A Married Man, page 19
He stopped at some red lights. Frowned down at the steering wheel. ‘How bizarre.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I’ve only known you ten minutes and already I’ve told you all that. Some of my best friends don’t know the extent of Miranda’s zeal, how it affects us.’ He glanced across at me. ‘Why have I just blurted all that out? We appear to have cut the crap, cut the small talk. I wonder why?’
I stared back and felt my mouth go dry. I held his gaze … until we were tooted from behind. The lights had changed. He shifted into gear and we took off again. We were silent for a while.
‘I saw her outside your house,’ I said suddenly, above the roar of the engine.
‘Who?’
‘Your wife. Or I assume it was. When I was posting my letter. She was coming out of the drive.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Blonde? Slim? Blue Jeep?’
He nodded. ‘That’d be it.’
‘Didn’t look much like a born-again Christian to me.’
‘That’d be it, too.’
We drove the rest of the way in silence. I was lost in heady thought. She was a religious maniac, a zealot. The marriage was unhappy, they made it work for the child. ‘Quite right, quite right,’ I muttered feverishly to myself, ‘admirable actually,’ and yet … to live an empty life like that? To endure such a hollow marriage? And all to keep up appearances. Surely it was better to be honest with each other. To come clean. And wouldn’t she be better off in a nunnery or something? With other like-minded souls around her, praying and – I don’t know – playing harps together? Threading rosary beads? ‘The Hills are Alive …’?
‘Here we are,’ he said suddenly.
He swung the car around some towering gate-posts and we swept up a gravel drive. A beautiful, stone manor house unfurled, Gothic and splendid, with arched, mullion windows. On either side of the huge oak door, two enormous stone dragons kept sentinel.
‘Oh! It’s lovely,’ I breathed.
‘Isn’t it just,’ he agreed, coming to a halt. ‘Rather wonderful inside, too. Come and take a peek.’
We got out and walked up the drive together, circling a moss-encrusted fountain. Someone I knew would have been salivating all down her Puffa by now.
‘Has he met Lavinia?’ I asked innocently.
Charlie stopped dead in the drive. His mouth twitched. ‘Best not to mention that name in this household,’ he said soberly.
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Kit came home one night to find her waiting for him in his bed. Naked, naturally, but comatose too, having drunk his whisky bottle dry. There were scented candles burning – rather dangerously – everywhere, rose petals strewn all over the bed, and she still had a rose clenched between her teeth. Actually that was the problem. She’d eaten the rose in her stupor, and as he came into the room, she raised herself up on one elbow, smiled seductively, and threw up all down her tits. Terribly sexy. Kit then had a really fun evening dressing a roaring drunk female – and I mean roaring – and cleaning up rose-scented puke.’
‘Oh God,’ I giggled. ‘Poor Lavinia. She does have a terrible time.’
‘Yes, and she doesn’t do herself any favours, either,’ he said drily. ‘Ah look, it’s open. We’ll just push on through.’
We did just that and entered a lobby, which via another pair of Victorian glass doors led us into a hall about the size of a football pitch. A vast stone fireplace took up most of one wall. Positioned on either side of it, and sitting on a beautiful old Aubusson carpet were two supremely elegant sofas, lavishly carved, with curled backs, and upholstered in faded gold. Two Georgian sofa tables stood behind each one, crowded with photographs. On the walls were paintings, drawings, silhouettes and old plates, whilst up the sweeping staircase, a set of Ackermann military prints marched up to a gallery.
‘Oh.’ I was surprised. ‘It’s not a shop at all. It’s like a home.’
‘It is a home,’ agreed Charlie. ‘Kit lives here, you see. It’s just that everything is for sale. Ah, the man himself!’
I glanced up, as down the sweeping oak staircase, his hand lightly brushing the bannister rail, came a tall, elegant man. His swept-back hair looked faintly pre-war, and he had a thin, intelligent face. It broke into a radiant grin when he saw Charlie.
‘Charlie! Good to see you. I was expecting you a little earlier actually, thought you’d forgotten. How’ve you been?’
‘Really well, and sorry we’re a bit late.’ Charlie pumped Kit’s outstretched hand enthusiastically.
