How Was It For You?

by Carmen Reid

  ‘At school?’ Pamela had asked, wanting to get this right.

  ‘Yup, 16 they were, and both good-looking girls,’ Jeff confirmed.

  Pamela desperately wanted to laugh. This was forty-year-old gossip. So what if Olive and her friend had messed about under the duvet in their girlhood? Didn’t it matter at all that Olive had gone on to marry and have four children? The longevity of small town gossip was frightening. Once a ‘lesbian’ always a lesbian.

  ‘Oh well, there you go then,’ Dave answered, understanding perfectly that laughing out loud at this ‘news’ wouldn’t go down well.

  And then the regulars were all pitching in with an opinion, Al and his wife shaking their heads and saying they’d never thought it was true.

  ‘But they’ve never been happy, have they,’ someone else reminded the room.‘Utterly miserable, more like it.’

  ‘She was quite the artist at school. Had a scholarship to go to art school in London, but after the Lucy Tierney thing, her parents didn’t want that.’ Jeff, tea towel in hand vigorously drying a glass, was in full flow now.‘Artists,’ he said, as if the word was enough.

  Poor old Olive, Pamela thought, sipping her drink without comment, one schoolgirl crush and her whole life had folded up in front of her. No art scholarship, no London . . . instead a hasty marriage to someone she didn’t love and four sons she didn’t seem to care very much about either.‘The mistake,’ Pamela remembered. Hardly a charming way to describe your youngest child.

  ‘Is this what people mean by a sense of community?’ she had asked Dave in the car on the way home.

  He’d laughed in response.

  ‘People still remember gossip about you, forty or so years later. Pigeonhole you at school and never let you change,’ she’d added.

  ‘I think it’s more subtle than that. Everyone knows everyone else’s story. But they make allowances, they live and let live.’

  After a while he’d asked her: ‘Do you like it here?’

  ‘Do you?’ she’d countered.

  ‘I love it. I love the farm, I love my vegetables, I love my customers, I even love George. He’s insane, obviously, but makes life interesting.’

  ‘You want to watch that,’ she’d smiled at him.‘If Jeff and Simon hear about that . . .’

  He’d laughed at her, then asked again: ‘And you? Do you like it here?’

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ she’d answered, looking out of the window into the dark.‘If I get a job up here, it might be different.’ Might all be very different.

  Lachlan Murray was sitting on a chair opposite her, pale blue shirt open at the neck, soft brown skin underneath. He was talking about his farm and she was trying to pay attention, trying not to let her eyes move down the shirt buttons to the worn cords pulled tight over his thigh, the knee bouncing vigorously up and down as he talked.

  She felt a breeze against her leg and saw that he had moved close enough to brush his knee against hers. Then he startled her by moving a warm hand onto her bare thigh.

  Looking down at herself, she saw that she was sitting on top of a table in just an exquisite silk bra. She could see the outline of her nipples pushing against the raspberry silk.

  He was kissing her leg as she dipped her fingers into his soft hair. Leaning slowly back against the table, she was ready to explode with longing.

  She reached out to touch his face, but instead she woke up and felt the room spin for a moment until she realized where she was and what she had been dreaming.

  A glance at the bedside clock showed it was 5.20 a.m. She doubted if she’d get back to sleep again. She lay back slightly dazed with the intensity of the dream. She hardly needed to call in an expert to tell her what that meant. She was stoking her crush up into some insane, borderline obsession with the married father of three she was due to meet in about five hours’ time. The probably very happily married father of three – she had no reason to think otherwise – and anyway, three? Three? Don’t even go near there.

  Pamela had exhaustively complicated directions to Lachlan’s farm, but still she had to pull over and hail a lone dog walker to make sure she was on the right road. The farm was tucked up in a cluster of small roads only occasionally marked with the kind of signpost she recognized from nursery books. But finally she was pulling up, as instructed, before the larger of the two cottages Lachlan was hoping to renovate. She stepped out of her car, swung the door shut and walked to the tatty green front door, registering the jangle of nerves and excitement churning up her stomach.

