A Year in the Château

by Sarah Long

  Beth thought about life in a rural idyll, punctuated by trips up to town, lunch with her daughter, combined with appointments at her hairdresser’s. She would become like his other clients – country ladies who came up for a trim after the rush hour and take in a matinee while they were about it, or tea at Fortnum & Mason. She wasn’t sure about staying at their daughter’s flat, though; it had been a long time since she’d shared a bathroom and she wouldn’t want to cramp Eva’s style. Not to mention the close exposure to Eva’s boyfriend James, a surly City trader who stayed over when his punishing schedule allowed. If only Eva would look elsewhere; there must be plenty of other men around whose interests extended beyond the ‘How to Spend It’ section of the Financial Times.

  ‘Don’t worry about Eva, it will do her good to have you loosen the apron strings,’ said Simon. ‘My main worry is how to make sure we get the best rooms in whatever house we buy. No point in moving to a mansion and ending up in the servants’ quarters.’

  *

  ‘Well, that was easy,’ said Dominic as he slipped into bed beside Nicola. ‘Now we only need to get the others on board.’

  ‘I think Beth is just delighted at the thought of diluting Simon,’ said Nicola. ‘She’s found it quite a strain with them both at home all of a sudden.’

  ‘Quite surprised she was given the push,’ said Dominic. ‘She was very highly regarded, I believe.’

  ‘They got her on a technicality. Showing bias or some nonsense. You can’t say what you think on social media anymore. But I can’t believe they were trying to fire her over a tweet. I think really they were just scared she’d found out about the pay gap in her office.’

  ‘Except in our new house of fun. Can’t wait for our conversations where no subject is off limits. And when it dries up, we’ll have constant Netflix. I feel free already!’

  ‘Wasting your days glued to the telly – don’t think I signed up for that!’

  ‘You can stay in the library. We can buy books by the yard and get a ladder to reach the ones on the top shelf, then you can lie on a chaise longue and devour them all.’

  ‘We’ve still got to talk to the others. They might not be so keen.’

  ‘I bet they will! We’re all in the same boat, looking for a way to maximise the rest of our lives. Will has been like a rat in a cage, looking for something to do since the life coaching went south. He’ll jump at it and I’m sure Temple-woman can be persuaded; she can do her holistic nonsense anywhere – bound to find clients in whichever gorgeous little corner of England we intend to make our very own.’

  Temple-woman was their term for Will’s second wife, or current wife, as he jokily referred to her. To be fair, if anyone of their acquaintance had a body worthy of temple status, it was Fizz. She had youth on her side, for one thing, and a naturally slim physique. But the temple-body did involve an awful lot of consecration, with all evil substances barred from entry. They didn’t quite understand what she did. It seemed to involve a lot of Instagramming pictures of green juice and her workout routines. How she had made a living out of that escaped them.

  ‘I think Leo will love the idea, too,’ said Nicola. ‘He’s been very down since David left and keeps complaining he’s too old for the London dating scene. Listen to me! “The dating scene.” That’s the sort of thing my mum used to say.’

  ‘All women turn into their mothers,’ said Dominic. ‘Or so my dad told me – one of his many little nuggets. Just as well yours was as beautiful as you are.’

  ‘Dear Mum,’ said Nicola, snuggling up to him. ‘You know, I still miss her every day. And I find myself using her expressions all the time. It’ll all be the same in a hundred years’ time – that’s one of my favourites. Such a comforting thought.’

  After Dominic had dozed off, Nicola heard a key in the door – one of the children returning home. That would be the next challenge: persuading them in the kindest possible way that it was time – whisper it – for them to move out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Will knew that timing was everything when it came to persuading Fizz to move into an unspecified house in the country with him and his old friends. Experience had taught him that she was most receptive following her daily workout when the fresh sweat on her glowing skin reminded them both of how lucky he was to have her. Fizz, Wiz, Flick – he loved all her nicknames that spoke of the confidence of the upper classes whose private schools had taught them – above all – that they were breezier and luckier than ordinary people. Even their cars had silly names; it was very endearing.