‘Not at all.’ He glanced at me. ‘Lucy?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Lucy Fellowes,’ grinned Charlie. ‘And Lucy, this is Kit Alexander.’
‘Delighted,’ he beamed as we shook hands. ‘Charlie told me all about you on the phone. Well, a bit about you, don’t think he knows that much himself!’
‘I’ve been admiring your house,’ I said shyly. ‘It’s beautiful. All these lovely things.’ I gazed around.
‘Thank you.’ He scratched his chin sheepishly. ‘Yes, they are lovely, although I suppose I notice them less these days. It used to be a bit of an obsession. I was for ever shifting things around and trying to get it absolutely right, but now I’m a bit less anal about it. Just sort of live in it, as Charlie’s probably told you.’
‘But that’s what’s so wonderful. It makes it so uncommercial. And if something sells …?’
He shrugged. ‘I just replace it. We got through five dining tables recently, and that was a little wearing, I must say. I felt like shouting, “Stop! That’s enough. I’ve nowhere to eat my bloody supper.”’ He grinned. ‘But most of the time business is slow enough for me to replace at leisure. Go abroad and find unusual things, which is what I like to do.’
‘Beautiful things,’ I enthused, stroking one of the camel-back chaises reverently.
‘Ah yes, terribly lucky with that,’ he agreed. ‘Found it in a skip in the backstreets of Montmartre. Some Madame had clearly had enough of it. Couldn’t believe my luck when I found the matching twin underneath.’
‘And all those Biedermeier chairs!’ I marvelled, peering into the next room. ‘I’ve never actually seen a complete collection before, just ogled them in catalogues.’
‘Hence the price,’ he warned. ‘Yes, I can’t exactly nip out and replace those guys at the drop of a hat, but no one can afford them anyway, so that’s fine. They stay put. Come on, come and have a proper look.’
He ushered us through the little Biedermeier room, and then into the drawing room. It was panelled, but painted a cool, discreet grey and decorated unashamedly in the style of a French château. The windows were ornate with heavy silk drapes, and gesso moulded mirrors with cherub sconces reflected back at each other from either end of the room; love-seats and Louis Quinze needle-point chairs were grouped around delicate, tripod tables. Marie Antoinette could have fanned herself by the fire without anyone batting an eyelid.
‘How do you keep it like this?’ I said, swinging around in wonder. ‘I mean, if you live in it? If I had the contents of my house up for sale I’d be frantic. It would be a tip!’
‘Ah, but then I live alone. And actually, I’m not an untidy chap, so it works. And frankly, if there is the odd coffee cup or magazine lying around, so what? No one seems to mind. And of course I don’t have a young family any more. It certainly wouldn’t work with Nintendos and Game Boys all over the place.’
‘And you sleep here? I mean, in a bedroom upstairs?’
‘No,’ he grimaced, ‘that would be too invasive. I’m not sure I could cope with people peering at my dressing gown or my tatty slippers, so I have a flat up in the attic. There’s a bedroom for me, a kitchen, and two rooms for the boys when they come and stay. That, I can assure you, is a tip.’
‘But in the evening, you don’t watch telly in the flat?’
‘No, I come down here and put my feet up in this rather pretty sitting room, through here.’ He led the way into a smaller, cosier room. ‘It gets the sun in the morning, but at night, with the curtains drawn, it’s a very cosy retreat. I light the fire and watch one of Charlie’s latest epics, surrounded by beautiful things.’ He looked at me directly for a moment. ‘I’m a great believer in being surrounded by beautiful things. I mean, why live up in the garret when I can be down here? And of course when the boys were young it was a family home, but turning it into a shop was the only way I could keep it going, really. Keeps me going, too, otherwise I’d stagnate.’
‘I think it’s a marvellous idea,’ I enthused. ‘And you sell …’ I hesitated. ‘Well, surely not to passing trade?’
He laughed. ‘No, quite right, I wouldn’t survive! Much too pricey. No, it’s mostly interior decorators from London or New York who come by appointment. But actually there is a little passing trade, generally American tourists, which is why I have to stay open, and why, my dear, I’m looking for help. Can’t stay here seven days a week, I’d go quietly off my trolley, and Charlie did say you’d be keen to do a couple of days, maybe?’