  There was no obvious bell or knocker, so she made a fist and rapped on the wood with her knuckles. The sound of movement inside, although she knew Lachlan would be there, expecting her, was almost frightening. She was going to him, she was going to be with him, the man who’d almost had his hands in her fantasy pants just hours ago.

  Except the door pulled back and there was the sobering sight of his wife, Rosie, with her knee-high daughter beside her.

  ‘Hello,’ Rosie said with a smile.‘Come in, you found us OK then? Lachlan got called to something very last minute, so he won’t be able to join us.’

  Pamela hoped the disappointment she felt hadn’t registered too heavily on her face as she went through the ‘No, not at all . . . how are you anyway,’ bit.

  ‘I’m fine . . . we’re fine, aren’t we, Manda?’

  The little girl looked up at her mother and answered with a very solemn ‘Yeah.’

  Lachlan had wanted to rearrange the cottage viewing when he knew he wasn’t going to make it this morning, but Rosie had insisted she would show Pamela round and he had given in quickly enough to quell her mild suspicions that he had a little crush on the city girl.

  Rosie was curious to meet Pamela again, couldn’t decide yet whether to dislike her because she was so smart and so obviously smitten with Lachlan, or to overlook those things and get to know her better . . . maybe even like her. But when she opened the door, Rosie thought that maybe she would dislike Pamela after all. She looked gorgeous, far too luscious to be looking round a pair of scruffy cottages: skirt, high-heeled boots, draped in a soft black coat.

  ‘This is a great location,’ Pamela smiled.‘And Manda, hi.’ Despite the boots and skirt, she crouched down to say this and Rosie was changing her mind again. She was so disarmingly nice to children . . . and then hadn’t she taken the whole cow thing so well?

  Pamela was also on guard, trying to put Lachlan and her stupid crush to the back of her mind, trying to work Rosie out.

  They toured the unloved cottage, talking politely about the renovations, the budget, the plans.

  The building needed new everything: rewiring, replastering, repainting inside and out, new floors, kitchen, bathroom. But the windows were a good size, would let in plenty of light and every one framed a peaceful green view.

  It would be a perfect family holiday cottage. Pamela outlined to Rosie the simple, natural look she had in mind: pale walls and wood, jute flooring, biscuit-coloured blinds.

  ‘Holiday cottages are usually so cluttered and full of old junk,’ she complained.‘Rickety secondhand furniture, Aunty’s unwanted ornaments, hideous little paintings, cane things, straw baskets. Don’t do any of that. OK?’

  Rosie had laughed and mentally noted not to invite Pamela to the farmhouse . . . Well, not until she’d had the chance to hide all that kind of thing.

  ‘Clean, simple, pared down. Empty wardrobes, plenty of shelves, so that the guests have space for all their stuff.’

  Pamela already knew that the budget was small, way below her usual, but that she would do the job for them. Maybe work with one decorator, get a bit hands on. She could paint, she could strip and above all she knew where to get the things they needed for less. They’d have a fabulous cottage Islington families would be mowing each other down to rent out every school holiday. Then it was time to look at the second place. Rosie locked the front door with an ornate key and buckled a squirming and protesting Manda into a rugged three-wheeler buggy.


  ‘I don’t know if maybe you want to drive,’ she suggested to Pamela, glancing at the high-heeled boots.‘It’s not much of a road. More like a track.’

  ‘No, no, I’ll be fine,’ Pamela insisted, wondering why every single farm outing seemed to cause her a footwear crisis.

  Tottering and twisting her ankle, then pretending she hadn’t, on the rocky rickety path, she wished for the car. And she was going to have to walk back as well.

  The second cottage was hidden in its own secluded corner of the farm, surrounded by dense rhododendron bushes and a tangle of garden. It had once been whitewashed with window frames and door picked out in light blue. There were the remains of a trellised rose across the front wall.

  Pamela couldn’t understand why both of these homes had fallen into such a state, but didn’t like to ask. If the information wasn’t offered, it was safer to leave it at that.

  The cottage door had to be shouldered by Rosie before it would open. Inside, it was in a much worse condition than the first one, but after a brief look round, Pamela knew it would be quicker to renovate because everything was still original and could be kept in place – the ancient old high flush loo, cast iron bath and dainty sink, the simple wooden kitchen and the open fireplaces in the two rooms.

