The doorbell rang shortly after noon and Peter, casually smart in check shirt, brown corduroys and brown brogues, marched down the hallway to greet his guests.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said effusively as he opened the door wide.
“Peter, how lovely to see you,” drawled Emma Goodman, expensively elegant as always in sleeveless summer frock and pearls. She stopped inside the doorway to present each cheek in turn.
“Emma, you’re looking radiant as ever,” gushed Peter, a hand on each shoulder.
“Thank you,” she purred. “How was your trip up the river?”
“Marvellous, thanks. Michael!” he said thrusting out a hand to his lawyer and friend.
“Hello, old man,” said Michael stuffily, taking his hand and thrusting a Bordeaux Superieur at him with the other. “Bottle of plonk for you there.” There was nothing precious or affected about Michael.
“Ah, thank you. Was there much traffic?” he asked Michael, noting Emma was visually conducting a circular tour of inspection of the hallway as if she had never been there before.
“No, not much for a Sunday,” said Michael, lugubrious as ever. Pleasantries over, Peter got to business.
“Right, come on into the drawing room and I’ll get us all a drink.” His guests turned dutifully on the spot and meandered into the drawing room, followed closely by their host. “Now, what’ll it be? Prosecco?”
“Oh, I love Prosecco,” cooed Emma, still examining her environment.
“Me, too,” said Peter. “Michael?”
“Tonic and lime, old boy, I’d better be good.”
“Well, sit yourselves down. I’ll be back in a sec.”
In the kitchen he found Jess hard at it, rushing around, clattering pots and pans, lifting lids, stirring frantically, poking, staring through the glass oven door and generally panicking.
“Anything I can do?” he ventured as he assembled the drinks on a tray.
“Yes, you can let me get on!” she snapped at him but then made the mistake of turning around to see his infuriating grin. He was clearly enjoying himself too much. Her anger evaporated and she smiled back.
“Come on in when you get a moment, and I’ll introduce you,” he said and disappeared, tray balanced carefully in both hands. Jess had abandoned her plan to stay out of the way, considering it unworkable, and decided instead she would just have to play it by ear.
She had chosen an elegant floral dress from Lisa’s wardrobe, one that fitted her perfectly and which appeared to be brand new and unworn. She also found virtually new black suede court shoes in one of the myriad boxes, and although she was not used to wearing four-inch heels, had so far managed to move around the house in them without incident.
She had also taken time to plait her hair and modestly apply eye shadow and lipstick from Lisa’s cosmetic collection. She wanted to make a good impression. She didn’t want to let him down, but he had made no comment when she presented herself for inspection. He had been speechless. She would give them another five minutes, she thought.
***
“Here we are,” said Peter, back in the drawing room, carefully placing the tray on the Japanese lacquered table then proceeding to remove the foil and cage from around the top of the Prosecco bottle.
“Peter, have you had a tidy?” said Emma from her position on the sofa, casting her eyes around the room. “Last time we were here, the place looked like a bomb site, like some old man lived here by himself,” she mocked him gently, and he knew the question was mildly rhetorical.
“Well, there’ll be a good reason for that,” he replied as he popped the cork and poured two glasses.
“Ah, yes,” gushed Emma, “we’re dying to meet her.” He passed her a glass and Michael a tumbler.
“Cheers!”
***
Jess could put the moment off no longer. The salmon had another five minutes to go, after which it could sit out for another half hour, the potatoes were just warming up and the salad was already prepared. She could put in a brief appearance and then plead kitchen duties as a means of escape.
She pulled off her apron and nervously brushed down her dress at the front to remove imaginary wrinkles. She took a deep breath and made her way briskly to the drawing room but stopped in the hallway before she got there. She could hear animated conversation and laughter. What were they talking about? Her? Stop it! They are just talking. Happy. Friends together. She carried on, slowing her pace, trying not to disturb the revelry, trying to slide in without anyone noticing.
She stepped cautiously into the room. The woman she assumed to be Emma seemed to sense her presence immediately and twisted her head towards her. She sported a wide grin, presumably from something one of the others had said. It vanished the instant their eyes met. It was shock or surprise, or both, and Jess felt a wave of panic and confusion. In a flash Emma swung her head to the left and Jess followed her line of sight. Michael was looking at her, equally disturbed. Jess sensed the temperature had dropped dramatically and gave serious thought to flight, when Peter intervened.
“Alice! Come, come!” Reluctantly, she took a few tentative steps into the room as Peter and Michael both stood. “Alice, this is Emma and Michael,” he announced, beaming from ear to ear. Emma got to her feet too as Jess shuffled up to her and held out a limp hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Jess, wondering whether a curtsey was appropriate. Emma had quickly recovered her composure, her steely eyes examining Jess closely as she proffered her hand, palm down, like the Queen at an investiture.
“How do you do, Alice? My, what a pretty frock. Suits you very well,” she gushed provocatively, and Jess immediately felt awkward. This had not started well, she thought. Her self-confidence had dissolved under Emma’s withering stare and pointed comment. She was rescued by Michael, who stepped forward, holding out his hand.