  Will knew that he blended into the ‘comfortable’ classes these days. A high-flying law career had given him polish and confidence, but he was fascinated that Fizz was born into the kind of security he had worked for years to achieve. Ever since he’d met his best friend, Dom, and the rest of his university friends, he realised his hunger to achieve would get him places. He had never taken success for granted, never had a safety net – but it had only spurred him on. He’d probably have been able to buy a country pile all by himself if it hadn’t been for the unfortunate divorce settlement. Still, he’d rather have Fizz and no money than be living the high life with his first wife. Or at least that’s what he’d thought until his midlife career change had hit the rocks. He knew he wasn’t offering Fizz the kind of life she’d expected. He kept putting feelers out in the law world, but so far no bites. Perhaps this crazy scheme of Nicola’s was the change he needed.

  ‘You look energised,’ he said, as she came into the kitchen with her yoga mat rolled under her arm. They’d had some fun on that mat in the past; not so much recently.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, shaking her hair out of its ponytail and moving to the fridge to help herself from the smoothie jug. Liquidised vegetables were all she allowed herself in the mornings – she had to walk the walk as well as talk the talk of being a holistic health and yoga practitioner – but he had already taken the precaution of eating a full English.

  ‘I love how your gym kit leaves so little to the imagination,’ said Will. ‘Every delicious contour of your body is exposed.’

  Fizz frowned prettily, the lines merely a brief decoration to her smooth brow.

  ‘Don’t be a perv,’ she said.

  Will recalled that she had used that term about him during the hot early stage of their relationship. That first kiss behind the filing cabinet, when she had reached into the pocket of his lawyerly suit and discovered the extent of his interest. ‘You perv,’ she’d said, pulling away to look him teasingly in the face. ‘You’re supposed to be my boss. And you’re old enough to be my father.’ She had continued their embrace with such enthusiasm that he decided the ‘perv’ tag must be a compliment. He felt then, as he felt now, that he would sacrifice anything for the sensation of that first kiss.

  Fizz had been temping at the office for a couple of months after completing her history of art degree. Even her choice of subject seemed exotic to Will. He could never have justified that to his parents. If you must go to university, for heaven’s sake do something useful so you can earn a living out of it, was his father’s advice. Fizz had already spent the obligatory year travelling the world in a pleasant, aimless vacuum, entrancing Will on their first meeting with tales of moonlit beach parties and yomping through mountains – the antithesis to his own structured existence as a hardworking husband and father.

  ‘I thought I’d temp for a bit while I work out what I really want to do with my life,’ she’d told him, with such beautiful insouciance that he knew there and then that he had to be with her. As it turned out, what she really wanted to do was become the second Mrs Hodgkins. It took a while for Will to dispose of the first Mrs Hodgkins, and a considerable emotional toll, especially when it came to his relationship with his son Sam, who was away at university at the time. The usual story, he wearily conceded, but he never regretted his decision. He and Fizz had recently celebrated their anniversary with a weekend at the Gritti Palace in Venice, staying in the Hemingway suite where F
izz had gazed out over the Grand Canal and conjured up a pleasing resemblance between their love affair and the legendary couplings of the great writer. It was a magical couple of days, and he knew it was the way Fizz believed their life should always be. The only downside was coming back to mundane reality. The seven-year itch, you could call it. They’d been together since she was twenty-five and now she was thirty-two, which she kept saying felt pretty old to her, though Will scoffed at the thought.

  ‘I have something to discuss with you, actually,’ said Will.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘You know how we once flirted with the idea of moving to the country? You remember – free from pollutants, able to let our souls expand.’

  Fizz looked up with interest, encouragingly.

  ‘Yes, I do remember. But we couldn’t afford anywhere I liked because you had to give all your money to your ex and pay for your son to move to the States.’

  This wasn’t going according to plan.

  ‘Not all of it, to be fair. But yes, unfortunately I wasn’t in the position to afford quite the kind of manor house you had in mind . . .’

  ‘And now you are?’ She was looking at him with more eagerness than she had for a while.