  Everything was caked with grime and a dark stain on two of the ceilings suggested the roof needed some repairing, but still, the place would be habitable very quickly.

  ‘Wow,’ she enthused to Rosie, who was looking about in horror. The cattle man had moved out of here nine years ago when the herd was sold and nothing had been done to the place ever since. No money and the determination not to sell it because it was too valuable an asset. All asset and no cash. Wasn’t that just farming all over? Everyone else had money, but they had assets – in waiting – not to mention a vast inheritance tax bill they would labour all their days to pay off . . . when her father died.

  ‘A love nest,’ Pamela was telling her.‘That’s what you need to bill this place as. Secluded, private . . . log fire in the bedroom . . . a totally romantic retreat. One of those big wooden beds, a sofa by the fire, it will be gorgeous.’

  Rosie, walking from one filthy room to another with a tight grip on Manda, who was determined to poke in as many disgusting corners as possible, found Pamela’s enthusiasm a little hard to catch on to.

  ‘This place should be done first. I know it looks bad, but not much needs doing apart from roof repairs, new ceilings and paint – lots of paint.’ Pamela was bursting with ideas . . . white painted floorboards, sheepskin rugs, a teeny-tiny chandelier, ‘Scandinavian luxe’, chunky candles, gingham blinds . . . firelight. It was going to be beautiful.

  ‘So, you do this one up with half of your budget, rent it out at top whack and use the money coming in to pay to do the second one properly. I’m sure it will be worth it,’ she was explaining to Rosie.

  ‘I’m aiming to put you in the top rental bracket, which has to make you more over the long term. Invest in design. That’s the idea.’ For a moment, she sounded almost Sheila-ish.

  ‘Good for designers,’ Rosie couldn’t resist.

  ‘Well yes, but I’m so desperate to work up here, not be trekking down to town, that you’ll get me for a very good rate.’ Pamela, realizing she must have this job, had to convince Rosie.‘And I’m quite good, you know. I can show you my portfolio.’

  Rosie looked at Pamela carefully. Understood exactly what her reservation was: there had never been another woman she’d felt so threatened by. She didn’t have the slightest doubt that Pamela would do a fantastic job: she saw her attention to detail in the way she was dressed. But she was only too aware of Lachlan’s interest. He hadn’t mentioned Pamela much but when he did, it was in a way which made Rosie suspect he’d been thinking about her.

  ‘I wonder what she makes of farm life . . .’ he’d mused and, ‘I think the cottages will be really different if she does them.’

  Rosie did not want her husband to be thinking about any woman, especially a curvaceous, childless, glamourpuss who didn’t seem to have anything at all in common with her own husband. Dave had seemed so straightforward by comparison.

  Pamela, wary of waiting too long for Rosie’s answer, had begun to chat to Manda and now lifted her up so she could see out of the window.

  ‘What’s that?’ she pointed.

  ‘Bwudz,’ Manda was pointing too.

  ‘Bird, very good. Is that the birdie? Is he pecking?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Manda nodded.

  And Rosie was disarmed again. She was making this all up. Pamela seemed like a nice person and anyway, Lachlan? She may have suspected something once or twice in the past, but really, now? He was so busy and he was almost useless at keeping secrets . . . she nearly always found out what her Christmas present from him was, because he was so careless with the evidence.

  ‘I’ll speak to Lachlan tonight,’ she told Pamela, ‘then we’ll give you a call, let you know what we think.’

  ‘That’s great. Both cottages could be brilliant, really.’ Pamela gave her a big smile, but already she was thinking about the tricky walk back in her tottery heels.

  The call came later that evening, on her mobile. At the sound of Lachlan’s voice, she went out of the kitchen where she was preparing supper with Dave and into the front room, where she could cradle the phone between her shoulder and her cheek and concentrate on every word.

  He was matter-of-fact, telling her the plans were good, a more detailed estimate was needed, then if it was agreed, when would she like to start?

  I’m pretty committed until April, maybe even May,’ she warned him and liked to think there was a slightly disappointed ring to his ‘Oh, I see.’

  But maybe that was for financial reasons, she reminded herself.

