by Jojo Moyes
Lottie read and tried to decipher what was definitely the truth. For "monied family," she decided, one should read simply "own house, with inside toilet"; for "absolutely gorgeous," a face that didn't resemble a disgruntled bulldog's; and for "mad, simply passionate about me," Celia probably meant that Guy had turned up to meet her at the times and places he said he would. It was hard not to be a little cynical--Lottie had lived many years with Celia by now and had learned the hard way that Celia and veracity were not always the closest of bedfellows. Lottie, for example, had heard herself described by her friend as having been rescued from a burning building during the Blitz, as a mysterious emigree of Eastern European origin, and as an orphan whose parents had been killed by a doodlebug while celebrating their wedding anniversary with a dinner of smoked salmon and black-market vodka. She had not challenged Celia on any of these, despite becoming gradually aware of their provenance. No one ever challenged Celia; it was one of the things Lottie had learned at the Holden house. There was a feeling that doing so would be like opening Pandora's box. In fact, no one even mentioned that Celia told fibs. The one time Lottie had mentioned one of these "untruths" to Mrs. Holden, Mrs. Holden had got quite shirty and told her she was sure there had been some mistake and really Lottie was being rather rude going on and on about it.
Perhaps Celia hadn't even got a boyfriend, Lottie thought. Perhaps all these men were figments of her imagination, and she was really spending her evenings practicing her needlepoint and piano scales with Aunt Angela's children. The thought made her smile. Just to get Celia going, Lottie had made no mention of Guy at all in her next letter, but she had asked lots of questions about Aunt Angela's children.
It had been an odd couple of months; only now was Lottie getting used to Celia's absence. But with that increased comfort, she had become aware of an increased tension within the house, as if Celia's absence had removed some focus that, like invisible glue, had been holding the whole thing together. Dr. Holden's absences had become more frequent, which had rather stretched Mrs. Holden's brittle hold on everyday life. At the same time Freddie and Sylvia, as if responding to some unseen siren, chose this time to become more shrill and excitable, shredding what remained of her "nerves" and giving Dr. Holden an oft-spoken reason for not returning home. "Is it impossible to get a moment's peace in this house?" he would ask, in his low, seemingly measured tones, and Mrs. Holden would jump, like a dog about to be kicked outside on a cold night.
Lottie would watch him silently as he withdrew to his study or on some unheralded night call, returning his "good night, Lottie" with equal civility. He was never rude to her, had never made her feel like a usurper within the house. Then again half the time he had hardly seemed to notice her at all.
When she had first arrived in the house, he had been less reserved. He had been friendly, had smiled more. Or perhaps she just remembered it like that. On her first night in the house, when she had wept silent tears, unsure what exactly it was that she was crying for but paradoxically afraid that her hosts would hear her and send her home again, he had let himself quietly into her room and sat down on the bed.
"You mustn't be afraid, Lottie," he'd said, placing a warm, dry hand on her head. "I imagine life has been pretty difficult for you in London. You're safe now."
Lottie had been stunned into silence. No adult had ever spoken to her as he had. With solemnity. And concern. And without some kind of threat or disparagement. Most of them hadn't even remembered her name.
"For as long as you are here, Lottie, we shall do everything we can to ensure your happiness. And when you are ready to leave, we shall hope that you remember your stay here with fondness. For we are all sure that we shall be fond of you."
And with those words he had patted her and left, taking with him her eternal gratitude and what passed in her eight-year-old heart as devotion. Had he known that she'd never had so much as a father figure in her life before, let alone kind words from one, he might perhaps have tempered his attempt at affection. But, no, Dr. Holden had smiled and patted her comfortingly, and little Lottie had stopped crying and lain in her soft bed and wondered about the magical and unforeseen existence of men who didn't swear, demand that she fetch things from the corner shop, or smell of Old Holborn.