“Very pleased to meet you too, Alice,” he said, but his wife was in full flight, her tone imperious and condescending.
“Oh, my dear, I do hope Peter hasn’t imposed us upon you. When you’ve known him for as long as we have, you’ll find its par for the course.” She smirked at Jess, who shuffled back a step and looked at her feet.
“Here, have a glass of fizz,” said Peter, holding out a glass to Jess which she took, relieved at the distraction.
“Shouldn’t really,” she said, attempting a joke, “drunk in charge of an Aga!” regretting it straight away from the look on Emma’s face, although Peter was still beaming with pride.
“I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble for us,” said Michael, and his non-threatening tone put her at ease.
“No!” she blurted out, then thought that sounded wrong. “I mean yes!” But that didn’t sound right either. “I mean, I’m just not sure what it will taste like.”
“It will be excellent as usual,” declared Peter, and Jess decided it was time to withdraw as gracefully as she could.
“Well, I must get back, in case something boils over,” she said, turning to go, but Emma wasn’t finished, and as she sat back down on the sofa, called out disingenuously.
“Can I help?” she said, having not the slightest intention of helping at all.
“No, I can manage,” said Jess, and strode off, glass in hand. Emma watched her go and they resumed their seats on the sofas. Emma couldn’t help herself and turned to Peter, her voice low but urgent.
“My God, Peter! I was quite dumbstruck for a moment.”
“First time for everything,” mumbled Michael under his breath, which drew a withering look from his wife. Emma pressed on regardless as the men exchanged glances, enjoying the joke at her expense.
“Where on earth did you find her?” Peter took a sip of Prosecco.
“She rather found me, Emma. It’s a strange tale and I don’t want to go into it now, but I would ask you both a favour, if I may? She may be sensitive to questions about her background, so I shall be grateful if you did not, er, put her under any pressure, shall we say.”
Emma put on one of her faces as Peter continued. “And I haven’t explained my situation either, so I would appreciate it if you could, you know, not mention it.”
Unlike her husband, for whom discretion was stock in trade and who no doubt understood Peter perfectly, she wondered how she might cope with these constraints.
Peter concluded. “But I would appreciate your views.”
***
Lunch had gone well. Jess was very pleased with her first ever attempt at salmon en croute, and the simply boiled Jersey Royals and green salad had been the perfect accompaniments. The fresh fruit salad and ice cream was equally delicious and had taken little effort to prepare.
Peter and Michael had dominated the conversation, laughing boisterously at each other’s jokes, while Emma frequently raised her eyebrows and issued the occasional put-down, which of course made them even merrier.
Jess kept her head down, picking at the tiny portion of food on her plate and totally ignoring the wine in her glass. It seemed that whenever she looked up, Emma was staring at her with a knowing expression, making her feel increasingly uncomfortable. Emma could not resist probing the girl of whom, it was self-evident, she was very suspicious, and ignored both Peter’s grunts and groans and Michael’s kicks under the table.
For her part, Jess was able to deflect Emma’s attention by offering more wine, affecting to “check on things” in the kitchen and, where possible, diverting the question to Peter; but while she successfully navigated the treacherous waters of lunch, she failed to discover anything substantive about Peter’s family or his past.
“Alice, that was delicious,” decreed Michael at the end of the meal, and Peter looked like he would burst with pride at the efforts of his young protégée. Jess could not help feeling satisfied with what she had served and was mildly embarrassed at the compliment, but more importantly, relieved the worst was over.
“You’re welcome.” she replied. “If you’d all like to take a seat in the drawing room, I’ll bring some coffee.”
“Excellent!” said Peter, still intoxicated with pride.
Jess gathered up the dessert plates as the others decamped to the drawing room, but no sooner had she reached the kitchen than she heard footsteps behind her.
“I’ll come and help,” said Emma, empty wine glasses in both hands. Jess cast a glance over her shoulder and to her dismay saw Emma taking up position on the other side of the kitchen table.
“No, it’s okay, I can manage,” she said, trying to put her off; but it was futile, she knew. She kept her back to Emma, busying herself aimlessly as the hunter considered her prey.
“That was a wonderful lunch, Alice, thank you,” said Emma, oozing gratitude yet spoken in a way that sounded false and disingenuous. “Lunch at Peter’s is such a rare event these days. It’s about time he got himself a new housekeeper.”
At this latest provocation, Jess swung round. Her face betrayed the fear that decisions had been made, her future presumed, control being taken from her.
“I’m not his housekeeper!” she said, trying but failing to keep the anxiety from her voice, and Emma must have known she had hit a nerve.
“Oh! I must have misunderstood,” she said, heavy with sarcasm. In her rush to correct the error, Jess then entangled herself further in the spider’s web.
“No. I just bumped into Peter and he was kind enough to help me out.” It sounded lame and implausible, even though it was true.
Emma studied her for a moment and Jess’s head dropped. The woman had seen through the facade and was not going to be placated by irrelevancies such as the truth.