  ‘Not exactly. But Dom has come up with a plan that I really think might work for us.’

  ‘Dom? What’s he got to do with us?’

  ‘Apart from the fact that he’s my best friend, you mean.’

  ‘Is he going to give you some money?’

  It was disappointing, Will thought, that she made so little effort to conceal her materialism. Or maybe he should see it as charming that she should be so direct and artless. He needed to put a positive spin on this tiny character flaw of hers.

  ‘Better than that! He and Nicola have invited us to join them in a sort of . . . grand commune, you might call it. We’re going to club together to buy an amazing house in the country. It will be so huge that we can divide it up into independent living quarters. Obviously I’ll make sure we get the best rooms – I’m a lawyer, after all. We’ll have a fantastic time and grow our own food – you remember, a bit like on The Good Life . . .’

  He stopped himself. Of course she didn’t remember; she wasn’t even born when Felicity Kendal and Richard Briers charmed suburban dreamers everywhere with their TV sitcom about self-sufficiency.

  ‘That is if you want to, of course,’ he added, watching anxiously for her reaction. ‘I thought it could offer some real opportunity for personal growth, for both of us . . . You could do your holistic stuff, I could even coach clients who want to follow the dream of quitting the rat race – it’s what we always talked about.’

  ‘Who else have Dom and Nicola invited? ’ asked Fizz, studying him with her green flecked eyes. The miraculous eyes that had entranced him when he first introduced himself. Hi, Will Hodgkins, senior partner, glad to have you on board.

  ‘Beth and Simon. And they’re going to talk to a few others. Leo, I believe.’

  ‘I love Leo. He’s amazing for his age.’

  ‘He’s only my age, actually. But yes, everyone loves Leo.’

  Fizz was nodding.

  ‘I think it has possibilities. I could vlog it – set up my own YouTube channel to go with my Instagram. Moving into a rural shared space with a bunch of people twice my age. Defining a new way of simple living, crossing the generation divide – it’s very zeitgeisty.’

  ‘Not quite twice your age,’ said Will indignantly. ‘I’m a sprightly fifty-seven.’

  ‘Very sprightly,’ said Fizz. ‘Don’t worry, hon, I’m only teasing.’

  The omens were undoubtedly good, Will thought, as he watched her peel off her tiger camo leggings. Even the suggestion of fresh country air seemed to be having the desired effect. Bring it on.

  Fizz turned away from him and gazed out of the window, picturing herself in a bohemian Demelza Poldark dress, digging up beetroots that toned with the flame and garnet of her skirts. She’d have two million followers before she knew it; van-loads of products would be delivered to the gates of the mansion in hope of gaining her endorsement. Fizz Fortescue (she’d kept her maiden name – it had more of a ring to it, she thought) escapes the rat race and defies the conventions of other millennials by opting for a simple life in the company of mature friends.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ she said, turning back to Will. And, as if to remind herself that her husband wasn’t that much older than her, she led him upstairs to the bedroom.

  *

  Leo took off his protective cotton gloves and rubbed his fingers appreciatively over the freshly gilded picture frame. He was an expert in all the refined arts of interior design but gilding was his absolute favourite. Separating the gossamer-thin sheets of gold leaf, then smoothing them onto the carved wood gave him enormous satisfaction as he turned a drab old thing into a shiny delight with all the flashy bling of its Georgian origins. It would hang very well in his drawing room, the ornate frame in daring contrast to the painting by a radical new artist, which he had recently bought at auction to replace the one that David had taken with him.

  It had all been so sudden. Twenty years of happy cohabitation and then on Christmas Eve, David had just upped and gone. Leo had taken to his bed and told no one; the last thing he needed was an invitation to wear a paper hat and a brave face at someone else’s festive lunch. After seven days, he’d risen from beneath the duvet – the thinnest he’d been in years; you couldn’t beat heartbreak as an aid to weight loss – and decided he was through with self-pity.

