The Voices Read Free Page B

destination of the linen or the china didn’t really concern him.
    As Laura checked labels and directed the flow of traffic, Christopher wandered into the drawing room. He negotiated a low maze of cardboard boxes and proceededto the French windows. After opening one of them, he stepped out onto the flagstone terrace and, surveying the overgrown garden, inhaled the cool air. It was suffused with fragrances that reminded him of vanilla and honey-suckle. For a moment his worries, most of which were financial, receded and he allowed his chest to swell with proprietorial satisfaction. He had purchased a substantial property in a very desirable part of London. It was a milestone, a reckoning point, something to be proud of. He could hear the removal men’s banter – the occasional expletive – and a car coming down the hill. The pitch of the engine changed and then fell silent.
    When Christopher turned to go back inside he was arrested by his own reflection. As far as he could tell, he could still be legitimately described as handsome (albeit in a lean, world-weary way) and the streaks of grey above his ears created an impression of mature distinction. He was tall and the passage of time hadn’t made him stoop. Through the transparency of his own image he saw Laura enter the drawing room. ‘Chris? Ah, there you are. Look who’s here.’ She swept an arm back to indicate a man clutching a champagne bottle and a woman wearing a short denim jacket and jeans.
    ‘Simon!’ Christopher cried. He advanced and welcomed his friend with a firm handshake. Then, turning toface Simon’s wife, Amanda, he added, ‘Good to see you. What a pleasant surprise.’
    Amanda tilted her head to one side, then the other, to accommodate the double peck of Norton’s continental kiss. ‘I hope we’re not intruding,’ she said apologetically. ‘It was his idea, not mine.’ Her eyes slid sideways towards her husband.
    ‘Of course you’re not intruding!’ Christopher laughed. ‘Although I’m afraid there’s nowhere for you to sit yet.’
    The four friends joked and talked over each other’s sentences. They were excitable and the tone of their conversation was resolutely skittish.
    Simon Ogilvy had been one of Christopher’s contemporaries at Oxford. His hair was thick and brushed back off the forehead, his nose large and aquiline. Like Christopher, Simon had also married a conspicuously younger woman. Amanda was fifteen years his junior, striking rather than beautiful: dark, full-figured and husky-voiced. She taught English at a further education college and also wrote poetry. Two collections of her sardonic verses had been published by Anvil, The Resourceful Goddess and The Hostile Mother.
    Drawing attention to the bottle he was holding, Simon addressed Laura. ‘Would it be possible to dig out some glasses?’
    ‘Certainly,’ Laura replied.
    ‘She’s been very organized,’ said Christopher.
    ‘I can’t promise champagne flutes,’ said Laura, as she glided to the door, ‘but I’ll be able to find something.’ She returned, triumphant, holding up four wine glasses as if they were trophies.
    ‘Oh, well done,’ said Christopher. Then, pointing towards the French windows, he said, ‘Let’s do this on the terrace.’
    They went outside and Simon whistled when he saw the wildly abundant vegetation. ‘Extraordinary. Like deepest Borneo.’
    ‘It’s going to be a massive job cutting that lot back,’ said Christopher.
    ‘I rather like it as it is,’ said Amanda.
    ‘Not very practical, though.’ Christopher sighed.
    Simon peeled the foil away from the neck of the champagne bottle and loosened the wire cage underneath. Amanda and Laura winced, tensely awaiting the ‘pop’. Holding the bottle at arm’s length, Simon waited. After a few seconds the cork shot over the bushes and a frothy discharge splashed onto the flagstones. When all the glasses had been filled, Simon proposed a toast: ‘To Chris and Laura.’
    As they