As she had grown older, she had developed a slightly less rosy version of Dr. Holden. It was hard not to, when you witnessed at close hand the cruelty that could be inflicted by a man who simply refused to interact with his wife. In the mornings he would retreat behind his newspaper, emerging from behind his inky curtain only to mildly chastise Frederick or Sylvia for some reported misbehavior, or to pick up his coffee cup. In the evenings he would come in late and distracted, would insist that it was impossible for him to talk until he had had a drink and "a few minutes' peace" that usually managed to stretch far beyond his supper. And meanwhile Mrs. Holden, who seemed unable to read the signs, would be twittering around him anxiously, trying to anticipate his needs, trying to engage him in conversation, trying to get him to notice her new hairdo nail polish cardigan without being so crass as to actually tell him about them.
It was at times like these that Lottie would feel vaguely cross with him. She could see that being married to someone like Mrs. Holden would be rather irritating. But it did seem unnecessarily cruel to ignore her in this way, especially when she did so much to try to make his life better. As far as Lottie could see, he did nothing to try to improve hers. And over the years Mrs. Holden had grown more anxious and more twittery, and Lottie had watched his attempts to hide his irritation with her become fewer and his absences longer, and she had decided that, what with her mother and Dr. and Mrs. Holden, marriage was definitely A Bad Lot and something to be avoided, a bit like sewage outlets or chicken pox.
"I THINK HERE, DON'T YOU? IT'S TOO WHITE AT THE moment. Too vacuous. Too . . . spare."
Lottie squinted, trying to see what Adeline apparently could. It just looked like a wall. She wasn't entirely sure how a wall could be spare.
But she nodded and tried to look intelligent and raised an eyebrow as if she understood when Adeline announced that Frances had plans for "something figurative."
"I have this idea," Adeline said. "For a mural. I don't want pictures of forests or lakes . . ."
"Or Palladian landscapes," said Frances, who had appeared behind them. "I can't bear temples and pillars. Or deer. Really can't stand those awful deer."
"No. I have an idea." Adeline paused, ran a finger down the wall. "It will be a human landscape. We will all appear. All Arcadia's people."
"Like a kind of Last Supper. But without the religion."
"Or the symbolism."
"Oh, no, we've got to have some symbolism. No good paintings without a bit of symbolism."
They had lost Lottie completely. She stared at the white wall, its reflected light almost blinding in the afternoon sun. Below them the beach stretched out, segregated by its breakwater, packed with holidaymakers despite the approaching autumn. If it had been down to her, she would probably have put a few pots of plants in front of it. Or a bit of trellis.
". . . and you, Lottie. We said we would paint your portrait, didn't we? You will feature. And Celia, in her absence."
She tried to imagine how she would appear on the wall. But all she could picture was one of those cartoon doodles that had appeared everywhere in the war, saying "Wot, no . . . ?"
"Will I have to pose?" she said.
"No," said Frances, smiling. She had smiled a lot lately. Smiles sat awkwardly on her face, pulling its long sides up like old pantaloons on thin elastic. "We know you now. I prefer something a little more . . . impressionistic."
"Her hair. You must show her hair. Do you ever let it down, Lottie?" Adeline reached out a slender hand and stroked it. Lottie flinched. She could not help herself.
"It gets a bit tangled. It's too fine." Lottie reached up to smooth it, pulling unconsciously away from Adeline.
"Stop putting yourself down, Lottie. Men find it s
o boring."
Men? Lottie realigned her vision of herself, as someone in whom men might be interested. Up until now it had been only boys. Or, more specifically, Joe, who barely counted as that.
"One should always refer only to one's good points. If one only ever draws the eye to the good, people rarely notice the bad."
It was the closest she had come to revelation. But Lottie barely noticed. "Perhaps we could get Lottie painting."
"Oh, yes! What an idea, Frances. Would you like that, Lottie? Frances is the most fabulous teacher."
Lottie shuffled her feet. "I'm not very good at art. My bowls of fruit usually end up looking as if they're about to keel over."
"Bowls of fruit . . ." Frances shook her head. "How can you engender passion for art with bowls of fruit? Come on, Lottie. Come and draw what is in your head, your heart."
