The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan

by Jenny O'Brien

  When he’d handed in his notice at his law firm in a fit of pique, it was a fit of pique he could ill afford. It was all very well having principles but principles didn’t pay the bills. Closing his eyes, he tried to recall the feeling of desperation that had him flinging the latest brief in the face of the senior partner at the thought of having to defend yet another slime ball when they all knew he was as guilty as hell. It was the same when he’d decided on law over medicine and the rose coloured view he’d had of helping others in a superhero kind of way. Matisse Bianchi, protector of the weak and impoverished. Matisse Bianchi here to save the world. If truth be told, he’d have probably settled for medicine except he’d always been a little squeamish at the sight of blood.

  Private Equity was meant to be an alternative. Sitting behind a desk, messing about with numbers was what he’d expected. What he got was sitting opposite little grey-haired ladies over priceless Sevres china, pretending sympathy and support while he delved into their finances with a box of tissues in one hand and a knife ready to stab them between the shoulder blades in the other.

  The estate had been charming, albeit a little unkempt. The grey stone frontage crawling with wisteria. The heavy, antique furniture polished to a high sheen by goodness only knew what invisible hand. There were little enough funds to maintain and heat the place let alone money to fork out on old family retainers, his eyes on the bare grate and the absence of anything that resembled a radiator. There was no central heating or indeed underfloor as he stepped across the near threadbare Aubusson rug. There was no car in the garage and no jewellery hidden away in her room as he took in her bare hands, bare apart from a thin, gold wedding band breaking through the wrinkles. Everything that could be sold had been as he took in the gaps in the walls where any picture of value had long since been sent off to Sotheby’s. There was nothing left to sell and still an outstanding payment of $500,000. Not huge in the scheme of things but in the hands of Prymentia Private Equity, it was enough for her to lose the lot. They’d turf her out like the remains of last night’s left-overs with not a thought for what she’d do or where she’d go. She’d scarcely have enough for a two-up two-down semi in Surbiton when they’d finished with her.

  He crossed his legs in an effort to avoid the steely-eyed stare even now boring into him with the force of ten rampaging rhinos as he tried to think of a way to both help her and help himself. There must be something else to sell apart from the chipped china and stained rug? But they’d walked around the house in silence. Everything that had been of any value had long since vanished. All that was left was a pile of photos and memories. He’d thought her stupid then; proud but stupid. She could sell it tomorrow and at least get something out of the disaster but she wouldn’t. She was determined to have something left to hand down to her family but, looking around at the empty rooms, he couldn’t stop himself from criticising such a family for leaving a poor defenceless woman in such a plight. He’d left then. He’d left her standing in the doorway before he said what he really thought, after all, wasn't he the vulture and she his prey?

  Chapter Two

  Huddled under her fur hat, she couldn’t quite decide if it had been colder in Paris, although in the scheme of things, it didn’t really matter how cold it was. It could be the middle of an unaccustomed February heatwave and she’d still feel frozen to the core. Her feet; well she’d lost all sensation in her toes about five minutes ago despite encasing them in two pairs of pure woollen socks misappropriated from Aunty Popsy’s top drawer. It had been slightly creepy to think she was wearing another woman’s clothes, particularly as the woman in question wasn’t even her aunt. She’d borrowed Aunt Popsy, her socks, her New York apartment and even her leather gloves.

  When the bottom had fallen out of both her life and her heart, Sarah had come to the rescue with a place to hide, not that she needed to hide, except perhaps from herself. So here she was in Aunty Popsy’s apartment situated in one of the most beautiful parts of Manhattan as she tried to make sense of her life, a life that had suddenly lost all meaning. It had taken one second, less than a second to smash the unbreakable like a foot stepping on glass.

  Lifting her head, she looked without seeing, her eyes turned inwards as she scrolled over recent events. She didn’t see the lush green grass and the well-kept paths, just as she didn’t see the tall trees bordering the black iron railings. The statue, taking pride of place in the centre of the park might as well not have existed for all the notice she took of it. Instead of wet pavement, she saw snow, lots and lots of snow. Instead of brownstone buildings she saw steep mountains, their tops hidden by low cloud. Instead of the jogger circling the park she saw him. There was no room in her heart for anything else and she didn’t believe there ever would be.