“You know, Alice, despite all that conversation over lunch, I still feel I know nothing about you,” she said, probing, looking for a chink in the armour.
“There’s nothing to tell,” said Jess.
“And whenever one made a simple enquiry into your background, you seemed adept at steering the conversation towards another subject.”
“Did I?” said Jess innocently, although she knew it was true. She had. Emma paused for a second.
“Peter knows nothing about you, either.”
“He hasn’t asked,” said Jess, subdued, desperately hoping someone or something would come and save her.
“That’s not his way,” said Emma casually, assuming full control and ramping up the tension. She paused again, waiting for the moment to strike.
“Who are you, Alice?”
But there was no answer, easy or otherwise, and Jess stood, head down, dismayed, oppressed as ever, wishing she were somewhere else and, not for the first time, wishing she had never been born.
Jess lowered her head. She felt fragile and vulnerable, rather than confident and resilient. She was well dressed and beautiful and polite and she had cooked an exquisite lunch for people she had never met, and still they were lining up to challenge her, attack her, question her motives and demean her.
In the ensuing silence, Emma seemed to relax a little, and to Jess’s surprise she began to sound conciliatory.
“You’ll forgive me if I appear overprotective, but we’re all the family Peter has. He’s been through a lot of pain. We don’t want to see him hurt again.” The instruction was clear and unequivocal and the threat implicit. Jess’s head flicked up at the slight and the injustice.
“I’m not here to hurt Peter!” she protested, riled by the impertinence of the woman.
“Then why are you here?” shot back Emma, clearly taken aback by the girl’s sudden renaissance of spirit.
“I don’t know,” countered Jess, taking a step forward, and for a moment she thought Emma looked unnerved. “I’d be gone by now if he hadn’t invited you and Michael for lunch.” Her frustration bubbled to the service.
“He wanted us to meet you,” drawled Emma.
“What for?” Jess realised she was raising her voice in exasperation but couldn’t stop herself. “A second opinion?”
“Oh no, his mind is quite made up,” said Emma with conviction, but now it seemed it was she who was on the defensive.
“What do you mean?” said Jess, her eyes focused now on her opponent.
“Best Peter tell you that in his own good time,” said Emma imperiously, but her demeanour had changed.
They remained silent for a moment or two, each contemplating their next move, but it was Jess who took the initiative. She had resented the intrusion, the unjustified attack on her motives from someone who knew nothing at all about her, and was minded to walk away from them all and slam the door behind her. But she had grown in the past few weeks, more so than in all her preceding years; learnt lessons the hard way, learnt that sometimes you needed to fight your corner. She had nothing to lose. She looked Emma directly in the eyes.
“Emma ... what happened to Lisa?” She had put her adversary on the spot, and Emma stared back at her, lifting her chin up almost in acknowledgement.
“I can’t explain that to you, Alice,” she said wearily, “only Peter can.” It was as close to a white flag as she would get. Emma walked off leaving Jess hurt and confused and none the wiser, yet more determined than ever to find out the truth.
***
They stood outside together, waving, as Emma and Michael’s car pulled slowly away from the house, its tyres crunching on the gravel driveway; Peter sporting a large grin, as he had done all day, Jess, solemn and pensive.
Her encounter with Emma had brought home to her the fragile nature of her situation. It had been naïve to assume she could maintain the pretence, perpetuate the myth of Alice, and Emma had seen straight through it. Women’s intuition. There would be a reckoning, she knew; she just had to decide when that might be. In her own time, or Emma’s?
As they exchanged polite embraces at the door, Emma had said, “We must have coffee together, then we can have a good chat, just us girls,” and she had shuddered at the thought. The woman was not going to give up easily.
Jess reflected on the last few days she had spent with Peter. They had been the best she had known for a long time. But it wasn’t sustainable. Their relationship was artificial and she was a fraud, a fact made only too clear today when exposed to the light of the real world, put under the spotlight by others.
The car reached the end of the long drive and turned onto the main road. Peter went back indoors, leaving Jess alone for a moment, contemplating, considering. She could hear them talking about her.
***
“Extraordinary!” said Emma the moment they reached the main road.
“I know,” Michael sighed. His wife was on a mission and it was not over yet.
“Especially in that dress.” Emma was still frustrated she hadn’t been able to get to the truth. “Well, I for one am not taken in. I can spot a gold-digger when I see one,” she huffed.
“I think that’s a bit harsh, dear. The girl is perfectly charming and unassuming, and you really don’t have any evidence.” As a lawyer, Michael only ever dealt in facts. Admittedly he was skilled at presenting them in any number of ways in order to make them more useful, but speculation of the type frequently employed by his darling wife was, to him, futile and dangerous. But Emma wasn’t finished.
“He has no references, you know,” she said. “He doesn’t know anything about her. It’s all very worrying.”
“Peter’s a big boy, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”
Michael sighed again, hoping that would be the end of it, but he knew better than that. His wife could talk for England, and they were another twenty minutes from home.