delayed Rita … or something. Until we find out what … and bearing in mind that many of you have travelled a long way, many from Hindhead and some from even further afield … and as the reception … er … and it seems criminal to waste all that lovely food.’ Gerry’s voice gained assurance as he touched on political matters. ‘We in the Social Liberal Democratic party believe that all waste of food is totally unjustified in a world where so many haven’t enough to eat … so, whatever has happened, if indeed it has, I think the best course will be to proceed with the reception as if nothing had happened … I mean, as if nothing hadn’t happened. Thank you.’
Gerry jumped down off the seat, and marched firmly through the throng, which parted before him like the Red Sea before the Israelites.
Ted’s spine tingled as he realised that Gerry was about to confront him. Illogically, he flinched. But Gerry’s voice was mild, almost pleading.
‘You know Rita better than any man on earth, Ted. Why has she done this to me?’
‘Look on the bright side,’ said Ted encouragingly. ‘She could have had an accident.’
‘What?’
‘I mean, not that I … just a minor accident. I heard a siren.’
‘I’ve checked. There’s been no accident. That was an officer going home for his lunch.’ The public figure in Gerry rose to the surface even at this moment of private grief. ‘I shall write a strong letter of protest.’ Then the private anguish returned. ‘She’s jilted me, Ted.’
The guests, drifting past towards their cars, tried to ignore them.
‘What can I say, Gerry, except …’ Ted fought to keep the tell-tale gleam out of his eyes ‘… I’m very, very sorry. I mean, I am. I’m shattered. Devastated. Goodbye, Gerry.’
He held out his hand.
‘There’s no need to go now,’ said Gerry, spurning the proffered extremity. ‘You may as well come to the reception.’
‘You what?’
‘We’re colleagues now. Members of the same exclusive club.’
In the distant, ordinary town, another siren blared urgently.
‘He’s had his lunch,’ said Ted, and immediately wished he hadn’t. ‘Exclusive club? What exclusive club?’
‘The club of men who’ve been made miserable by Rita Simcock.’
‘Ah. Well. Yes. I suppose we … but, I mean, even so, is it appropriate that I, her ex-husband, should be present at …’
The elegant yellow lady turned to smile at Ted as she passed.
‘Thank you very much, Gerry,’ said Ted.
So Ted found himself back in the Garden Room of the Clissold Lodge Hotel, where, at another wedding, he … he didn’t even want to think about it.
The Clissold Lodge was situated in large, gently rolling grounds that had once belonged to Amos Clissold, the glue tycoon, whose slogan, ‘Ee! Buy gum! Buy Clissold’s’, still occupied a prime site on the station forecourt. Now it was a country hotel on the edge of town. ‘The hotel where country meets town,’ as its brochure claimed. Its red-brick exterior was austere and forbidding. The interior was more gracious, but slightly faded. In the appropriately chintzy, over-furnished lounge, four slightly faded chintzy ladies were keeping amnesia at bay with an afternoon game of bridge.
The Garden Room was a spacious function room of pleasing Georgian proportions. Outside its French windows, the low January sun shone on a charming walled garden. Bouquets of hot-house red tulips and imported freesias studded the room. The guests were chatting animatedly. Two smiling waitresses in smart black and white outfits were dispensing non-vintage Moet. There was a splendid three-tiered cake. On the long buffet table there sat a superb Bradenham ham, a magnificent sea trout in wine jelly, a large walnut and spinach terrine spiked with green peppercorns, fleshy langoustines from Brittany, cold roasts of Scotch beef and Welsh lamb, bowls of green salad, Waldorf salad, salade niçoise, bean salad, avocado and mangetout salad, and not a tuna-fish vol-au-vent in sight. It was a perfect reception, save only, a purist might complain, for the absence of the bride.
Gerry Lansdown was doing the rounds, welcoming, smiling, urging people to eat, not that they needed urging.
‘It seems wrong to enjoy anything on such an awful occasion,’ said Liz Badger, ‘but I have to admit, this sea trout in wine jelly is absolutely delicious.’ She was wearing a black and white tunic with sweetheart neck, black skirt, and an elegant black cocktail hat.
But Neville Badger, now the only Badger in Badger, Badger, Fox and Badger, wasn’t listening.
‘I must go and say something to Gerry,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘I’m not an unimaginative man, Liz. I can imagine how he must be feeling.’ Neville searched for the mot juste. ‘Upset. I mean, I was thinking how I’d have felt if Jane hadn’t turned up at our wedding.’
‘But not me?’ Liz’s voice was icy. The sea trout was forgotten.
‘What?’
‘You married me as well. Or had you forgotten?’
‘Of course not. How absurd!’
‘It’s just that it was Jane not turning up that you instinctively thought of, because she meant so much more to you than I do. Thank you, Neville.’
‘No, Liz! Of course not. I love you. I’m the father of your child.’ Ted sauntered past, trying not to look down at the stain on his hired trousers. ‘Hello, Ted.’ He turned back to Liz and lowered his voice. ‘Well, no, not actually the father, but … no, I mentioned my marriage to Jane, I suppose, because I was married to her for so much longer than to you.’ Liz glowered. ‘So far,’ he added hopefully. ‘Anyway, Gerry needs support and it’s up to me to give it.’
‘Why you?’
Neville stared at Liz in astonishment, as if the answer were self-evident.
‘Because I’m a man of the world. An experienced professional man. A man whose working life brings him into daily contact with sorrow and distress. A man who knows what to say.’
‘What are you going to say?’
‘I don’t know. Oh Lord.’
Neville wandered off, to prepare himself for his errand of mercy. Left alone, Liz flashed a dazzling smile at the world, reducing the dazzle level sharply when she realised that she was smiling at Ted.
Ted approached his ex-lover cautiously.
‘Marvellous spread,’ he said.
‘Paid for by him, I should imagine. And rather more generously than the one poor Laurence laid on for Jenny’s wedding. Not a tuna fish vol-au-vent in sight.’
‘Odd, isn’t it?’
‘I
