‘You have?’
‘First night party, three, maybe four years ago. He was with Bruno Magellan.’
‘Who?’
‘Wonderful theatre designer. I think they were together for quite a while.’
‘He’s living with his sister now.’
‘Yes, Bruno died of Aids. It was very sad.’
Barnaby went into the hall to get some wine. Came back with a bottle of Montzinger Dindarello ’96, opened it and poured some.
‘Any news on the commercial?’
‘Nope. Still waiting. Still not cutting my hair. But Nico’s up for the National on Saturday.’
‘Good for Nicolas.’ They clinked glasses. ‘Where is he anyway?’
‘Out with Mum buying “the present” .’ Cully’s voice was a sarcastic drum roll. She hooked ironical quotation marks out of the air. Her parents’ silver wedding was less than a month away.
‘I thought presents were supposed to be a surprise.’
‘They are. This will be yours from Mum. You buy one for her—’
‘I know, I know. Thanks for your help, by the way.’
Cully had introduced her father to a friend from her student days, Dodie McIntosh, now a successful silversmith, and Barnaby had commissioned an oval, silver-backed hand mirror for his wife. The design was very lovely. Joyce’s initials, flowingly interwined, were set in a heart, itself surrounded by a border of her favourite flowers, lily of the valley. The detail on every tiny bell was exquisite as the flowers continued, twisting round the handle of the mirror.
‘And me and Nicolas get one for both of you.’
‘Good grief.’
‘I think it’s brilliant,’ Cully sniffed, stirred, tasted, ‘especially with us going to this special place all over again. It sort of closes the circle.’
They had been talking about engagements a few nights earlier. Nicolas had thought the whole business passé. Cully had been rather scathing about wasting money on what she called ‘some skinny little diamond chipping’ when you could roll in the Caribbean surf with your best babe for a whole fortnight on the same money.
Joyce was still wearing her skinny chipping which was all Barnaby had been able to afford on a young constable’s pay. He had given her the ring in its cheap leather box over dinner at a little French bistro in London. They had eaten boeuf bourguignon and tarte framboise washed down with the red house wine. Appreciating the significance of the occasion, the patron had let them take the menu away.
As their finances improved, Barnaby had offered to replace the tiny solitaire but Joyce would have none of it. She wore it with her band of gold and the beautiful emerald eternity ring bought to celebrate Cully’s arrival, and insisted she would do so until the day she died.
It was Nicolas who had pointed out that the bistro in question, Mon Plaisir, was still thriving in Monmouth Street. Then Cully said they absolutely must go there to celebrate their silver wedding. Barnaby immediately agreed, relishing the wonderful synchronicity of the idea. Only Joyce hesitated, unsure about returning to a place of which she had such perfect memories.
‘What’s in this?’ Barnaby took the wooden spoon from Cully’s hand and gave the casserole a stir.
‘Lamb, new potatoes, onions and baby turnips. Those peas go in at the last minute.’
‘Couldn’t you make huge amounts of everything every time you come and put it in the freezer?’
‘No. How d’you think that would make Mum feel?’
‘I know how it would make me feel.’
They both laughed. Barnaby heard a car in the drive, wandered into the sitting room and looked through the window. A garden-centre van swung into the drive, closely followed by Joyce’s Punto. She and Nicolas got out and conferred with the van driver. Then two men dragged a huge crated object from the back of the vehicle and carried it into the garage. Barnaby stared through the window in amazement then made his way back to the kitchen.
‘Did you see that?’ Joyce came in, gave her husband a kiss and found herself a glass.
‘Of course I saw it.’ Barnaby poured. ‘It’s as big as a house.’
‘Well, it’s nothing to do with you. In case you were wondering.’ Joyce drank a little wine, pronounced it delicious, wandered over to her daughter and slipped an arm round her waist. ‘That an Elizabeth David?’
‘Mm. The Navarin Printanier.’
‘I thought so.’ She tasted the juice. ‘Lovely. You’re really coming on, darling.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
Barnaby went back to his window. The giant crate had been put down while Nico swung up the garage door. The chief inspector, quite sure it was his present, wracked his brains. There was only one thing he really needed, garden wise, and surely even in these stylish and sybaritic times no one made silver lawn mowers.