She has to watch her step with Roxy. So unfortunate that she’s turned up right now. Susannah doesn’t blame herself for what happened back then – it’s not as though she had any idea that Michelle was pregnant. The two women had met socially on a couple of occasions, before Susannah and Dominic were outed. Roxy is nothing like her mother. Michelle has a trusting sweetness about her, or she did back then; that may have changed. But Roxy is different – there’s something secretive about her. She appears to be enamoured with her father but it’s impossible to tell whether it’s genuine or not. She’s certainly enamoured with Ben.
All the packing and disruption is making Lou and Chou unsettled. They sniff anxiously around the piles of folded clothes, stacks of books and her precious DVDs, all set out on the floor. ‘We’re going home, my little darlings,’ she murmurs. ‘Back where we belong. We’re going to be fine. Absolutely fine.’ The shrill of the phone beside the bed gives her a nasty start. She picks it up with trepidation.
‘Susannah, it’s Becky.’
‘Oh, Becky, I’ve been meaning to call you. I’m coming home. For good.’ Susannah drops her voice, gripped by the panicky thought that Dominic may have heard the phone ring. If he picks up the downstairs extension she will hear it click.
‘That’s good, Susie. But I’m sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news.’
Susannah sits down on the bed. Daddy. Remorse and regret wash over her. She should have gone home earlier. She will never be able to forgive herself for not seeing him during this last year. And now it’s too late.
‘I’m afraid our dear Maxwell died last night,’ says Rebecca. ‘His heart, they think. He’s been under a lot stress. I was worried the last time we saw him, he didn’t look well. Grey in face.’
Susannah feels as though she’s accelerating towards an immovable object, powerless to stop or turn away. One moment she’s distraught at losing her father and the next, grappling with the fact that it’s Maxwell who’s gone. The man she loved and lost, the man who adored her and was a shining beacon of her future. Gone. There had been no doubt in her mind that he would find her a part and that she would embark on the final phase of her career. She hadn’t realised how wedded she was to this notion until this very moment.
‘Susie? Are you there? I’m so sorry. I know you were still very fond of him.’
‘But I just spoke to him, a couple of weeks ago … it’s not possible.’
‘Well, darling, he was alive a couple of weeks ago. He was alive yesterday, in fact. But now he’s not. You’re in shock. Spare a thought for Cynthia and the children. His family adored him, you know. The children are theatre people, all of them. Terribly sad. When are you back? The funeral will be next week.’
‘Oh. The funeral … I’m not sure … I was going to come on Boxing Day.’
‘Wonderful. We’ll all be pleased to have you home. Alone, I presume?’
‘Yes. Alone. Is it possible … do you still have that little flat you mentioned?’
‘Chiswick? I’ve put a tenant in there now. You should have let me know. Never mind, Daddy has a spare room. He’ll be happy to have you there for a little while. I’ll let him know to expect you.’
Susannah hears herself agree to this plan as though from a great distance. When Rebecca hangs up, Susannah feels utterly abandoned and alone. She sits cradling the phone, wishing she could be channelled through it to the safety of home. Or that someone would come here and get her. Break her out. Make it easy. Out of habit, her eyes travel to the door. The robe is gone. The painting of her beautiful young self is gone. Her mother’s hairbrush packed. Max’s roses gone. Max is gone. She wraps her arms around herself, pulling back from the edge, willing herself not to go over.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It’s after midnight when Dominic pulls the last page of the day out of the typewriter with a flourish and places it, almost reverentially, on top of the growing pile of his manuscript. The one-hundredth page of his opus. It is so satisfying to see the fruits of his labour in this decent-sized wodge of paper sitting on his desk. Productivity has suffered somewhat as a result of the visits from Roxy and Ben, but he is thoroughly enjoying having acolytes. In the last few days he has opened up more, basking in their interest and regaling them with stories of his early days. Occasionally he reads his previous day’s work to them. It could be seen as self-aggrandising but there is nothing like a new and appreciative audience to make one feel wise and witty. Certainly wouldn’t get that sort of approbation from Susannah, who could hardly be less interested, having made it abundantly clear that she doesn’t want to hear about his book.
