by Freya North
‘Oh,’ said Stella, panicking for a suitable response. ‘I like the Welsh. My cousins used to live outside Crickhowell.’
Verity nodded then shook her head. ‘Laugharne. Dylan Thomas country for me,’ she said. ‘So beautiful. Very peaceful.’
‘Did you marry a Welshman, then?’
Verity giggled. Looked at Stella. Giggled again. ‘You’re funny and kind, aren’t you, Stells Bells. No – not a Welshman. I don’t even Live With The Welsh. I do live in Wales. But with other folk. My man is Brazilian.’ Then she put her finger to her lips. ‘Shh!’ Stella was wide-eyed. ‘He used to be French. Mother didn’t mind him so much. But the Brazilian’ll finish her off. So – shh!’
All Stella could do was nod earnestly because actually, she hadn’t the faintest idea what any of it meant – living in Wales but not with the Welsh, a Frenchman who’d become Brazilian. How long had it taken for Verity’s hair to do that? Had she not brushed it since she’d left Longbridge which, Stella estimated, was two-thirds of her life ago? All she wanted to do was tuck down in the summer house with this woman and just listen to it all, ask her in what language were the tattoos on her foot and around both wrists, what they meant. Why had she left, why was she back? Her accent – a strange and seductive hybrid of upper-crust roundness enlivened by flourishes of South American, purrs of French and a twang that was transatlantic. And the chirruping staccato sentences. And Heidi Girl and Suity Sods and Stells Bells.
‘I should go,’ Stella said. She paused. ‘I’d much rather stay and chat to you – but I’m meant to be working. I have to find the Suity Sods and wave my clipboard at them.’
‘Peace, love and unity be yours,’ said Verity, pressing her thumb gently on Stella’s forehead.
Stella must have appeared alarmed by this because Verity instantly looked a little hurt.
‘That’s – very kind,’ Stella rushed and smiled and squeezed her arm. ‘Thank you. And peace, love and unity for you too, dear Verity.’
‘Stells Bells,’ Verity whispered.
‘Are you staying for a while? How long will you be here?’
‘Time!’ Verity laughed, as if it was such a preposterous concept.
‘Well, perhaps I’ll see you again,’ Stella said. And Verity nodded and smiled and pirouetted on the grass before walking away, the skirts of her dress all in a sway, like marsh grasses wafting in the breeze. As she made her way back to the gazebo, Stella looked over her shoulder but she saw no more of Verity. She could see the men standing on the gravel by their flash cars and she knew they wouldn’t care if she went up to them or not but she would go over because it was her job to do so. She gathered her clipboard and mobile phone and walked towards them. Passing by the statue of Lord Frederick, there was just time for a quiet moment.
‘You like her, your great-great-great – I don’t know-how many greats – granddaughter, don’t you.’
‘She’s one in a million and she’s a dear,’ he appeared to reply. ‘Typical Fortescue,’ he said, ‘because a true Fortescue doesn’t give a hoot what anyone thinks.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Will was confused and bad-tempered.
‘I don’t see why you can’t clean and tidy up once I’ve actually gone to Jo’s,’ he said, observing his mother balancing on the table dusting absolutely nothing off the light fitting.
‘Because.’
He hated that answer. It wasn’t an answer. It was a rubbish sentence and he did not like the way that grown-ups were allowed to use it just because they were grown-ups.
‘Cos what?’
‘Will, don’t wind me up. Please just help Mummy – OK?’
‘I don’t want to clean and tidy.’
‘OK – so watch telly.’
‘I thought I wasn’t allowed to watch telly in the mornings.’
‘Well, today’s your lucky day because today you can!’
He switched on the TV but soon enough switched it off again because it was impossible to hear above the thrum of the Hoover. He watched his mother – she was hot and bothered and he just couldn’t work out why she would choose to do something that put her in a bad mood and made her face red and her hair thatchy. Their home was always clean and tidy – all she was doing, as far as he could see, was making herself all messy.
‘Mummy – no!’ He leapt up from being the sorry lump in the corner of the sofa, becoming a small fireball of indignation. ‘You’ve broken it!’
