lord Falconbury, please accept my sincere condolences …’

  ‘I am so sorry, Alexander, this is a truly awful thing for you and Emma to bear. I just thank God your mother isn’t here to see this day.’

  ‘Sorry, mate. Shitty thing to happen. If you need anything, you know where I am.’

  My feet are numb, I can’t remember how long I’ve been standing next to Alexander in the ballroom at Falconbury as, one by one, the mourners offer their own brand of sympathy. At the end of last term, this grand space had been decorated with swags, balloons and flowers for the hunt ball. The panelled walls pulsated with bass and everyone glittered in ballgowns and diamonds.

  Today, it’s black tie again, but of a different kind, alleviated only by odd touches of scarlet and gold braid on the army officers’ khaki uniforms. Tumblers of whisky and china cups of tea have replaced the champagne that flowed at the ball. If anything, there are even more people here now, talking in hushed tones or huddling in front of the fire that’s been lit in the huge stone hearth.

  Briefly, Alexander touches my hand, as if to reassure me, although I thought that was my function here. Actually, I don’t know what my function is, since from the moment I arrived at the house I’ve felt like a fraud, and there’s no mistaking the glances of confusion as relatives and family friends greet us.

  I’m travelling with an aunt and uncle in one of the other cars. I’ve discovered they’re actually cousins of the late Lady Hunt, Alexander’s mother. I’m not sure they knew quite how to deal with me, an impostor in their midst, but mercifully it was only a few minutes’ drive from Falconbury to the church and we spent most of it staring out of the window.

  I was still shocked to find that a place had been reserved for me in the pew directly behind Alexander and Emma. Rupert was only feet away and studiously ignoring me, just as he had at the house. That suits me fine but I hope he isn’t going to use this occasion to score points off me. At any other time, I can handle anything he throws at me but I really don’t want a scene or to make life any harder for Alexander today.

  Apart from Rupert, many of the faces are the same ones I met at the hunt ball. The Master of the Falconbury Hunt is here, of course, along with many of the followers. There are also relations of Alexander’s I can put names to; how could I forget Aunt Celia and the horsey mother and daughter who were grade-A bitches at the ball? How could I forget any of the weekend that finally ended my relationship with Alexander?

  Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined I’d be back here again so soon and in such different circumstances.

  The people I don’t recognize must be the local great and good, the business acquaintances and tenants who farm the land owned by the Hunts; by one Hunt now – by Alexander. Hearing him addressed as Lord Falconbury by several of the guests is surreal
for me, and I know Alexander must hate it. He forbade anyone to use his courtesy title before his father died. He’s done his best to fix his face into its usual mask, yet I can see the facade slipping when he hears, loud and clear from people’s lips, that he is now the owner of Falconbury. The weight of this place is on his shoulders now, and he can’t escape it any more, no matter what he does.

  As if to reinforce that fact, the family portraits line the walls, including one of the late general himself, staring sternly down at us. A group of men, immaculate in army uniform, who carried the general’s coffin into the church, stand by the fireplace, drinking whiskies.

  ‘Do you think he’d approve?’ I say to Alexander, who is sipping a whisky next to me during a rare break in the steady stream of people offering condolences.

  A brief and bitter smile crosses his lips when he looks up at the portrait. ‘He’d probably think it was a lot of bloody fuss over nothing, while scrutinizing every detail to make sure it was all done correctly.’

  ‘I can imagine that. I’m also not sure he’d be too pleased that I was here.’

  ‘Tough. I want you here and that’s all that matters. Anyone who doesn’t like it can go to hell.’ Then his bravado slips a little and he lowers his voice. ‘Emma’s taken to her room. I know she’s upset, and I don’t blame her for not wanting to face this, but people are asking where she is. I’d go up and try to persuade her but I can’t leave everyone … Do you think you might be able to get her down here?’

  I’m taken aback. ‘I’ll try if you think it would help but she doesn’t know me.’

  ‘That’s exactly why she might listen to you. I know it’s a lot to ask but if you don’t mind at least giving it a go?’

  Actually, it seems a small thing compared to what he’s gone through but I still hesitate. ‘If she kicks me out, and I wouldn’t blame her if she does, don’t be too hard on her, will you?’

  He stiffens. ‘Of course I won’t. I’ve no intention of turning into my father, in any way.’

  I soften and squeeze his hand. ‘I’ll give it a go, then.’

  As I climb the staircase up to Emma’s bedroom, I can’t think which is the trickier task. I already needed my father’s diplomatic skills to greet a bunch of mourners who are variously hostile and incredulous. Now I’m on a mission to persuade a devastated teenager to find her stiff upper lip and do her duty. I’m only five years older than Emma Hunt; what the hell can I do?

  I pause outside the door, before knocking gently. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Go away.’

  Great start. I knock again. ‘It’s Lauren.’ Then I stand back, half expecting the door panel to shake as some object is thrown against it. Instead, I hear a low thump and eventually the door opens a crack and a face peers around the edge of the jamb. Two dark eyes, ringed with smudged mascara, peer at me like I’ve come to arrest her.

  ‘I’m not coming down.’

  I shrug. ‘Fine. I just came to see how you are.’

  She narrows her eyes suspiciously. ‘Did Alex send you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t he come himself?’

  ‘He wanted to but he’s a little busy right now.’

  She sniffs, then opens the door wider. ‘Well, you can come in but don’t think you can persuade me to come down and be nice to that bunch.’

  ‘I won’t.’ As I say it, I mentally cross my fingers although I have actually told the truth. I really don’t think I can persuade this determined girl to do anything she doesn’t want to and, frankly, I don’t blame her.