At some point his literary journey will end up at the Farash issue. It can’t be ignored, but he has the opportunity to give it a little spin to present the correct perspective. Ideally, he’d like to open the conversation with Roxy and Ben before he commits himself on paper; get their responses to his version of events. He has a free run as long as he can keep Susannah out of it. Shouldn’t be difficult – she keeps her distance when his visitors arrive, and spends most of the day in her room apart from the occasional walking of the dogs. Apparently still sulking about his little prank, she stalks past him in the house like Tragedy herself. No sense of humour. All irony is lost on her. Michelle would have seen the funny side.
Just when he could do with a little support, Susannah has become a recluse in her bedroom. Perhaps that’s why Hemingway had so many wives: sooner or later they mutiny or, like Susannah, become so self-absorbed they’re no help at all. Now he’s forced to shop and cook for himself. After dark, Susannah emerges from her seclusion to tuck into any leftovers. She certainly won’t be getting a mention in the acknowledgements – none of that thank you to my adored wife for all your support. He’s on his own.
He toys with the idea of dedicating it to Roxy. Why not? She’s his only offspring, as far as he knows. She’s more interested in him and his life than anyone else, understandably. Seems to find his life fascinating and positively peppers him with questions. All the years she missed – no doubt wants to make up for lost time. He did get as far as enquiring what she does for a living and is none the wiser. Something in media sales? Neither of those words captured his imagination, let alone in combination, so he let the topic drop. Although, he should sound her out for publishing contacts. She might want to agent him. Beneath the surface charm, it’s obvious she’s got some steel buried in there. He admires that in a woman. She didn’t get that from Michelle.
He pours himself a warming Scotch, a tonic for sleep, and a sudden thought strikes him. She hasn’t mentioned it, but Roxy may already know about the Farash incident since Michelle must know about it. Roxy certainly has access to all the pieces of the puzzle, if she wanted to put them together. She may have seen it in the papers, depending on what she reads. She and Ben are chummy. Have they talked about it? Doubtful. Ben seems to have a chronic aversion to talking about other people. No reason to doubt his loyalty.
Roxy and Ben. Interesting. Perhaps it’s a case of a parent being infatuated with their own progeny but Roxy seems to have twice the personality and spunk of the pensive little Mia. Roxy and Ben seem like a natural couple. They have a similar build, strong and capable looking. Roxy has a more substantial and womanly body than Mia – buxom like Michelle. Big tits and a generous backside. Likes to show it off too. None of that false modesty where women pretend to be unaware of the pleasure men derive from the glimpse of a fleshy cleavage. Michelle understood that. He thumbs through the manuscript to a description he is quietly pleased with:
I was drawn to Michelle by the dichotomies that coexisted within her character. Ethereal and maidenlike as a princess, she could rut like a peasant girl in a haystack when the occasion demanded. Beneath the ethnic bobbles and beads, beneath the sarongs and peasant skirts, she was unfettered by the constraints of undergarments. Her great round breasts, with chocolatedrop nipples, bobbed to the rhythm of her sashaying hips. Whenever she bent over, her naked buttocks were clearly visi
ble through the taut fabric. ‘Happy Valley’ was open for business at any time, should the whim take us. Life was good.
He had rather enjoyed writing this passage. Given that no one is interested in paying him to write about food or wine, perhaps he should consider a career in erotic writing, which seems to be all the go now. Or combine the two; add a new dimension to the term food porn.
On reflection, it had probably been a mistake to ditch Michelle. Things would have been near on impossible with a baby but prior to that catastrophe, their relationship had been so easy. They both had the freedom to do their own thing. Then she had to go and spoil it all. Now she’s evidently happily married to a real estate agent, of all things. Michelle is a dish he wouldn’t mind sampling again at this stage of his life – given the right circumstances. He wonders how happy they actually are. People probably think his union with the deranged Susannah is happy. The truth will eventually prevail. His readers will see how selfless he has been in sticking by her thus far.