‘Oh I’d love to!’ I thrilled. ‘This is far better than I ever imagined. I mean, I just thought – well, that you had a shop,’ I said hastily.
‘Tudor Antiques? With a tinkly little bell over the door?’ He grinned.
‘But –’ I stroked a delicate little Pembroke table, ‘nothing has a price tag on?’
‘No, because I don’t want to live surrounded by tags, so I have an inventory, and if someone is interested in – say, that, for instance,’ he pointed above the fireplace, ‘I simply go to the list, look under “sitting room”, and then look up.’ He paused.
‘Early eighteenth-century delft figurine?’ I suggested.
‘Exactly, or?’ He pointed.
‘William and Mary balloon-back chair, Hepplewhite, or possibly earlier?’
‘Spot on,’ he grinned. ‘And I’m sorry to test you like that, you clearly know your onions, it’s just I have to be a wee bit careful. I once, out of desperation, employed a girl called Michelle from the village. Remember Michelle, Charlie?’
‘Do I,’ he groaned.
‘Michelle swore blind she knew all about antiques “’cos she had a CSE in Ashray Fart” – turned out to be History of Art – “and ’cos her nan had loads of them Coronation mugs”. Well naturally we had the utterly predictable problems of her thinking barley twist was a stick of rock, and Bernini was an Italian restaurant, but things really came to a head one day when I was in the flat and she was down here on her own. She bellowed up the stairs, “Oy, Kit! ’Ow much d’you want for the brown chair in the hall?”
‘“Which particular brown chair in the hall, Michelle?” I’d called back, head in hands.
‘“You know, the big brown one. Wiv the hole in it. The one you piss in.”
‘Before I could scamper downstairs and assure my American clients that the commode chair my assistant was referring to was not something I personally relieved myself into, they’d naturally taken to their heels and scarpered.’
‘Oh God,’ I giggled. ‘A bit of a liability, then.’
‘Quite. And not something I can see you being. Would it suit you, Lucy? A couple of days a week? So I can escape these four walls and go on my treasure hunts for a bit?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Definitely. Although,’ I glanced across, ‘as I mentioned to Charlie …’
‘Lucy may not be here for ever,’ he put in. ‘I said you’d understand that.’
‘Oh absolutely! It would drive you nuts. But a year or so? Till you sort yourself out?’
‘Perfect,’ I beamed.
‘And you’d be able to start right away?’
‘Ah. Well. I was wondering. Would September suit? Only the children go back to school then.’
His face fell a bit. He scratched his chin.
‘No no,’ I said quickly, ‘right away is fine. Trisha can fill in for a couple of days a week. The boys will love it, actually.’
‘Excellent.’ Kit looked relieved. ‘And the dog?’ He raised enquiring eyebrows at Charlie.
‘Ah yes,’ said Charlie, ‘I forgot to mention that. But Lucy loves dogs, used to look after one in London. I’m sure that’ll be fine.’ He smiled.
‘Dog?’
‘Rococo,’ explained Kit. ‘Belonged to my ex-wife, and she left her behind. Together with a stash of unpaid bills. Smart woman. I’ll get her. Rococo!!’ he called.
Instantly, an Irish Wolfhound bounded in, as if from nowhere, but clearly from the garden since she was covered in mud. Tongue lolling, she bounced across the room, and stuck her head straight up my crotch.
‘Oooof! Lovely!’ I gasped, backing away. I’d seen smaller ponies.
‘A bit of a brute,’ said Kit, tactfully seizing her head away and wrestling it playfully from side to side. ‘But a complete softy, as you can see.’
‘Yes. She, um, looks it.’
‘So.’ Kit straightened up, smiling. ‘Next week, then?’
I blinked. ‘Oh! Yes. Why not?’
We laughed, and he showed us to the door.
‘We haven’t mentioned money, my dear,’ he said, scratching his chin awkwardly. ‘So shall I give you a ring about that, when I’ve had a think?’
‘Fine.’ I turned at the door. ‘Oh, and I’d better ask too – is everything for sale? I mean, I don’t want to find I’ve inadvertently sold the family silver or anything.’