Stella turned off the Hoover and sat down heavily on the chair, hating herself for feeling cross with Will that his Lego space battle plane (his own design) had got under her feet – but hating herself more for wishing that Will had gone to Jo’s already.
‘Sorry, Will,’ she said, genuinely contrite as she watched how tenderly he was examining the ruined model, as if it was a bird whose wing was broken. ‘I’m really sorry.’ She held her arms open and, a little begrudgingly, he shuffled towards her. ‘Can you fix it? Can I help?’
‘Of course I can fix it but it took me ages to make in the first place.’
‘Does this bit go there?’
‘No, that’s the supercharge defender prong. It goes here.’
‘And that bit?’
‘That’s not a bit – that’s the turbo space-raid spear-shafter.’
‘You could work for Lego when you grow up. You could invent amazing models.’
‘I’d rather work in the Lego shop,’ he said, brightening. ‘Can we go to Legoland?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Not tomorrow – another time.’
That was another bad thing about grown-ups, Will thought. They say definitely when actually they mean maybe. So then you ask them again and they end up telling you off for nagging.
‘Jo’s going to take you all to the cinema this afternoon – then for a pizza. Yum! Lucky things!’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Oh, nothing really.’
‘So why don’t you come too?’
‘Because I’m busy.’
There – yet another annoying thing that grown-ups do. Say one thing one second and then the complete opposite a millisecond later and expect you, all the time, to accept that it makes perfect sense when, quite plainly, it doesn’t. Will sighed and gave his mother a look of patient pity.
The doorbell rang.
‘That’ll be Jo,’ said Stella softly, suddenly wanting to change all plans and just keep Will with her. Jo could read it on her face as soon as she came in.
‘Softee,’ she said, sotto voce. ‘Don’t think about Will, let alone worry about him – just think about yourself.’ She placed her hands on Stella’s shoulders. ‘And give yourself enough time to tidy yourself up – you look shocking, girlfriend.’
‘I feel – guilty,’ Stella said, only just then deciphering her colliding emotions.
‘Don’t you dare!’ Jo chastised. ‘Just forget about us and indulge yourself. Disappear into your own little world for a change. You are allowed to, you know.’
After they’d gone, Stella decided against any more hoovering or tidying. Jo’s calmly delivered assertion had quelled her need for frantic housework to make time pass quickly as well as to distract from the growing anticipation of Xander’s impending arrival. She sat with a cup of tea, gazing at Will’s special space vehicle, now fixed; content that it should remain on the kitchen table. Her heart, it appeared, had been repositioned in her throat while her stomach was relocated to somewhere behind her rib cage. She could only manage half a cup, though her mouth was dry and she could have done with drinking more. However, just holding the mug was stabilizing and a little while later, she went upstairs to shower, shave her legs and undertake a little selective tweezering here and there. She regarded her naked self and giggled – as if the concept that later on a handsome man would be ravishing her, was as thrilling as it was presently unbelievable.
Xander tore around the eight-mile loop in a personal best, went on the rowing machine f
or half an hour as if battling rip tides and then all but flooded the bathroom during a vigorous and scalding hot shower. Should he splash on some aftershave? He didn’t usually – but he knew he had a bottle somewhere. He stared at his face in the mirror – silly git, just be yourself. He reached instead for the fragrance-free post-shave balm that he normally used and patted it into his skin as he went through to his bedroom. He had to laugh at himself. When do I ever – ever – procrastinate about what to wear? And was he meant to take a change of clothes? Or just clean underwear for tomorrow? And what about a toothbrush? It all felt as protracted as packing for a holiday to a place where the weather was unpredictable.
Oh God – not the phone. He let it ring. But then his mobile trilled out with the ringtone he’d ascribed to his parents’ number. Hi, Mum – fine thanks, and you? Dad? Cool. Cool. Busy – yep – flat out. Tomorrow – I’ll call in tomorrow. No – don’t cook lunch, I might be held up. I’ll call you – tomorrow. Not sure what time – but I promise I’ll call and come by.