  Fumbling in her pocket, she withdrew his photo, a face she knew by heart. But now he seemed different, less real although equally as important. When had she forgotten the way his hair curled around his ears, or the way his eyes creased up in laughter? It was as if her memories were fading to dust. She dreaded the time when she wouldn’t be able to picture his face or hear his laugh ringing in her ears. Already she had to concentrate to remember the timber, the resonance, the pitch. All she had was his picture and his scent, or at least his favourite jumper soaked in his favourite aftershave. How Sarah would nag if she could see her curled up wearing an old jumper with holes at the elbows and stinking of Ralph Lauren. On second thought, she wouldn’t nag…

  Gathering together her bag, she stood up from her bench. The bench she’d claimed all those months ago. Gramercy Park was an oasis of calm hidden away from the hustle and bustle; a treasure trove of peace just on her doorstep. A treasure trove she was lucky enough to have the key to. Keys for Gramercy were rarer than unicorns. There were less than four hundred issued to those who lived in the buildings and apartments that bordered the park, and Aunt Popsy was the proud owner of one of them. It was the first thing she’d noticed on her arrival.

  She’d arrived late at night, her flight from Gatwick having been delayed by a last minute work to rule by baggage handlers. She was cold, tired, lonely and utterly fed up as she’d turned the key of the penthouse apartment, a wheelie suitcase propped up beside her. Shutting the door and applying the safety chain, her eyes fell on a little gold hook by the door; a little gold hook with a little gold key. The key to paradise. A key she’d used every day since.

  Returning to her brownstone, or at least hers for as long as she wanted, she took the elevator up to the tenth floor before retracing her steps back to the apartment. She’d been living there for six months and she still couldn’t quite form an opinion on it. The view was stunning and, at the moment, that’s all that mattered. She threw her coat and gloves across the back of the sofa before heading to the window to look out again at the view. Her attention landed on the same lonely jogger running around and around in circles and she smiled to herself, her eyes now on the cumulus rain clouds gathering above the city. She didn’t need an A level in geography to recognise a rain cloud when she saw it and sure enough the first few isolated splatters were already starting to drip down the glass. She wondered how long he’d last in the rain and then, turning her back on the view, she wondered no more.

  It wasn’t home or anything like home. In fact there wasn’t one single thing she could actually say she liked about it apart from the view.

  Sarah had gone so far as to apologise when she’d offered it to her.

  ‘The housekeeper employed to look after it has retired so you’ll be doing us a huge favour keeping an eye on it until we decide what to do with it,’ she muttered, continuing to spoon what looked like pureed carrot into Anique’s mouth.

  ‘What is that you’re stuffing into her? It looks revolting.’

  Sarah laughed, offering her a taste. ‘Pureed mango. You love it don’t you, beautiful,’ she added, popping a kiss against Anique’s plump, rosy cheek. ‘Pascal can’t wait for when she’ll be able to eat proper food like oysters and frog
s legs.’

  ‘Yuck, that’s gross.’

  ‘Not if you’re married to a Frenchman it isn’t.’

  The scene faded and instead of Sarah encased in a happy cloud with her perfect family in her perfect little cottage in Versailles, all she saw was Aunt Popsy’s brown lounge. There was nothing wrong with brown per se. As a colour, she quite liked it. An old boyfriend had once said it made her eyes violet and any colour that turned mud into romance was good for her. But this was brown overkill; this was brown so brown as to be browned off!

  Staring at the hessian fabric-covered walls, she could sort of get they made the perfect backdrop for Aunt Popsy’s art collection, but the dung coloured carpet was vile personified. It did match the dung coloured sofa suite circa 1960, which she hadn’t minded so much as throws and cushions were the best interior design accessory known to woman. However, perching on the edge, she despaired at how something so horrible could also be something so uncomfortable. There was no way she’d ever be able to ask anyone back, an issue that was already causing difficulties at work.