  ‘When I start, I’ll project-manage, we’ll get them done as quickly as possible. The first cottage shouldn’t take much more than a month. So you’ll get some summer rental if you advertise in advance. The second one . . . well, let’s say mid-July. I think that’s realistic. To keep to your budget, I’ll do a lot of the work myself. It’ll be fun, getting my hands dirty again. Like when I started out in this business.’

  ‘Right.’

  She thought he sounded happier again.

  ‘Bit of sanding . . . bit of stripping . . .’ she dared but when this was met with deep silence, she quickly added: ‘Wallpaper . . . paint . . .’

  ‘Right,’ he said again, followed by: ‘If you can get a full estimate over, we’ll speak then,’ and an abrupt goodbye.

  Good grief, she thought as she clicked the phone off. Why the stripping line? Why? What was she thinking?! She probably needed to address the sex-with-Dave-situation, because ‘Look at me!’ Sex . . . sexual frustration – was bubbling up in all kinds of inappropriate places.

  ‘Mummy, when we do an N in our class, we have to do a down, back up, down and kick up.’ Pete, on Rosie’s lap with his reading book in one hand, was drawing carefully in the air with his other. He took primary one very seriously.

  ‘That’s right.’ She scrunched him into her, feeling the bones in his ribs and spine. Always a bit skinny, a bit snotty, that was Pete. Rosie took a tissue from the supply in her pocket and made him blow his nose. His grey trousers were already bobbly at the knees because he fell in the playground a lot. She cuddled him tightly and tried to concentrate, understanding how much he relished his time with her, his slice of her busy day.

  She knew what it was like to be the one in the middle, the one who had to fight for every scrap of attention because you weren’t the cute youngest or the smart oldest. But over the edge of the book, she had an eye on Lachlan pacing round the kitchen, phone at his ear. He was talking to Pamela. Rosie was just checking to make sure there was nothing to be suspicious about.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘CHRISTMAS! I DON’T know where to begin with telling you about Christmas! Christmas was a disaster!’ Pamela said. Leaning back in her chair, she was taking thi
s all in. A wonderful, swank hotel dining room, she and Dave all dressed up for dinner. Alex sitting opposite beside a very attractive younger man, who she’d introduced as ‘Rob, a friend of mine.’ Very interesting.

  It was New Year’s Eve and Alex had twisted their arm to come into London, have a glamorous night out, stay over in a hotel and enjoy themselves.‘Come on,’ she’d pleaded.‘I’m worried about Dave especially. He’s just going to get too wholemealy and hand-knitted out there. Bring him into town again. Remind him of all this.’

  And Dave was enjoying himself, she saw.

  He’d agreed to put himself into his one suit, shirt and tie. He was shaved and aftershaved. Pamela had felt an unaccustomed flash of pride in him as he’d taken her arm and walked with her into the hotel.

  ‘My parents, my brother, his partner and their two children all came for three days at Christmas and it was hell,’ Pamela was now telling Alex and Rob.

  ‘The children were ill, sore throats, snot, all that stuff, Liz was on the verge of a nervous breakdown because she’d been working full-pelt all the way up to the 24th, had done all her shopping on the internet and half of it hadn’t arrived. “Christmas, it’s not a holiday, it’s a bloody crisis nowadays”, she kept telling me. My mother is horrified by our house, because we still haven’t done any redecorating – I’ll leave Dave to explain that. And then, on Christmas Day, just before lunch, the septic tank packs in.’

  ‘The septic tank? OK, I’m not sure what that is, but I get the feeling I don’t want to know.’ Alex pulled a face.

  ‘Oh come on, we’re in between courses,’ Pamela dared.‘My mum comes down to the kitchen and says she thinks the toilet is blocked. It’s all filled up with water which won’t go down and it turns out that when you live on a farm, this is very bad news indeed. Because we’re not on the main sewage system . . .’

  Dave took up the explanation: ‘If your toilet is blocked, it means the tank everything goes into is either backed up or full.’

  ‘That can’t be good! So, what did you have to do?’

  ‘Well, on any normal day of the week you’d be able to call people out to unblock things or bring in a tanker to take . . . er . . . the tank contents away. But this was Christmas Day.’