by Freya North
When Stella went to her car, she was taken aback by the constant crunch of gravel, by so many vehicles circling to leave, like a pod of dolphins surrounding a shoal. When she’d arrived, apart from Lydia’s old Vauxhall, hers had been the only car there. In fact in all her visits, she’d never seen any other cars – just Art and his crew with wheelbarrows or atop the ride-on mower. It had compounded the feeling of Longbridge being in a time warp of its own. Tonight was different – just an old house looking slightly out of place in a new age. It seemed undignified, somehow. Disrespectful. All that revving, the need to be gone. And where oh where were her bloody keys?
‘So did he call again?’
Stella turned. It was Xander, some way off, now the only person on the driveway.
Her hand was still deep inside her bag. ‘Pardon?’
He walked a few steps towards her, hands in his pockets, head to one side, stopped again, keeping his distance, the setting sun brushing against one side of his face while sepia shadows settled over the other. ‘Your date – the other week. Did he call again?’
Stella wondered how to answer a question she’d never anticipated being asked by this particular person. ‘Would you have called?’ she remarked finally, humble and slightly incredulous. ‘If you’d taken out some girl who couldn’t see straight let alone stand, who’d made an utter show of herself and had wasted your evening?’
‘I avoid such situations like the plague,’ Xander said, only now wondering why, when he’d seen her head for her car, he’d slowed his walk right down. Why converse? He could have just called ‘Bye’. He could have kept going. He could have said nothing at all.
‘Well,’ Stella answered him, ‘I do too, usually.’ He nodded. ‘But everyone’s always going on at me – and my sister-in-law set it up. I suppose I went to shut her up.’ And I should shut up, myself, right now.
‘And now you’ve brought shame upon your family,’ Xander said grandly, with a wry smile.
‘Indeed,’ Stella laughed. ‘I think they’ll think twice, in future, so that’s no bad thing.’
‘I tripped a girl up once, on one of those types of date,’ he said. ‘Accidentally,’ he added, scratching his head.
‘Accidentally on purpose?’
‘No!’ He couldn’t help laughing at her turn of phrase. ‘Well – maybe subconsciously.’ He cringed at the memory. ‘She went flying.’
‘Nightmare,’ Stella muttered.
‘There was blood,’ Xander said.
‘That’s dreadful!’ Stella gasped. ‘Sorry – I shouldn’t laugh. Poor woman.’
Xander nodded and they watched each other biting their lips because laughter is so tempting when it’s most inappropriate. They just stood there, him a little way off, her still with her hand in her bag now with the keys firmly in her clasp. They watched as Art and Clarence sloped off homewards across the lawn; Clarence patted Art’s shoulder before they went their separate ways.
‘I’m not usually like that,’ Stella said.
‘Like what?’
‘Sloshed and incapacitated.’ She shrugged. ‘Sorry again.’
‘It wasn’t a problem,’ said Xander. And then he said, ‘I’m just glad I found you.’
Stella was struck by his words and it was physical. All this time she’d been mortified that he’d done precisely that – but now she knew how grateful she was that he had.
‘Keys,’ she said shyly, which sounded stupid and was all the more stupid for her jiggling them at him for proof.
‘Goodnight, then,’ he said and he started to walk away.
Stella opened her door and then she paused. And, on a surge of adrenalin that made her speak before thinking, she called after him. ‘Would you like a lift home?’
They stood where they were, both of them feeling as fixed as the statue of Lord Frederick, peeping at them a little way off through a gap in the laurels.
‘OK,’ Xander shrugged. ‘Thanks.’ But though he’d turned, he didn’t move.
His awkwardness relaxed Stella. ‘Are you wanting me to drive over to you? Door-to-door service, is it?’
Though he laughed, he still made a slightly faltering passage over to her car while she busied about, chucking today’s unopened post, yesterday’s empty crisp packet and Will’s Bionicle into the back from the front seat.
Xander seemed so big in her car. He appeared to fill it, his presence so marked. Though he was tall, he was not incredibly so, but still he had to ratchet the seat back.