  No point in dwelling on it, he reminded himself again. There was only so much recrimination you could indulge in without feeling sick. He reached for the hand cream and smoothed it into his palms – it was surprising how the dust from sanding worked its way in despite the gloves – and thought about what to wear for his date later. Maybe the winter white coat with the mauve Paul Smith shirt beneath it and the vintage Prada scarf with silver filigree. Aidan didn’t look like a snappy dresser from his profile photo; he was wearing the cop-out all-black uniform favoured by the unadventurous. Still, you never knew, and it was important to get out there and not sink into morose introspection.

  He went upstairs to lay out his outfit on the bed, and had just discovered an infuriating stain on his cream trousers when his phone rang. He knew it wouldn’t be David, but his reflex was still to hope it was.

  ‘Nicola! I’ve had a total calamity. Can you believe it, I’ve just discovered a mark on my slacks, and can’t decide whether it’s oil or fruit-based, so no idea which product to apply, and I’m having to rethink my entire outfit for this evening.’

  ‘Leo, you are speaking to the wrong person about this. When did I ever show any interest in laundry?’

  ‘It gets worse: I’m meeting a man later. Can’t think why – it’s bound to be a disappointment. You don’t know how lucky you are with your gorgeous husband and nothing to worry about.’

  ‘What time are you going out? Can I come over first? I’ve got something to discuss with you.’

  ‘Oh yes! Come right now and cheer up a lonely old queen. We can have cake. I’m still two kilos down on my ideal weight.’

  *

  Nicola jumped into her car for the short journey to Leo’s house. She knew it was important to recruit him; he had the knack of lifting every occasion and would make all the difference to their party. And the timing was perfect for him: he was at a crossroads in his life now that ghastly David had gone. There was no way she could have moved in with him and his fusspot ways.

  She had met Leo at university, where he was Beth’s friend originally. Against a backdrop of a sea of grungy students, Leo stood out like a bird of paradise, wearing a heather mix jacket with a turquoise lining. He was a breath of fresh air compared to the medical students in her lectures who were so bowed down by the constant pressure of work that they had no time to be colourful – unless you counted the occasional drunken nights out when they’d let their hair down with bawdy sing-songs a
nd unfunny practical jokes. Beth and Leo were both studying languages, and while it was obviously far more useful to learn to cure diseases of the body, Nicola couldn’t help feeling jealous of the hours they were free to devote to Baudelaire and Flaubert. The idea that reading romance could count as work seemed deliciously decadent to someone whose daily diet was diagrams of body parts.

  Leo led her into the kitchen and served her a slice of pomegranate and orange cake.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve got your appetite back,’ said Nicola. ‘We can’t have you fading away. And you look fab as always.’

  Leo gave her a twirl in his carefully assembled outfit.

  ‘Cooking is essential,’ he said, ‘but clothes are the real saviour of a broken heart. I honestly believe that fashion is the fight against death.’

  ‘On that basis, you’ll be immortal. And I’m doomed.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Leo kindly. ‘You have your own timeless style. Jeans and dirty blonde hair – it seems to work for you.’

  He poured her a cup of earl grey from his vintage teapot. He’d had unmatched crockery years before it became fashionable, buying up odd pieces of Royal Doulton wherever he found them.

  ‘So, what is it you want to talk about?’

  ‘I want us to live together.’

  Leo looked up in surprise.

  ‘It’s a bit late now! I know we used to talk about it at uni when you were getting sick of Simon. I wondered whether I should undergo a conversion programme in order to become your boyfriend. But then you produced Dom, luckily for both of us.’

  ‘Don’t panic, I’m not talking about sex. Something far more interesting.’

  ‘Now you’re showing your age. Do you remember when sex was our primary driving force?’

  ‘Whereas maturity has brought in other priorities. Which is what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Go on, I’m intrigued.’

  ‘OK, so where do you see yourself living for the rest of your life?’

  ‘Good God, I don’t know. You sound like that intense woman who interviewed me the one time I applied for a proper job. “Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?” she wanted to know. Not in your shoes, dear, that’s for sure. It was at that moment I realised I was destined for a life of self-employment.’