He refills his glass, switches off the desk lamp and lights a cigar. Through the window rain falls steadily, the dying fire refracting splinters of light on the glass. He turns his full attention to the flavour profile of the cigar, breathing and tasting it simultaneously, coaxing every possible nuance from it. It’s a cunning little devil, starting with a smooth caramel flavour, then in the next breath a touch of saltiness followed by a more provocative hint of spice: mustardy, with a suggestion of cumin. It continues to intrigue, revealing layers of flavour that lead him to wonder if perhaps the hiatus between decent meals has to some degree restored his taste receptors. It’s possible that his papillae are regenerating and, at this point, even the slightest improvement would be welcome.
He is slowly eking out his last bottle of thirty-year-old Scotch, savouring every resonant sip as it adds a toffee sweetness to the cigar flavour. The cigar, the whisky, the quiet ambience of the room, his one-hundred-page achievement and the titillating memories of Michelle’s glorious breasts combine to produce a surprising feeling of wellbeing. He even feels a tiny stirring in the loins that indicates some resurgence of his long-lost libido.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Ben’s not sure whether he felt obliged to invite Roxy over, or genuinely wanted her to see the house. Maybe a bit of both. He feels sorry for her. She seems lost, sitting around having to wait for an invite from Dominic and not really having anything else to do but hang around her hotel. Most of the old village is closed for winter. And now, after a couple of sunny days, the weather has turned to rain again.
Even with the heating on in their workrooms, both he and Mia wear coats all day. The combination of the cold and damp makes him feel miserable and depressed. Now his work is on pause until early January and he’s been trying to muster some enthusiasm for his own development projects but finds himself regularly standing at the window, hands in pockets, staring out across the fields at the bleak misty landscape.
When Roxy arrives, she gets a tour of the house that finishes in the kitchen, which is warm and pleasant with the lingering smell of baking, Mia having knocked up some little cakes for the occasion. Once the introductions are done, Mia puts the coffee and cakes out on the table and they all sit down.
Roxy looks around the kitchen, soaking it all up. ‘You two are living the life, aren’t you? This house is like something out of a movie. I’d love to do what you’re doing – if I could get myself together and escape from London. I wouldn’t do it on my own, obviously. That’d be tough.’
Ben can’t help but feel he and Mia are a couple of fakers, their ‘dream life’ a facade with nothing of substance behind it. And, despite Roxy’s enthusiasm, Ben can tell that Mia doesn’t like her. She’s watchful and reserved, glancing at him to see his reactions.
‘Living here is not as easy as it looks,’ says Mia. ‘Takes a bit of getting used to. It’s harder than we thought, anyway.’
‘Especially in winter, I imagine. It’s early days for you, I suppose. Susannah and Dominic seem to have settled in. They obviously love it here.’
Mia says nothing but Ben feels duty-bound to confirm the Harringtons’ satisfaction.
‘Considering they didn’t necessarily want to come and live in France,’ adds Roxy.
‘Then why did they?’ asks Mia.
‘Oh, you don’t know? I thought it was all out in the open,’ says Roxy.
‘If it is, we don’t know about it.’ Mia looks across at Ben. ‘Or, I don’t, anyway.’
‘Well, you know he was a food critic. He was a bit of a celeb back in the day. He was a good-looking guy, friends in all the right places. What happened was that he gave a restaurant a bad review and the owner, a guy called Farash, did himself in. So the press came after Dominic.’
Ben feels almost relieved. It could have been something much worse. ‘That’s hardly his fault. He couldn’t have known the outcome.’
‘So he’s never talked to you about it?’ asks Roxy.
‘Never,’ confirms Ben. ‘I don’t think it’s any of our business. They obviously came here to get away from all that. It must have been horrible for Dominic.’
‘Do they know that’s definitely the reason the man …?’ asks Mia. ‘He might have had other things going on.’