Lottie shook her head, stepped back, suddenly reluctant and self-conscious. Adeline's fingers found her back, propelled her gently forward.
"You need to learn to dream, Lottie. To express yourself."
"But I don't even do art anymore now we've finished school. Mrs. Holden says I should focus on other lessons, so that I can get a good job in a shop."
"Oh, forget shops, Lottie. Look, it doesn't have to be anything. Just enjoy the feel of the pastels. Pastels are beautiful to work with. See . . ." Frances began drawing lines on the wall, smudging the colors with her paint-stained fingers, her movements confident and sure.
Lottie watched, briefly forgetting herself.
"Don't forget to include yourself, Frances darling." Adeline placed a hand on her shoulder. "You never include yourself."
Frances paused. Kept her eyes on the wall.
"I'm not good at painting myself."
Marnie emerged at the back door. Her apron was covered in blood and feathers, and a half-plucked goose hung by its neck from her left hand. "Excuse me, ma'am. Mr. Armand has arrived."
Lottie had been staring at the pastel marks. She glanced at Adeline, who smiled gently and nodded, dismissing Marnie. Lottie waited for her to rush to the door, to straighten herself, or race to put on some makeup, as Mrs. Holden invariably did, feeling herself flush with excitement that she was finally going to meet Adeline's elusive husband.
But Adeline simply turned her attention back toward the white wall.
"Then we will have to get someone to paint you, Frances," she said, seemingly unconcerned. She paused. "You are, after all, an essential part of our picture, non?"
Marnie's face reappeared in the doorway. "He's in the drawing room."
Frances stepped away from the wall and looked at Adeline in a way that made Lottie feel inexplicably furtive.
"I think I am more effective as an invisible presence," she said slowly.
Adeline shrugged, as if relinquishing an oft-fought argument, raised a hand slightly, and then turned and walked toward the house.
Lottie had not been entirely sure what she had been expecting. But Julian Armand was so far from anything she might have even considered that she had looked past him twice before realizing that this was the man to whom Adeline was introducing her.
"So charmed," he said, holding her hand and kissing it. "Adeline has told me so much about you."
Lottie didn't speak, staring in a manner that Mrs. Holden would have found certifiable at this short, dapper man with slicked-down hair and an extraordinary curled mustache, like wrought-ironwork on his face.
"Lottie," she whispered. And he nodded, as if that were quite gracious enough.
It was not hard to see where Adeline got her extravagant tastes. He was dressed in fashions that might have been fitting several decades ago, and even then only in certain esoteric circles: in tweed knickerbockers with a matching waistcoat and jacket. He wore a tie of emerald green and perfectly round tortoiseshell glasses. From his top pocket hung an extremely elaborate fob watch, while in his left hand he held a silver-topped cane. His highly polished brogues were the only conventional thing on him, and even those bore little resemblance to the brogues Lottie knew--the ten-shilling pairs on High Street.
"So this is Merham," he said, looking around him at the view from the window. "This is where you have decided to base us."
"Now, Julian, you are not to make any judgments until you have lived here for a whole week." Adeline reached for his hand, smiling at him.
"Why, you have plans for me?"
"I always have plans for you, dearest. But I don't want you to decide until you have woken to the sound of the sea and drunk good wine while watching the sun set. Our new home is a little paradise and its hidden charms all the better for their slow appreciation."
"Ah. I am an expert at slow appreciation, as you know."
"But, my dear Julian, I know you are also seduced by the bright and the new. And I and this house are neither. So we have to make sure that you view us with the right eyes. Isn't that right, Lottie?"
Lottie nodded dumbly, not entirely sure what Adeline was on about. Lottie was having trouble concentrating--she had never seen anyone behave toward her husband the way Adeline was, this excessive courtliness.
"Then I promise I shall say not a word. So--who is going to show me around? Frances? Are you well? You look like the sea air agrees with you."
"I'm fine, thank you, Julian."
"And who else is here?"