His mobile rang again, almost immediately, and he automatically answered it.
‘What you doing!’
Caroline.
‘Hey, Cazza.’
‘What you doing?’
It was her jaunty voice, the tone she used when she wasn’t doing much and just felt like a chat.
‘Nothing much.’
‘Come on over, then.’
‘Oh. Well. Actually I can’t.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m off out.’
‘Yeah? For a run?’
‘Done that.’
‘So where are you off to?’
There was a pause.
‘Hmm,’ said Xander.
There was another pause.
‘Ho!’ said Caroline.
Xander wasn’t sure what tiny word or noise he could make in reply, so into the hiatus Caroline leapt. ‘You have plans!’
He hummed affirmatively, slightly distracted, the phone in the crook of his neck as he delved around a drawer deciding just to take fresh socks and boxers with him to Stella’s. He’d leave them in his car with his wash bag and he went to the cupboard to stuff them all into a small rucksack.
Caroline had waited long enough. ‘And do the plans concern a certain Stella?’
Shit. A direct bloody question.
‘Are you seeing Stella, then, today?’
Caroline was tenacious – but always so bloody nice with it.
‘Er – yep. I am.’
There was a strange squeak from Caroline’s end of the phone before a torrent of questions tumbled down the line. None of them really needed answering, Xander thought. And then he thought, Christ, I feel so stupidly nervous.
‘Xander?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’
He paused, sat on the edge of his bed, turned his back on his reflection in the mirror. ‘If I tell you I’m so nervous my balls have shrunk, promise you won’t take the piss?’
Caroline laughed – because Xander was funny. But no – she had no intention of taking the piss. ‘You have a lovely time, mister.’ She paused, continuing tenderly. ‘Don’t be nervous – you’re a great guy. A really great guy. It’s Stella’s lucky day.’
‘I’m going there – to hers,’ he elaborated.
‘And then?’
Xander was slightly affronted. What did Caroline want – a précis of all he’d spent the last couple of days fantasizing about? ‘I don’t know – but, you know. Her son won’t be there. So – you know – we’ll have the place to ourselves.’
‘I meant,’ said Caroline measuredly, ‘did you have plans, say, to go to the movies, or out for dinner?’
She knew he’d be reddening at the other end of the line.
‘Oh. Ha!’ And then he thought, fuck it, what the hell. ‘I’m hoping we’ll be making our entertainment, OK? And for your information, we kind of had hors d’oeuvres the other night. Back here. After the Black Ox.’
‘So it’s time for the main course, is it?’ Caroline spoke with an audible grin. ‘Well, bon appétit, Xander Fletcher.’
‘Thank you,’ said Xander, very sincerely.
‘Oh – and make sure Stella has dessert, even if you’ve finished yours.’
‘Phnar phnar,’ said Xander, deadpan.
‘Have fun, Xander. You’re fab. Don’t be nervous.’
But he was.
Xander was ready to go but his landline was ringing again. He glanced at the caller ID. Longbridge. His hand hovered. If Lydia was resorting to the telephone, it could be urgent. But there again, if it was really urgent, she’d track him down on his mobile too. He let the house phone ring out and then he stared at his mobile. Not now, Lydia. Please – not now. He gave it ample time to ring but it didn’t. He switched it to silent mode, checked the back door was locked and nothing was on standby. Then he glanced around the room as if he was seeing it like this for the last time; as if tomorrow, when he came back, it would all seem very different – as if he’d be returning after ages away. He thought, next time I’m home, I’ll be a changed man. And then he laughed out loud and swore at himself and thanked Jesus Effing Christ that no one heard that. Soppy git.