  She closes the door behind me. Despite its obvious grandeur and the opulence of the furniture, it’s still a young woman’s room – not too far from what mine was like a few years back. The carpet is scattered with clothing and books, the dressing table almost obscured by make-up, costume jewellery and assorted ‘stuff’. There’s a dressmaker’s dummy in the window, with an elaborate work in progress made up of gold brocade, purple velvet and black netting.

  A laptop whirrs softly amid the crumpled bedcovers and discarded Kleenex, and the framed Vogue posters on the walls are in stark contrast to the Victorian prints of be-ribboned little girls with spaniels. At some point not too very long ago, Lady Emma Hunt stopped being Daddy’s little girl.

  She folds her arms and stands by the bed, as if I might try and drag her downstairs.

  ‘I can’t face all of this.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. I can’t face them either. Can I sit down? These boots are killing me.’

  She looks almost shocked, which I think is a good thing, then shrugs. ‘If you like. Just sweep that stuff on to the floor.’

  I lift an armful of dresses, a hat and a dog-eared Latin grammar tome off the dressing-table stool and place it on the carpet. Emma flops down on the bed and glares at me. Oh yes, she is definitely a Hunt. ‘Go on then, what does Alex have to say?’

  ‘That he’d like you to come and speak to people. Aunt Celia has been asking after you …’

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘Then I’m definitely staying upstairs.’

  ‘I know it must be hard but people expect you to be there.’

  ‘I don’t give a toss what they expect.’

  ‘Just for today, can you try and pretend you do?’

  She gulps back a sob. Shit, I feel so bad about doing this but I also happen to think Alexander is right. ‘I can’t. I don’t know most of them, and those I do are horrible.’

  She snorts, and I have to admit I’d struggle to name anyone who I particularly warmed to, outside of the staff and a few friends, like Angus. I’m not sure what I can do to try to help this poor girl, or what to expect next, when she changes the subject and begins to look slightly less miserable.

  ‘I like your boots.’

  I resist the urge to do a jaw drop at this hairpin turn of conversation and instead wiggle my black suede toes, like a lure on one of my dad’s fishing rods. Subterfuge is not one of my strong points but if it gets her out of her room …

  ‘Prada, are they?’ she asks.

  ‘Chloé.’

  ‘I suppose you bought them especially for Dad’s funeral?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I did.’

  She nods in satisfaction. ‘At least you’re honest. I bet every woman here has hit the shops for new stuff. Did you see that bony blonde with the big black hat and the Mafia sunglasses?’

  ‘Blondes. What can you expect?’

  She stares at me, looking worried, and then giggles. ‘Oh, I don’t mean you, of course. You don’t count and you are incredibly pretty. I can see exactly why Alexander is so keen on you. I mean, as for Cousin Tom’s new Russian girlfriend, someone should tell her this isn’t the fucking Sopranos and why was she in floods of tears? She’s never even met my father!’

  I think I’m meant to be highly honoured by her conclusions though I actually feel pretty embarrassed. She starts to snigger, as if she’s laughing at her own joke about the Russian impostor, but then, to my horror, starts crying again. I walk to the bed and put my arm around her and she clings to me. Oh Jesus, how do I deal with this? Is it selfish to wonder how I got myself the role of surrogate big sister? I rip a bunch of tissues out of the box on the bed and hand them to her, sitting at her side.

  She blows her nose noisily, and then glares at me. ‘You’re not just some bimbo, of course, although when I first saw your picture on Alexander’s laptop, I did wonder what you’d be like because you look so American and perfect. Then he got “mentionitis” about you and Talia said you were really very OK so I was willing to be open-minded.’

  I listen to all this, trying not to laugh. Talia is the Hunts’ head groom and one of my allies at Falconbury, along with Helen the housekeeper. I get on well with the servants.

  ‘You must have a brain and some balls for my brother to get so worked up about you because, believe me, he could have any girl he wanted.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  She lifts her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh fuck. I didn’t mean
to be rude.’

  I smile. ‘I’m joking, Emma.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Her eyes widen as if she just discovered an exotic new species in me. ‘I didn’t think Americans did irony.’

  ‘Well, irony is this American’s middle name.’

  ‘You’re funny …’ She hesitates. ‘And most of all, you’re not that vile bitch Valentina. I am so glad she couldn’t come today, or I might have had to push her into the grave.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s quite that bad,’ I say, playing the most reluctant devil’s advocate on the planet. I’m also still processing the fact that I gave Alexander ‘mentionitis’ and that he ‘got worked up’ over me.

  ‘Bollocks! She’s a witch. You do know she kicks Benny when Alexander’s not around? I’ve seen her do it once and Talia’s seen her hit him too.’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll be making donations to the Dogs Trust any time soon …’ I begin, not daring to let on I saw Valentina hit Benny with her riding crop before the hunt last term. However, my curiosity about Valentina is piqued and since we’re talking now I decide to explore a little further.

  ‘Alexander told me she couldn’t make the funeral. Her grandfather’s sick, isn’t he?’

  Emma snorts. ‘Not that sick. I think it’s all a lie. Valentina just didn’t want all this shit to deal with, and I’m delighted about that.’

  Privately, I must admit I was far too thrilled for decency myself when I heard Valentina wasn’t going to be here.

  ‘Did you see the bouquet she sent? The thing was so huge they couldn’t fit it in the hearse. I heard Rupert say it had been flown in from her place in Positano specially and delivered by her own driver to the house. Typical of her to be way over the top.’

  ‘I think I saw it outside the church.’

  ‘Did you read her card?’ Emma makes a fingers-down-throat gesture.

  Actually, I did and the fulsome message attached made me cringe. ‘I don’t think I noticed it.’

  There’s a silence and I wonder whether to dare ask her to come down to the wake again when she springs up off the bed and stands opposite me, her arms folded again.