"George. And Minette has just left. She is writing again. And Stephen is coming at the end of the week. I told him you would be back."
"Marvelous." Julian beamed and patted his wife's hand. "A home already. All I have to do is sit down in the midst of it all and pretend I have always been here." He turned around slowly, pivoting on his stick as he examined the room. "And this house? What is its history?"
"We know a little, thanks to Lottie and her friend. It was built by the son of a local family, and when he died, it was owned by a couple . . . who?"
"The MacPhersons," said Lottie. He was wearing a great big fat ring on his little finger. Like a woman's dress ring, it was.
"Yes, the MacPhersons. But it is in Art Moderne style, as you can see. Quite unusual, I think. And it has a wonderful light, non? Frances says it has a wonderful light."
Julian turned and looked at Frances. "It certainly does, dear Frances. Your taste and judgment, as always, are impeccable."
Frances smiled back, a slight, almost pained smile.
"And will you be returning to Cadogan Gardens soon?"
Julian sighed. "No, I'm afraid we have slightly burned our bridges as far as that's concerned. A little misunderstanding about money. But we will have a lovely time here, until things are entirely sorted out. I will be here until the Biennale. If that is not too much of an inconvenience."
He smiled as he said it, apparently secure in the knowledge that his presence was never an inconvenience.
"Then let us make you fully at home. I will show you around."
Lottie, jolted into movement, became suddenly aware of her manners. "I'd better go," she said, shuffling backward toward the door. "It's getting on a bit, and I only said I was going for milk. It . . . it was nice to meet you."
She waved and left through the door. Adeline, raising an arm in farewell, had already walked out onto the terrace, her arm draped around Julian's tweedy waist. As Lottie turned to close the door behind her, she saw Frances. Oblivious to Lottie's presence, and as still as one of her own compositions, she was staring after them through the doorway.
LOTTIE HAD BEEN PREPARED TO FEEL RATHER SAD FOR Frances; she had looked rather left out. It must be difficult for her with Julian back; Lottie knew all about how easy it was to feel like a spare part. And George evidently didn't fancy her, or he wouldn't have flirted so much with Celia and the Awful Irene. But then, two nights later, Lottie saw her again.
It was nearly half past nine, and Lottie had offered to walk Mr. Beans, the Holdens' elderly and irascible terrier. It was really Dr. Holden's job, but he had been unavoidably detained at work, and Mrs. Holden, who had gone
all wobbly at the news, was having trouble getting Freddie and Sylvia to stay in their beds. Freddie said he had eaten her begonia and kept running to the bathroom pretending to be sick, while Sylvia, reappearing at the top of the stairs in her slippers and an old gas mask, had demanded her eleventh glass of water. Joe was around, playing Scrabble, and when Lottie had offered to take the dog for his evening constitutional, Mrs. Holden had been rather grateful and said that as long as Joe escorted her, she couldn't see why not. But they shouldn't be too long. And to stay on the roads.
Lottie and Joe cut across the municipal park, watching the last rays of the sun disappear behind the Riviera Hotel and the streetlights gradually blink and stutter their way into sodium light. A few feet away Mr. Beans grunted and sniffed at unknown scents, weaving a drunken path along the grass verge. She had not taken Joe's arm, and, walking beside her, he kept bumping her elbow gently, as if silently prompting her to.
"Have you heard from your mother at all?"
"No. She'll write nearer Christmas, I imagine."
"Isn't it a bit odd, never speaking to her? I should miss mine."
"Your mother and mine are very different beasts, Joe."
"I should hardly call my mother a beast." He tried to laugh, as insurance in case she had meant some kind of a joke.
They walked on in silence, watching a few shadowy figures make their way, murmuring, along the seafront toward unseen baths and beds.
"When is Celia coming home? Saturday, you said?"
That had been part of the problem. Mrs. Holden had wanted to tell her husband in person. She liked to bring good news; she would work infeasibly hard for his smile.
"She's on the afternoon train. I've got to take Freddie to the barber's in the morning."