He shrugged. ‘More or less. There are a few bits of Meissen I particularly cherish, but I keep them up in the flat, so … no. I mean – yes. It is all for sale. All these possessions, much as I love them, are actually very easy to give up. It’s other things one can’t afford to lose. Can’t replace, either.’
He looked beyond me, abstracted for a moment. Then he came to. He smiled and shook my hand warmly as we took our leave of him.
The door shut behind us and Charlie and I walked slowly down the drive to the car.
‘He’s still sad,’ I murmured as I got in beside him.
‘Hmmm. Well, he lost his boys for a while, too. She got full custody.’
‘Oh! How awful. Didn’t he see them at all?’
‘Hardly.’
‘But now?’
‘Now, they’re old enough to choose. And they spend a lot of time with him. But you can’t ever make up for those lost years. The ones you imagine.’
I thought of the son that Charlie had lost, the years that he imagined. Just as I’d often imagined the years the boys had lost, the ones they should have had with their father.
‘No,’ I agreed soberly, ‘you can’t.’
We drove home in silence, the wind in our hair, and I was curiously grateful for the roar of the engine which made conversation, if not impossible, something of an effort.
At length, we purred up the back drive to Netherby and drew up outside the barn. The front door was shut, as were the windows. It looked empty, deserted. Trisha, Jack and the boys were clearly still out fishing. All around, fields of long grass, ready to be made into hay, rippled gently in the breeze; delicate seed heads shimmered in the midday sun, and from the golden flood of the buttercup meadow came the muffled hums and flutters of bees, butterflies and dragonflies. Charlie turned off the engine. We didn’t look at each other, but in the silence, I could almost hear my heart beating. I felt sure he could hear it too. At length he rubbed the leather steering wheel, nervously, with his fingertip.
‘So. Here we are,’ he said quietly. I detected a faint tremor to his voice. ‘And now, I suppose, Lucy, we’re going to have to address something.’ He swallowed. ‘We’re going to have to decide … what on earth we’re going to do.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘Do?’ I echoed stupidly. My heart was racing. I turned to face him.
‘Well, clearly something bigger than both of us is going on here, don’t you think?’ he said softly. ‘I mean, I for one don’t think it’s entirely coincidental that we kept tripping over each other in London like that. In fact, if it didn’t sound too much like my wife, I’d say it was something of a sign.’
I swallowed. I didn’t like to say he was right, it wasn’t a coincidence, but that sadly, the only symbolism going on was the Apache Sniffing Tracks kind.
‘No. No, you’re right,’ I agreed, contriving to look bewildered. ‘It was extraordinary, wasn’t it?’
‘Quite extraordinary. And now, here you are, on my other patch, fifty miles from Chelsea, in the heart of Oxfordshire. Don’t you find that bizarre?’
‘Bizarre,’ I croaked. Crikey, hadn’t we been through all this at the party? Must he persist?
‘And so I can’t help thinking,’ he ran a bewildered hand through his hair, ‘that somehow, something was meant to be, here – if that doesn’t sound too corny. And to be honest, even if it wasn’t meant to be,’ he shifted in his seat, turned to face me fully for the first time. I could feel my breath coming in inconvenient little spurts. ‘The fact is, I can’t stop thinking about you, Lucy.’
‘Oh!’ My limbs twitched convulsively.
‘Ever since I ran into you at that party the other day, I … well, I was up all night, actually. Prowling around the house with a glass of whisky in my hand. Finally I went to bed but I still couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t get your face out of my mind.’ His dark eyes were bright and sparkling, fixed intently on me. I could feel my nostrils flaring back with excitement, my heart pounding. He slipped his arm along the back of my seat.
‘I know you feel it too. I can sense it,’ he urged. ‘Please tell me I’m not going completely mad?’
‘You’re not,’ I murmured, glancing nervously about. I seemed to be in the grip of an extraordinary dilemma here. On the one hand, the desire to collapse into his strong, brown arms was almost overwhelming, but on the other hand – here? Outside my house? In a convertible car with the windows of Netherby glinting away over there in the sunlight?