  She’d settled surprisingly well into school life, considering it was the last job on earth she’d ever envisaged fulfilling. But beggars couldn’t’ be choosers. However, if she was ever going to take that uncertain step into trying to make an even half ordinary life for herself, she needed to make friends and, with an apartment looking like something lived in by Scrooge’s second cousin twice removed, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

  Heading into the kitchen, she ignored the cupboard full of food and, instead, headed for the antiquated coffee machine that took pride of place in the middle of the counter. Give Sarah’s aunt her due; whilst old and ugly like almost everything else in the apartment it spluttered out the most delicious coffee imaginable. Filling the water chamber with one hand, she allowed the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans to fill the air and suddenly the brown, wooden cabinets faded as yet another memory, a happy memory, punctuated her thoughts.

  ‘Nescafe, what’s this Nescafe?’

  ‘It’s instant coffee,’ her voice hesitant.

  ‘Instant coffee!’ Aaron’s face a study in horror. ‘Instant coffee is an insult to the taste buds,’ as his hand prised the coffee jar from her hands and instead filled it with a bag of coffee beans.

  ‘But I don’t have a coffee…?’ Her eyes wide.

  ‘But you will have.’ Bending down and placing the gentlest of kisses against her lips. ‘No wife of mine will ever have to buy instant coffee.’

  ‘No wife of yours,’ her voice softer than the breath of air on her cheek. Her hand reached up to touch his face. ‘But we’ve only known each other a week, I don’t think…’

  ‘Don’t think, my love. Love isn’t about thinking. Love is about feeling, and I knew the first time I saw you that,’ his hand now trusting the unfortunate jar into the fingers of the woman elbowing him aside in an effort to reach the shelf. ‘That we’d end up together.’

  Chapter Three

  She was there again.

  Each morning this week, he’d set his alarm clock an hour early just so he could head over to Gramercy Park and do a few circuits. The area was deserted at this time of day with everyone still in bed or hunched over their bagels and buns. His face grimaced at the thought of the no fat, no sugar, low carb, high fibre granola she’d managed to find at some health food shop or other. It tasted as bad as it looked, especially as she’d now changed their milk from half to skimmed. Dishwater would look better and would probably taste better too.

  When he’d told her he wanted to get fit, he didn’t actually think she’d take it as a reason to make his life as difficult as possible. Now, instead of bowls of steaming pasta and warm bread for supper, she was making him salads and jacket potatoes (no butter). Life that was miserable before was now unbearable. But jogging, something he hadn’t done since his student days, was turning out to be the highlight of his mornings. He was sensible enough not to push it. All those years of sitting behind a desk had done their worst and, if he didn’t exactly creak when he stood up, he certainly groaned a little.

  Taking a break to massage his calves, he sneaked another look at the woman embracing the bench like a statue; always the same bench, always wearing the same fur hat and blue fleece. If it wasn’t for the fact he’d seen her sneeze a couple of days ago, he might have believed she was a work of art; a work of art representing sadness.

  He’d never seen her smile or even lift her head, all her attention on something she held within her gloved hand like a precious jewel. He’d never been close enough to see what absorbed her attention and he wasn’t one to introduce himself to strangers.

  He was a small town boy, originally from Cape Cod, Massachusetts where everyone knew everyone else’s business. When Mrs Kibble’s husband ran off with the butcher it had caused a major scandal with everyone rallying around with offers of pies (vegetarian) and pity. It had only taken a month to ruin what had been a very profitable family run business and two months for him to up sticks, floozy and all, and move to neighbouring Martha’s Vineyard. But that was Cape Cod. New York was a completely different animal.

  Accosting strangers in the street, or indeed the park, wasn’t done, for the simple reason you might end up with more than you bargained for. Whilst he was pretty sure she was upset, and that there was probably a man involved, being pretty sure wasn’t enough. Being pretty sure couldn’t guarantee him that she hadn’t slipped through the gates of the nearest penitentiary or mental institution. Just as it couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t attack him with a kitchen knife. The only thing he could be sure of was his attentions would be unwelcome. So, instead of doing what he wanted which was to ask her if she was all right, he jogged on.

