Staging Death

by Judith Cutler

  I held up my hands, smelling of damp and dust. ‘I’m a bit smelly – won’t that ruin the bouquet of the tea?’ This time I wasn’t mocking.

  ‘You remember where the bathroom is, don’t you?’ He smiled wickedly – a long time ago we’d had an intimate moment in the room next to it. A very kind intimate moment, as if he wanted to help me get over Dale.

  ‘I do indeed.’ My smile was meant to be repressive, but probably failed.

  As I scrubbed my nails I stared at my reflection in the mirror. An afternoon in bed with Ambrose would be great fun. It wasn’t as if I were some Corn Belt American virgin saving myself for my wedding night. It wasn’t as though I was in a relationship with anyone else. It wasn’t even as if I had anything to do for the rest of the afternoon. But something, not just the fact I hadn’t bought enough parking time, was holding me back – and I had a nasty suspicion it was my feelings for Toby Frensham.

  ‘So where does the tea come from?’ I asked a few minutes later. ‘Somewhere in China, obviously.’ I’d get one out of ten, at least.

  ‘Obviously. Can you get any closer?’

  ‘I only do accent geography, Am, not international geography. Despite my wonderful teacher’s best efforts.’

  ‘I only know tea-producing geography,’ he conceded. ‘This is from some mountains.’

  ‘Do the Chinese have mountains? I only know about that earthquake disaster and the Beijing Olympics.’

  I learnt an awful lot more before I was allowed to taste the tea. Then I did as I was told, rolling the sip round my mouth and over my tongue as if it were fine wine. Yes, it was nice tea. Better than supermarket tea bags. I nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Poor Vee! You try so hard but you can’t fool me. Now, do you fancy some lunch? I could knock up a salad, with some of yesterday’s roast chicken.’

  ‘Do you still do Sunday roasts?’ There was something so very secure about a traditional cooked lunch.

  ‘You make them sound like a particularly arcane form of morris dancing,’ he laughed. ‘I do as a matter of fact. Organic chicken, in this instance, with stuffing, bacon rolls, roast potatoes and loads of fresh vegetables. What could be better?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I declared sincerely, knowing from experience that you didn’t cook all that lot simply for yourself. Did this mean that Ambrose was no longer fancy-free? Was that jealousy sneaking into my breast? And if so was I jealous of the new woman in his life? Or of the fact he had such a woman? In other words, was I simply envious of his settled emotional state? ‘Nothing at all, assuming it came with good company and a fine wine,’ I added boldly. ‘In whichever order.’

  He didn’t bite. ‘It’s probably warm enough to eat in the garden. Will you lay the table while I get everything out of the fridge? Then we can decide what to do about the pictures.’

  Since he obviously didn’t want to be cross-questioned about his Sunday activities, I resolved to keep the conversation light. We gossiped about a lot of friends, not always maliciously. I limited myself to a single glass of champagne, and made sure I also sank enough water to clean out a fish tank. At last, over more tea, lapsang souchong this time, which even I thought exceptional, he broached the subject of the pictures. He would get a friend who worked at the Barber Institute, part of Birmingham University, to have a look at them, and make an educated guess at how much cleaning and restoration would cost. She (I thought I noticed a tiny stress on the pronoun) would also be able to speculate on how much they might fetch at auction.

  ‘It’s sometimes a matter of fashion as much as the quality of the artist or the fame of the sitter. And if something appeals to a niche market. If you found that guy had helped found America – if he’d been the one who’d first planted Walter Raleigh’s new-found potatoes down the road in Little Virginia – then it would be worth a mint, whatever its intrinsic value. Or a second cousin of Shakespeare would appeal to another market.’

  ‘Or an actor?’ Now I came to think of it, that deeply hidden face could ring a distant bell.

  ‘Or a poet. Anything. The provenance will be important too. But at least that’s watertight. What’s up? What’s so funny?’

  But I shook my head. Mr Thorpe had promised to tell no one of the other cache of paintings, so I wouldn’t either.

  ‘You weren’t thinking of that shower, by any chance? You know, in Scarborough?’