You’d have squashed Will’s legs, Stella thought to herself. Will would have something to say about that, she thought. And then she thought how neither she nor Will had ever been in this car with a man. Not this car. The old car – the Land Rover she’d had to sell – yes. Charlie, of course. God, how grim car journeys could be with his constant sniping at her driving and his authority over which radio station. She looked at Xander.
‘Have you enough room?’
‘Plenty,’ he said. And actually, he didn’t look squashed at all. Just big. Manly was the word that came to her mind and it made Stella both blush and cringe.
And that’s all they said. Xander didn’t comment when Stella unnecessarily indicated to turn from the turning circle entrance onto the main run of driveway, nor when she didn’t indicate to turn right onto the high street. He could sense she was nervous but he couldn’t think of what to say to make her less so because, actually, he couldn’t think of anything to say because he felt nervous too. Not in a tense way, but, oddly, in a shy way.
The journey lasted all of five minutes.
‘Thanks,’ he said, opening the door. He stood for a moment then stooped, as if he might well get back in.
Are you rushing off anywhere?
Do you want to park up and have a half at the pub?
Would you like to come in for a drink?
A coffee?
Her hand on the gear stick, engine running, seat belt on.
‘Thanks,’ he said again.
‘No problem,’ she said again.
He closed the door, tapped the roof of the car and walked off down his garden path.
Are you going to turn at the door?
Are you going to wave?
Are you going to look back – even for a second?
No.
He simply went into his house.
‘Bye, Xander,’ Stella said, a little deflated but knowing that thinking too much about why that should be was probably not a good idea.
* * *
‘Do you want anything for that headache?’ Mrs Biggins asked Lydia.
‘No – just an early night will do it.’
‘Very good. Will that be all?’
‘Yes, thank you. You were most helpful this evening.’
‘For what it’s worth, I think it went well.’
‘It’s going according to plan, I do believe.’
‘They call it a frisson,’ said Mrs Biggins, relishing the word, ‘in those paperbacks from the library I like to read.’
‘I was thinking more of Pinocchio,’ Lydia mused. ‘How what once were puppets come to life, take responsibility and figure out the adventure for themselves.’
‘They try not to look at each other—’
‘—and when they do, they don’t realize how long they’re at it.’
‘It went well,’ said Mrs Biggins.
‘All will be well,’ said Lydia.
‘And the meeting went well.’
‘And the meeting went as well as can be expected. Goodnight, Mrs Biggins.’
‘Good night, Lady Lydia.’
* * *
‘Is Will asleep?’
‘Yes, darling – about half an hour ago.’
Stella looked disappointed.
‘How did it go?’
‘It was fine, actually, Mum. Odd really – I was expecting all manner of discord and malcontent. But it was very civilized.’
‘Biscuits for Will?’
‘Shit, I forgot.’
‘
I hope you don’t kiss your son with that mouth?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well, I’ll be off.’
‘Thanks so much.’
‘Any time, darling. Any time. You know that. You should get out more. But you know that too.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes?’
‘You suddenly look a little – I’m not sure how you look. Distracted?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Something on your mind?’
‘No, no – I’m just pooped. Thanks, Mum. See you Sunday.’
* * *
‘How did it go?’
‘Hi, Caroline.’
‘That bad?’
‘No – I just spent most of the day on the phone.’
‘Shall I call tomorrow, then, instead?’
‘No, you’re fine. How are you? Is Andrew back?’
‘Working late.’
‘Tell him – pub tomorrow night.’
‘Bugger off – I’m out with the girls.’
‘Friday night then.’
‘We’re out for dinner. You’re the babysitter, remember?’
‘Oh, yes. Sure. Of course. No problem.’
‘So how did it go?’
He could tell her.
Of all the people in his life, Caroline was the person Xander really could turn to. He could tell her, I’m confused, I thought I loathed her but I like her. She stirs something in me and I don’t know what. He could tell her, I’ve been sitting here thinking about her for half an hour straight, feeling charmed, feeling intrigued, feeling confused, feeling horny. I should be feeling outraged and frustrated that she’s bulldozing Longbridge and running roughshod over any lives in the way. Guilty. Turned on. Just weird.
