Chapter Thirty
ALICE
You can be sure there’s something quite genuine about a man whose weekend priority is opening a cat sanctuary. A few days after Hayley and River had rescued Alice from the hell that was fruit picking with the offer of a very occasional horse riding session at a discounted rate; a discounted rate which happened to be give or take a day’s wages, she found herself beaming in a rather sedated crowd as Glastonbury’s Hero cut the white satin ribbon to officially open Cassandra’s Cat Sanctuary.
Then the throng cheered, ramping the festivities up several notches, Alice included.
And he was a hero. What other way was there to describe River? Once again, he had come to her rescue, stopping at nothing, even paying Hayley quadruple the fare to rope her into rescuing Jocelyne, the French student too, transporting her back to the safety of Dover where she boarded the last ferry of the day over to Calais as a foot passenger, vowing to return to the parents who were worried sick about her when she’d fled her village home as a teenage Goth and made off for Paris.
“You wanna keep hold of that one.” Hayley nudged her out of her daydream, quite from nowhere, almost knocking her down like a skittle. But Alice had warmed to her now, how could she not?
“Definitely,” she replied. “But one step at a time, I feel like a hamster on a wheel at the moment, at least let me step off and take a breather before romance fills the air.”
“Romance has an agenda of its own, I think you’ll find,” said Hayley, looking sentimentally into the distance. “You couldn’t stop it if you tried.”
Alice watched with curiosity as Hayley sniffed the air, evidently picking out the cocktail sausages, and cheese and pineapples on sticks which she made an immediate beeline for; hideously, unbelievably, all were being served up on the same platter. She definitely wouldn’t be partaking.
The Rigby-Chandlers began to march towards her then, and as the waiter dilly-dallied behind Alice with a most timely tray of champagne flutes, she grabbed two swiftly, thankful for the diversion they’d provide during this imminent exchange. If River wasn’t done with his mingling soon enough, she’d drink his as well, anything to ease the pain of the next however many minutes; it wasn’t like there was anybody else nearby – at least not anybody she knew, who could spare her.
“Alice, sweetie,” Lady Rigby-Chandler air kissed her, standing back to look her up and down in a way that either would or would not meet with her approval. “Do you realise just how worried your poor papa has been about you? Where in God’s name did you disappear?” she said through the customary twist of her mouth.
“Probably back into the arms of that double-barrelled what’s-his-name from Beverly Hills.” Lord Rigby-Chandler broke his habitual second in command silence and let out a gargantuan chortle.
“He comes from Bel-Air actually, your Lordship,” Alice couldn’t help but courtesy, the Ps and Qs of her noble upbringing overbearing as ever in the face of a couple of fellow toffs, a label which hung to her own clothing by the dangle of a very thin thread nowadays. “And it’s not a double-barrelled name, but the typical American trait of using one’s Christian and middle name… which would appear to make one more prominent in the film industry… think Jamie Lee Curtis, for example.”
“Ew, I’d really rather he did not!” Lady Rigby-Chandler retorted. “What a hussy that woman was in A Fish Called Wanda. Lord R-C and I had to abandon the theatre when we went to watch that most common, alarmingly cheesy portrayal of a heist on a rainy Tuesday afternoon in the eighties. Never again.”
“Cinema, my Lady, cinema.”
“Theatre, my Lord, theatre. And anyway, that’s by the by. Your father, as I mentioned, has been most perturbed by your vanishing act.”
“Mummy less so, I gather.”
“Well, can you blame her, dear? How many years have you spent out of her keep? Not even a postcard or a telegram to inform her of your whereabouts.”
Alice didn’t have the patience or inclination to recount the tale of her mother slamming the door in her face just a few weeks ago, an act which made it perfectly clear she preferred the company of de-crusted cucumber sandwiches to that of her own daughter.
“A telegram?”
“Oh, you know full well what I mean, Alice, a whatsit… an email… same thing, same thing.”
Poor Lady R-C, she was positively marooned in the sixties with its debutant’s balls, pomp and ceremony, order and regalia, Stepford Wives in twinsets and pearls, sweet nostalgic Victorian Christmas cards handwritten with quills. Please somebody shoot Alice if she ever clung so tightly to her youth. Life was change and change was life.
“I was on the outskirts of Bath, if you must know, picking fruit with foreign workers… mucking out horses and living on bread and water.”
“Why, how absolutely frightful for you, my dear…whatever possessed you, Alice? And how could that so-called friend of yours allow it?”
“Awlright?”
Hayley sandwiched her way between the small gathering now and Alice couldn’t have loved her more for it. “Oh, you saved me one, Al, how very kind.” She swiped at the spare flute in Alice’s left hand and began to swig hastily, blissfully unaware of the double entendre in her words.
“My goodness,” said Lady Rigby-Chandler. “It really does take all sorts. First I’m declined by my dear friend, Cassandra, who would rather have a pony-tailed, bearded ex rocker to open up her home for moggies… not to mention that carrot-topped commoner over there…” she circled her hand as would The Queen waving from her jewel-encrusted horse and carriage, in the direction of a smooching couple, who Alice instantly recognised as Jonie and Lee, both resting cosily against his recently upgraded car on the waste ground to the left of Cassandra’s house.
Alice raised her eyebrows, at a loss as to why anybody could be disenchanted by Lee’s presence, social act of passion aside, on that note she had to agree with her ladyship: get a room or go to the seventh arrondissement.
“Didn’t you know?” Lady Rigby-Chandler continued, “Apparently he’s footing the champagne and canapé bill. With what exactly, one can only hazard a guess, but it certainly can’t be his poxy salary from that banal excuse for a supermarket that no doubt pays in shirt buttons…”
“Is he really?”
Alice could hardly believe it herself, far be it for her to stereotype, but that was one grandiose act of generosity. Sure, River was opening the sanctuary, but that hardly put him out of pocket, only added to the bar’s popularity really.
“Well, what a lovely fella,” Hayley interrupted again without having introduced herself, or as much as been granted the chance for Alice to do so – to be fair, Lady Rigby-Chandler would insist on hogging the conversation. “For he’s a jolly good fella… for he’s a jolly good feller,” she began to sing.
“Next,” Lady Rigby-Chandler cut her up, “I’m witnessing the mixing of not so much upper class with middle class, but nigh on aristocracy with the scrapings of the barrel of working class suburbia… and a token cat’s choir – whatever next?” she carried on, unmoved by anybody’s endorsement of Lee. “I bid you good day.” She looked solely at Alice and pivoted to commence a prompt high-heeled march across the undulating meadow.
“Blimey, who rattled her cage?” said Hayley, with one of her hallmark snorts of indifference.
“I rather think you’ll find that was me, the moment I married her,” said Lord Rigby-Chandler, as he saluted Alice and Hayley to signal his presence here was very much over and out, and scurried to keep up with his wife who had by now randomly fled to join Heather and Terry up near the main house.
Evidently their social status had somehow mysteriously just gone up several notches.