  A particularly erotic shower. In that most chaste of towns. During a tour of Death of a Salesman, as I recall.

  I giggled again, as if I had been thinking about just that. ‘What you can do when you’re young,’ I sighed. As if one couldn’t do exactly the same when one was more mature. I glanced at my watch. ‘Hell, is that the time? I must get back to the office!’

  Perhaps I hoped he’d protest, and who knows what I’d have done if he had, parking fine apart. But he smiled the smile of a host reluctantly and tacitly admitting that he had other plans too. Together we cleared the table. As I stacked in the kitchen, I had one last look at the strong young face in the portrait.

  ‘I do know you from somewhere, don’t I?’ I said out loud.

  The Thorpes, when I phoned from the office, were embarrassingly and protractedly grateful for my intervention, and thanked me repeatedly for bringing them up to speed so quickly. Then I recorded the more official dealings on their computer file, and contemplated phoning the punters who had already seen the cottage. However, that might mean inviting them to have another viewing, and until I’d worked out a strategy for getting the Thorpes out of the house, I didn’t think there was any point.

  If there was anyone in Greg’s organisation who was good with people it was the saintly Claire. I spun my chair in her direction, going rather faster than I intended and having to go sharply into reverse.

  ‘May I pick your brain?’ I asked when I was more or less stationary.

  ‘Such as it is,’ she conceded, warily.

  ‘You know far more about this business than I do, don’t you? Well, I’ve got a darling pair who scupper their chances of selling their property every time they open their mouths. How do I persuade them to go out the next time I take would-be purchasers for a viewing?’

  ‘You might want to get them to clean the place first. Look at your poor suit.’

  ‘I know. I’ll drop it in at the dry-cleaner’s on my way home. But that’s another story.’ The whole of which I wouldn’t tell her, of course.

  She nodded. ‘OK. Age?’

  ‘Mid-seventies. Pretty spry.’

  ‘Really, Vena, seventy is the new fifty! You’re not allowed to use words like spry in case they’re construed as ageist. Think about the fuss over the road signs showing two bent old people.’

  ‘A palpable hit.’ I raised my finger in acknowledgement. Though it was she who’d first raised the question of age.

  ‘Shoppers?’

  ‘Watching every penny. They’re saving for their new place. Too old for a mortgage.’

  ‘As to that, you put them on to our financial adviser. You could make them an appointment here for when the next punters want to visit.’

  It sounded good – two birds, and all that – so I gave an appreciative nod.

  ‘Any relatives you could suggest they visit? Or is that a bit obvious?’ she continued.

  ‘We’ve not talked family. There were no photos anywhere except of them, in various stages of his army career.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘They read the Telegraph and they seem to know a lot about my career.’

  She looked at me with the same expression of disbelief as my geography teacher had used when I’d once confused a spot height for a roundabout. Gladys Firth wasn’t a woman you offended twice. Hence when I took A-Level Geography I got an A. ‘There you are then. Get them some tickets for your next matinee. Except you can’t be in two places at once, can you? Sorry.’

  Now was not the time to make a tart observation that if I had a role in a play I wouldn’t be slumming for my brother. ‘True. But I do kn
ow someone who might find me some matinee tickets for Coriolanus.’

  ‘Not Toby Frensham! Is it true that on stage he wears nothing under his toga? Oh, Vena, you couldn’t get some tickets for me, could you?’

  I arrived at the cleaner’s too late for the next-day option. So I’d just have to hope the phone didn’t announce more punters eager to check out the Thorpes’ place till Wednesday.

  As it happened, Wednesday was matinee day. A stroll past the Courtyard revealed that there were tickets available, but only the most expensive – way over my current budget. And was there, in any case, any point on buying on spec?

  Before I knew it my feet had taken me to the stage door, and I found myself asking the security guy, not the old Royal Shakespeare Theatre stage-door keeper who’d collected bouquets from my admirers, if Toby was still in the theatre.

  ‘And what name is it?’ The words crawled grudgingly from the almost stationary Northern Ireland lips.

  ‘Vena Burford,’ I said. If I’d hoped for a reaction, I got none.