He could admit to Caroline, I don’t know what to make of it all. He could say, why her? He could admit to Caroline, I wrote a text to bloody Siobhan to say fancy a fuck. Because Stella’s left me horny and Stella’s on my mind and I don’t want anything complicating my life. And he could tell Caroline, but I didn’t send the text. In fact, I deleted it. He could say, it’s not Siobhan I want. It’s not just sex, not now. And he could ask Caroline, what shall I do? He could ask her, if I said to Stella, would you like to meet up, what do you think she’d say?
Caroline would tell him what to do. Caroline would be honest with him. Caroline always knew what to do. She’d been right about Laura – as painful as it had sounded at the time and as excruciating as the outcome had been. Caroline had been right. And she’d been right about Siobhan. In fact, in retrospect, it would have been no bad thing if she’d known about all of that much earlier on and given him an honest, outspoken piece of her caring mind.
‘It went fine,’ Xander said.
‘Good turnout?’
‘Packed.’
‘Everyone OK?’
‘Yes, actually.’
‘Was, you know, Stella there?’
‘Yes. Yes. She was there.’
‘Was she OK?’
‘Yes, she’s fine.’
‘I’ll tell Andrew you called.’
‘Cool.’
‘See you Friday.’
‘She gave me a lift home. Stella.’
‘Oh, right?’
‘I was going to ask her in for coffee but – I don’t know. I didn’t.’
Caroline thought, go gently here. ‘Maybe next time, hey?’
‘Maybe. See you Friday, Cazza.’
‘Ta-ta, Xander.’
Caroline hung up the phone. Well! she thought. Well!
Chapter Twenty
Interest in Longbridge came in much the same way as the hot water in the taps in the upper floor of the house – a trickle, a gush, apparently nothing, a trickle. Stella, who considered herself a very poor judge of character when it came to husbands, was nonetheless excellent at sorting potential clients from time-wasting nosey parkers. Those who phoned her with excessively rounded vowels and choice adverbs such as ‘frightfully’ and ‘awfully’ she knew to be phoneys whom she humoured by sending the particulars but stalled making viewings. They might feign the appropriate accent and vocabulary, but that didn’t fool her. There were three clients already on her book she trusted to waste neither her time nor Lydia’s. Mostly, however, potential buyers came to her via high-end property-search agents. That’s how she came to take Florian and Jessamy Virenque to Longbridge, and the Hakshimi family. But Mr and Mrs Tompkins broke the mould. Longbridge had been in the Saturday Telegraph, the Sunday Times and Country Life that week – and that’s how the Tompkins had come by Stella. When they came into the office on spec, though Gill sniggered and Geoff looked aghast, Stella felt she might well have found her buyers. They were honest, artless and obviously incredibly wealthy. They weren’t social climbers, they were very steady. Most importantly, they weren’t remotely like Lydia.
Mrs Tompkins was bedecked with an extraordinary array of bling – only Stella doubted whether the real thing could be called bling. It was difficult to age her, on account of her immovable facial features, but her hands suggested to Stella she was late forties. Her husband had obviously been playing a lot of golf, given his burnished complexion and expensively casual clothing. Some people look cheap and smell expensive, others smell expensive and look cheap but, to Stella, this couple spared no expense on looking and smelling the way they did. She could practically detect the scent of fine Italian leather lingering on their clothes from the seats of the Bentley in the car park.
‘Come to see Miss Stella ’utton,’ said Mr Tompkins, sounding like Bill Sykes.
‘’Bout the house,’ said his wife and her Estuary inflection made it sound like she’d said ‘Bat the hass’.
‘The big ’un,’ he said, lest Stella should be unsure which.
‘This way, please,’ said Stella, unruffled, while Gill snorted and Geoff thought she’d lost her mind. Her uncle was out – but he and Stella had previously agreed that, should he be in, she had only to knock and request privacy in his office and he would vacate immediately and perch awhile at her desk. She handed them each a copy of the particulars which they pored over, cooing and tutting.