‘Apparently the restaurant went downhill pretty quickly,’ says Roxy. ‘It happened the same week the restaurant closed down.’
‘Must have been a very harsh review,’ says Mia. ‘To have that effect.’
‘But if Dominic had a bad experience, then it was his job to write about it,’ insists Ben.
‘He’s a funny guy, isn’t he?’ says Roxy. ‘He’s like the lord of the manor sometimes. Like he thinks we’re his subjects, come to kneel at his feet.’
‘What did he call us the other day?’
‘Acolytes!’ Roxy laughs.
‘What the hell?’ Ben does a quick search on his phone and reads out: ‘An assistant or helper. Minion … Lackey. What?!’
Mia watches them laughing. Ben wonders why she doesn’t get Dominic. She takes everything he says seriously when it is so obviously meant to get a reaction.
‘You don’t mind him referring to you as his lackey?’ asks Mia.
Roxy brushes away tears of laughter. ‘Not at all. I don’t take it personally. That’s part of his style. His biting wit.’
‘Maybe,’ says Mia. ‘I certainly wouldn’t want to be one of his acolytes and I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, either.’
‘Hold on, you’re talking about Roxy’s dad, Mia,’ cautions Ben.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I get what you’re saying but I think he’s a pussycat, don’t you, Ben?’ Roxy turns to him for confirmation.
Ben doesn’t want to ostracise Mia further, just bring her into the fold. ‘He’s really not as bad as you think. You’re being oversensitive, Mia-Cat.’
His endearment does nothing to ease the tension in the room. Mia’s gaze is on Roxy. ‘Why did you choose now to come and find him? Why not last year or five years ago?’ she asks.
Roxy shrugs. ‘Ben and I have talked about that too.’
Ben feels Mia’s eyes slowly shift to him as though he has already betrayed her in some way.
‘I can’t seem to decide what I want to do with my life,’ continues Roxy, unaware the atmosphere is freezing over. ‘My last relationship was a disaster. I thought it was time to regroup. Figure out who I am. Michelle always told me that Dominic wouldn’t be interested. That he’d never once been to see me, even in the hospital when I was born. So I decided to find out for myself.’
It seems to Ben that it’s kind of heroic to turn up and take your chances, to risk that sort of rejection a second time. Mia can’t seem to get that Roxy is trying to be friendly and open with her.
Ben walks Roxy to the door and stands on the front step as she drives away. She knows more than she’s saying, he can tell, but he doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to be burdened with information he didn’t want in the first
place. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that takes him back to when he was a kid and he’d overhear his mother laughing softly into the phone. ‘I have to go,’ she’d say. He’d ask her who she was talking to and she’d name this friend or that but she never laughed in that secretive way with her friends. Her voice was thick with the unspoken. He came home from school early one Friday, the day his father always went into town. He stood in the kitchen and watched his mother hurrying across the paddock. She walked in humming to herself and almost collapsed at the sight of him standing there. He was older then. He noticed the buttons on her shirt were done up wrong. He never even told Ollie. He loved his mother, she was gentle and kind, but he felt from that day that she was lost to them. She had another life. A private life. And he felt burdened by the knowledge. After that he noticed how she stared out the window, across the paddocks, wishing she was over there instead of with them. It hurt to see her do that and he wished he didn’t know why.
Now he is faced with this information that isn’t their business. If he had to hear about it, he would have preferred it come from Dominic, so that at least he knew it was accurate. Now he has to pretend not to know when Dominic eventually tells him.
Mia cleans up the kitchen in an angry banging way. Ben stands in the doorway, taking in her pinched silence. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but that was really rude,’ he says.
‘That was the best I could do,’ she says without looking up.
‘I thought we were going to make new friends here. You seem to be determined to alienate everyone. Where’s that going to get us?’
Mia stops work and looks at him. ‘You know what? I don’t really believe her. I don’t trust her, the same way I don’t trust him. And both of them seem to have sucked you in somehow. You’re her lackey too. Running around after her —’
The Yellow Villa Page 14