  Hunching from me, he muttered into the intercom. That wasn’t a very good idea. If I’d been young and rash I might have risked sprinting past him when his back was so literally turned.

  ‘His dresser says he’s on his way out now. Do you want to hang on?’

  No. I really didn’t. This was a very foolish enterprise. Just as I was about to shake my head and flee, a familiar silhouette materialised. I was standing with my back to the light, so it took Toby a moment to realise who I was. As soon as he did, he rushed forward to give me the sort of extravagant social kiss that means nothing. But he held me just a fraction too long.

  ‘Vee, my darling, what an unexpected treat.’ He tucked my arm in his, and we set off towards the river. Dropping my arm unceremoniously, he stopped at the foot of Sheep Street. ‘I’ve been clocked by a paparazzo. Drat. Just what poor Allyn needs is a shot of me with Another Woman. Even if it is only you,’ he added, with less care than I’d have liked for my ego.

  ‘Keep walking. In fact, speed up. Look at your watch as if you’re late for a business meeting. There’s a new fabric shop in Bell Court. If it’s not closed – and it just might be – we’re going to look at material for your bathroom curtains.’

  ‘I thought you’d ordered—’

  ‘Of course I have. But he doesn’t know that. Anyway if he gets close enough, I shall give him my business card.’

  ‘Will it work?’ he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Hitching up your toga and running sure as hell won’t. Is it true you don’t wear anything underneath it?’

  ‘Baggage! Who told you that?’

  ‘No one told me. But someone asked me,’ I said. ‘Anyway, the moment you get home you tell Allyn I’d come to ask you a favour. Which has the virtue of being true. I may need freebies at short notice. This is the problem.’ I explained.

  By the time I’d finished, we were almost at the shopping mall and the pavements were more crowded. If we’d really made the effort we could have shed the snapper, but that would have looked more suspicious, in my book at least. In fact we were spared the pantomime of choosing new fabric: the Open sign was being turned to Closed even as we reached the door.

  ‘I’m going to lose my rag with you,’ I told him. ‘I’m expostulating with you for being late for your appointment here. Do you understand how professionally damaging that is for me? Really, Mr Frensham, you have behaved most irresponsibly. And now I am about to turn on my heel and go back to Greg’s to pick up my bike and you are going to seek out Allyn, wherever she might be, and explain the whole charade. Especially the part about asking you for comps for a pair of old-age pensioners. Do you get that?’

  He held up his hands, showing the very back of the gods how apologetic he was. He said, ‘Are you sure you’re supposed to call them that? Isn’t it ageist?’

  ‘What would you know about that?’ Damn me if I didn’t feel a giggle coming on, which would have ruined the whole performance. I’d never corpsed during a performance and I wasn’t about to now.

  ‘I think they’re called senior citizens, the silver generation, the bus pass army – anything.’ His words responded to mine; his posture expressed apology to the point of contrition. ‘Anyway, give me a call as and when you need them.’ He bowed formally, and turned back into the street.

  With another huge shrug, I turned round and set off back to Greg’s, as I’d planned. Clearly, with my face still expressing tight-lipped anger, I couldn’t turn round to watch his ongoing expression of hangdoggery, but I bet it would have won an Oscar.

  The evening was pleasant enough for me to spend a few minutes tidying up the front garden. This didn’t mean digging up weeds – it meant picking up other people’s litter. One polythene carrier wasn’t empty. Some obliging soul had gathered up its doggy’s deposits and in the absence of a red bin within five yards had slung it over my fence. I was just striding back from the bin when I was hailed by one of my neighbours, a real keenie-beany who ran our Neighbourhood Watch. I thought he’d long since given me up as a dead loss, but here he was, bustling towards me.

  ‘Ms Burford, I wanted to ask you about some strange vehicles we’ve had hanging round here. I don’t suppose you’ve had any visitors in Chelsea tractors?’

  Half of me wanted to ask with a snarl if I looked as if I had such rich friends. But of course I did. So I managed a puzzled shake of the head. ‘Not to my knowledge,’ I said carefully. ‘The only big car I see regularly round here belongs to that man I’m sure’s dealing drugs. You know, thumping hi-fi and tinted windows.’