‘Have you somewhere to sell?’ Stella asked.
‘Over Northaw way,’ Mr Tompkins said.
‘Would you need to sell that, to fund a purchase?’ Stella asked in a casually tactful tone, whilst nodding enthusiastically at the photograph of the lily pond which Mrs Tompkins was tapping at, with a finger manicured to perfection in deep aubergine.
‘Nah,’ said Mr Tompkins. ‘Property market’s dead on its feet – we’ll put our place on but if it don’t sell, it don’t sell.’
‘And if you do decide to sell, I’d be thrilled to be considered,’ said Stella. They both nodded at her and smiled with pristine, blue-white teeth.
‘And a viewing,’ Stella said, ‘when would that be convenient? Weekends? Outside of office hours?’
Mr Tompkins stroked his BlackBerry as if it had a heart and feelings. ‘This baby’s me office,’ he said.
‘Lucky you!’ Stella said.
He looked genuinely upset. ‘It’s not just luck, love – it’s all down to blimmin’ hard work too.’
‘Oh, I meant no offence.’ Stella leant forward and whispered, ‘I hate working in an office – having to smell other people’s bacon butties and tuna sarnies and listen to them drone on about the weekend they’ve just had or the night out they’re going on.’
The Tompkins laughed and Mr Tompkins nodded energetically. ‘Both our kids done work experience in offices, building sites – hard graft. They got to feel it – really feel it. When they was nippers, their mates thought they had a great house, with a great pool – and a right old sod of a dad.’ He started chuckling, turned to his wife. ‘Do you remember?’ He wiped tears of mirth from the outer corner of his eyes. ‘Right old sod of a dad.’
Stella looked a little unsettled. Mrs Tompkins came to her rescue. ‘Our kids – they got a lot less pocket money th
an their friends, you see.’
‘Made ’em work for it. Had to sweep leaves, or wash the cars. Something or other, every weekend, for a quid or two.’
‘And now?’ Stella asked.
‘Super kids.’ His eyes brimmed again. ‘Classy, you know? And kind. One at university, one just finished and looking for a job. Good kids – aren’t they?’ He turned to his wife who leant forward with her iPhone and scrolled through frame after frame depicting the smiling, open faces of a girl and a boy.
‘Well,’ said Stella, ‘if it’s work experience they want, they can come here and make the tea and do the photocopying.’
Mr Tompkins sat back in the chair and regarded her quizzically. ‘I like you, I do. And I’d like to see Longbridge Hall. And it’ll be you that takes us there, will it?’
‘Indeed,’ said Stella. ‘I’ll speak to Lady Lydia Fortescue and see when suits.’
Lady Lydia Fortescue! the Tompkins murmured nodding at each other as if Lady Lydia Fortescue was a value added bonus that might well swing the purchase.
‘Perhaps some time later this week?’ said Stella.
‘Look forward to it,’ he said, filling in forms while his wife smiled at the photos on her phone.
Lydia continued to make it plain that she didn’t care a jot who bought Longbridge and she was out when Stella brought the Billington-Wildes for their viewing. However, the silent conversation which passed between Stella and Mrs Biggins, mainly through rolling of eyes, pursing of lips and raising of eyebrows, said that it was a good job that she wasn’t in. They’d double-barrelled their surname by deed poll online, they told her. They were Lottery winners. They had the money – they had cash. They liked the thought of a house like Longbridge – buying a bit of history and class – but reality let their preconceptions down sharply. Their dismay was barely concealed.
‘No dressing rooms? Only one en-suite – and it doesn’t have a separate shower area, let alone a walk-in one?’
‘I’m not paying good new money for old tat.’
‘It’s just so – second-hand,’ Mrs Billington-Wilde complained.
‘Actually,’ connived Stella with a wink to Mrs Biggins unseen by the clients, ‘it’s ninth-hand.’
The woman shuddered, as if she’d been forced into some moth-eaten coat picked up from a jumble sale.