  ‘What about a walk in the park after breakfast?’

  ‘What, you call this breakfast?’ he grumbled, stirring clumps of granola with an air of discontent.

  ‘Well, there’s no good moaning at me. You’re the one who wanted to get fit.’

  ‘There’s get fit and get fit. I wouldn’t give this slop to the dog.’

  ‘We don’t have a dog; you wouldn’t let me have one.’

  Oh, here we go! Don’t bring that old story up again.’

  ‘Hark at you! You’re the one that brought dogs up, not me,’ she said, glaring at him from under her bangs.

  ‘As you very well know, an apartment isn’t the right place for a dog.’

  ‘So, if we were perhaps to move into a house?’ she wheedled.

  ‘Then we’d consider it. But only on one proviso.’

  ‘What’s the catch?’ Her voice resigned.

  ‘No more granola.’

  ‘How about we go out and I treat you to a cream cheese Gramercy bagel, as its Saturday?’

  ‘With extra smoked salmon?’

  She sighed. ‘With extra smoked salmon. Oh, just one thing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can you lend me ten bucks, Dad?’

  She wasn’t there but he hadn’t expected her to be. In truth, he didn’t want to be there either. It had been a good idea at the time but now it was all a bit busy.

  He’d gotten used to having the park to himself, apart from her of course. It wasn’t as if they knew each other or anything. She probably didn’t even know he existed, come to think of it, as he unwrapped the bagel and took a bite. She certainly hadn’t given any acknowledgement of his presence. She hadn’t lifted her eyes even once and that despite his trip to the mall last week.

  Evelyn had laughed herself silly at the sight of him tipping out his chest of drawers and throwing out everything that was either black or brown into the waiting bin sack.

  ‘Going to go commando are you, Pops? Wait ‘til I tell the girls at school.’

  ‘Don’t you dare, young lady. I was planning on taking you shopping for that birthday present later, and what was that you were saying about needing some new boots?’

  ‘Shopping, really?’ She grabbed his hands, now free of boxers and
started pulling him around the room in a half waltz, half bunny hop with a little shuffle on the side.

  ‘Yes, really, you can help me choose some new underwear.’

  ‘Ew, Dad, gross.’ Her nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘I’ll check out some shoe shops while you’re sorting yourself out. But,’ her eyes on his grey sweats. ‘What about treating yourself to some new running gear? You must have had this since…,’ her eyebrows raised.

  ‘Since Harvard.’

  ‘That’s like twenty years ago – double gross.’

  ‘Actually it’s only fifteen.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She flung over her shoulder as she raced out the room.

  So now he was standing in the middle of the park all on his lonesome with nothing to do and no one to do it with. As soon as she’d bought him his bagel with the tenner he’d lent her, she’d hitched up with a couple of the girls from school and set off for the cinema. She’d probably texted them while he was changing out of his Saturday slob gear and into his smarter jeans, white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his leather jacket. No matter how cold it was he never fastened his cuffs. It reminded him too much of the cufflinks he had to thread through his shirt every morning, and anything that reminded him of work was a no go area. He conveniently forgot the gentle ribbing she’d given him about his change in look. He remembered she’d even teased him about a possible girlfriend in that gentle way motherless daughter’s do, especially when they’re keen to get their dad’s off their backs. She teased him with a twinkle in her eye and a smile on her lips.

  The park was the busiest he’d seen it, but it was the first Saturday he’d been up early enough to enjoy a quiet walk before the usual round of Saturday catch up of food shopping and housework. Give Evelyn her due, she was quite switched on for a sixteen-year-old and she even managed to do the odd shop on the way home from school, although he tried as much as he could to take away the pressures of being a single parent family. Being a teenager was hard enough but not having the steadying hand of a mother to help and advise her made it extra challenging. Spending as much free time as possible going back to Cape Cod to visit with his sisters and Mom helped fill the gap somewhat. She was growing up so fast now, too fast. Give it a year and she’d be off to university to continue her education and he’d be truly on his own.