  ‘The number of times I’ve reported him to our community support officer. And what’s happened? Nothing’s happened, that’s what. Disgraceful.’

  ‘Absolutely. And what do you want me to do if I spot any of these big cars?’

  ‘Just keep an eye open for suspicious behaviour, that’s all at this stage. And report anything to the next meeting – which is on Tuesday. I don’t suppose you’d like to come along? No, no one ever does.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I assured him earnestly. ‘Unless anything crops up, of course.’ To my shame, I hoped something would.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I had agreed to have lunch one day with Greg’s rival estate agent, Heather – the one he’d passed over for promotion; a couple of emails established that we should meet on Tuesday.

  Much as ladies who lunch like a leisurely meal in the elegant surroundings of a hotel such as the Alveston Manor, Heather didn’t have the time and I didn’t have the money to match our aspirations. Or, of course, the suit. At least Heather knew Greg’s meanness first hand, and had come up with the idea of a set-menu lunch at her favourite Thai restaurant, the Thai Kingdom. She even had the foresight to book an outdoor table, the spring weather continuing so kind. She offered to pick me up from outside our office in her latest toy, a hybrid car, totally disconcerting in its silence. Since we immediately got stuck in a jam, I’d have thought we’d have done better to walk. I said nothing, but her hips tacitly agreed with me. She must have put on a stone since she’d left, a fact even her beautifully cut suit couldn’t conceal.

  What if I put on that amount of weight? Actually, it wasn’t the weight itself that worried me: I’d always thought a little comfortable flesh was quite attractive. As for poor Allyn and her diet from hell…

  No, I was concerned simply with my girth. If I couldn’t get into my summer outfits, I’d be scuppered. Claire had assured me that the Wimpoles’ move was progressing nicely, but in house buying, even when everything goes on well-oiled wheels, the whole process is horribly slow – and not just for the parties directly involved, of course. I’d have to remind Greg to give the Sedgwicks a little nudge in the direction of their new home. Always assuming they’d found one.

  With clothes in mind, I ordered what seemed the most figure-friendly options, a hot sour prawn soup followed by chicken with chilli and basil. Much as I would have loved a green curry, I could se
e the calories leaping off the plate and on to my waist if I risked anything involving coconut milk.

  Apart from the fact that we liked each other, Heather and I had little in common except our jobs. So we tended to talk shop. I had to be careful to do no more than mock Greg gently – I might want to tear strips off him from time to time, but that was because I was his sister, and I might moan about him to Claire, but only because he was the boss, and it was a serf’s privilege to moan about the moneyed classes. Heather, on the other hand, felt free to sound off about him personally, but not, it seemed, enquire about the state of his business. If we talked about clients – and I’d never even mention the Thorpes and their goodies – we gave no names. We could talk about properties coming on to the market, but not give away details that might encourage each other to poach them.

  All the rules were tacit, but rules nonetheless.

  And I was about to break one the moment we’d given our orders to our charming Thai waitress, exquisite in a silk outfit that I could have got away with only ten years ago.

  ‘Do the names Brosnic, Gunter, Turovsky and Cope mean anything to you?’ I asked. As questions went, it was a bit bald, but so be it.

  ‘You’ve mentioned the Turovskys before, haven’t you? And the Brosnics? So I’ve kept my eyes open, but there’s no sign of them. We haven’t had many really big, old houses on our books recently. I suppose we’ve been too busy trying to corner the modern sector of the market.’

  ‘Each to his or her own,’ I said, equably.

  ‘But we have just been asked to handle an Edwardian farmhouse. I wonder if that would be their sort of thing. Why, are they still troubling you?’

  ‘Only by their absence.’ I explained, omitting my theory, however, about their involvement in a crime. ‘They seemed so nice, so genuine. You know how you loathe some would-be purchasers on sight, and warm to others.’

  She nodded. ‘I had a real brute the other day. He seemed to take it as a matter of personal affront that we didn’t have any large sprawling properties on our books. I pointed out that estate agents specialise in a particular area of the market. I may even have recommended Burford’s.’