Half past three and time for tea. Stella had been reboiling the kettle every five minutes or so and suddenly thought how stupid it would look if she offered Xander a cuppa when he arrived and the kettle boiled in an instant. She poured the hot water down the sink, filled the kettle from the cold tap and left it. Then she thought how she shouldn’t have made the cupcakes – he probably wouldn’t remember the brief exchange when she gave him Mrs Biggins’ rock cake initially destined for Will. And cupcakes suddenly seemed just too whimsical. Especially the way she iced them, which was the way Will liked. She piled them into a cake tin and put it away, then she assessed what shop-bought biscuits she had and decided that supermarket own-brand chocolate digestives were a good option. But she didn’t want it to seem as though she’d opened a new packet in his honour, so she broke into the pack and stuffed the two broken biscuits which were topmost into her mouth. And, predictably, that’s when the doorbell rang. Two minutes early – two all-important minutes in which she could have finished her mouthful and checked in the mirror for any stray crumbs. Instead, though she forced her mouth into concrete-mixer mode, she ended up spitting it all out into the bin before going straight to the door which was now being knocked upon.
‘Not on the loo, were you?’ Xander said, standing there with a grin; the sun behind him like prearranged stage lighting.
‘No! Ha! Not this time.’
He looked a little puzzled, took his hand to the sides of her mouth and brushed away the drooping moustache of biscuit crumbs.
‘Don’t ask!’ Stella groaned, resting her forehead lightly, quickly, against his chest.
‘I might,’ Xander said, sneaking a sniff of her hair.
‘Come on in,’ she said, her smile as wide as her door, her cheeks the same vermilion. ‘Tea?’
‘Please.’
‘Biscuit?’
‘If you haven’t eaten them all.’
‘Cheeky sod.’
‘Stroppy mare.’
In the small kitchen, watching Stella make tea, Xander thought, I really want to kiss her. That awkward bash of lips when I came in doesn’t count. He looked at her, she was turned away from him, her head hung low as she willed the kettle to boil. Her neck. The scoop of her pony-tail and the shaft of light revealing the downy hairs feathering their way close to her skin at the nape of her neck. He was only a step away. Now he was against her, his arms folded gently across her as his lips touched down lightly just behind her ear. And again – lower. And again – other side. Just perceptibly, she moved herself backwards so she was firm against him and tight in his grasp. And then the kettle boiled and they found they were standing a little too close to the scorch of its steam.
They took their mugs and a biscuit through to the sitting room, where the kitchen table was. Stella sat but Xand
er perused the room, asking about the photos, asking for recommendations amongst her paperbacks, taking the piss out of certain CDs in her collection, finding they liked the same films, offering to lend her his Sopranos boxed set. Then he came and sat next to her, eating another biscuit; crumbs on his face which she took great pleasure flicking away – archly at first, then tenderly. Xander admired Will’s Lego creation. And then Stella said, no! you mustn’t touch it! it’s a one-off – hands off you dreadful man! And she smacked the back of Xander’s hand and he caught it and kissed inside her palm and it sent such a shot of desire through her she thought, shall I ask you to come to bed right now?
‘Shall we get some fresh air?’
* * *
They strolled towards town, deciding to cook a meal later and reeling off a list of favourite ingredients that would make for a very eclectic spread indeed.
‘Favourite dish in the world?’ Xander asked her.
‘Baked potato and butter,’ Stella replied. ‘You?’
‘Frog’s legs.’
‘Seriously?’
‘No. Not seriously. Roast chicken.’
‘We could have roast chicken later?’
‘But I liked the sound of your fish cakes.’
‘OK – back to plan A then?’
‘Yes. Bananas. I can make these really amazing caramelized bananas with toasted sesame seeds.’
‘I hate sesame seeds.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous – how can you hate something so tiny and inoffensive.’
‘You told me you hate alfalfa – and that’s even less offensive.’
‘Exactly. It’s just a whole tangle of nothingness. It’s like talking to yourself. Pointless.’
Stella laughed. ‘Oh God – I talk to myself all the time.’
Xander laughed too. ‘I’d never have guessed!’ And he jogged across the road. Stella was a few strides behind and forgot to judge the traffic, too busy wondering what on earth Xander made of cottage cheese if he thought alfalfa was bland. A car tooted her, another screeched its brakes, then a cyclist came from nowhere and swore at her and Xander laughed because she was so flustered. And as soon as she reached the kerb he swept her up tight and kissed her. There they stood – to the outside world, a couple snogging most inappropriately right in the middle of the pavement.
