Rumours

by Freya North

‘Good.’

  ‘Do you want to go to bed now?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t understand what on earth is going on in this movie.’

  ‘Don’t you? But it’s just so, like, post-modern sub-noir.’

  ‘I think it’s a pile of poo. Come on.’ And Stella switched off the lights and led Xander back to her bedroom.

  In her bathroom, he thought of his overnight stuff in the bag in the car. And then he saw the new toothbrush she’d left for him. He ran his finger over the bristles. What a gorgeous girl. What a night. What a day. He’d divested himself of so much and yet he felt far from empty, not remotely deflated. In fact, he felt replete, the same satisfying fullness of having eaten just the right amount of a perfect Sunday roast. He could love Stella. Perhaps he already did. He nodded at himself, welcoming the notion that he was potentially minutes away from a fine night’s sleep in the arms of a beautiful woman. He was pleased she knew, pleased he’d found the courage to share. Pleased that Verity had met Stella and that Stella had met Verity. Pleased that Verity and Lydia had both coped without needing him there. That perhaps Verity had said her final goodbyes to Longbridge. That, actually, she’d made her peace with the place a long time ago.

  When Stella and Xander’s bodies folded into each other, however, it wasn’t just emotions that were stirred. Making love for the second time was both gentler and somehow more adept. In the dark. Sensing what was wanted. Coming together. A physical and cerebral correspondence.

  ‘You’re a sexy minx,’ said Xander, afterwards.

  ‘Bet you say that to all the girls,’ said Stella.

  ‘I haven’t yet met all the girls,’ said Xander. ‘Ow! Did you just pinch me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella. She paused. ‘Laura?’

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘She was your significant ex?’

  ‘Yep.’ Xander stroked Stella’s hair as he spoke. ‘We were together that all-important decade from our mid-twenties – when you think you can shape the world.’ Stella trailed her fingertip over his lips. ‘The long and the short of it is that classic phrase – when we grew up, we wanted different things from life.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Laura wanted to travel and run a beach bar in Cambodia and do a ski season in Banff and crew a catamaran over the seven seas.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I just wanted to live in Long Dansbury. And have a family.’

  ‘She didn’t want that?’ It seemed preposterous to Stella.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you didn’t want to see the world?’

  ‘Not really – I’d done a fair bit of travelling in my student days.’

  ‘You loved her?’

  ‘Very much. But ultimately we were in that clichéd trap of staying together because we were a long-term couple and it was easier than splitting up.’

  ‘But you did split up.’

  ‘Ultimately, we weren’t peas in a pod. We were poles apart. All the idealism of our twenties – it was transient. It was just the stuff of late-night deep-and-meaningful conversations behind curtains of spliff and a backdrop of Pink Floyd. Ultimately we didn’t believe in the same things – and we didn’t want each other. It was habit.’

  ‘Do you see her?’

  ‘She lives in New York, these days.’

  ‘New York?’

  ‘With a banker husband and two kids.’

  ‘How bizarre! Does that hurt?’

  ‘Nope. Not any more.’

  ‘Blimey, Xander.’

  ‘Blimey Xander what, Stella?’

  ‘Been there, seen it, done it – you have.’ He could feel Stella thinking. ‘Verity – Laura. I’m afraid I’m horribly dull in comparison.’

  Xander laughed. He kissed her forehead.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ he said. Snuggled against her. Yawned. Yawned with the bliss and relief and comfort of discovering someone with whom he could be wide open, with whom he could also close off from the world. He yawned with the effort that had accompanied so much revelation. Yawned because he’d just made love to Stella and his body was wonderfully tired. Yawned because Stella’s bedroom was all about soft darkness and cosiness and a lovely scent. Yawned because he was ready to surrender himself to sleep after a spectacularly big day in his life.

  ‘What a life you’ve had,’ Stella said, kissing him affectionately on the cheek as she nestled her head against his shoulder. A man in her bed. This Xander man.

  ‘But I’ve never loved anyone enough to actually marry them,’ he said, sleepily. ‘Whereas you did.’

  Xander, however, was sound asleep by the time Stella thought, Christ, how on earth do I begin to tell you about Charlie?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘Yes, but how did he know Verity was here – if he didn’t answer her telephone call and she left no message!’ Mrs Biggins wasn’t asking Lydia a question, she was stating something blindingly obvious which had bypassed Lydia. Mrs Biggins was literally rubbing her hands with glee. Stop it, thought Lydia, your paws are red enough already. ‘Why come belting round on Saturday evening?’

  ‘To see her!’ Silly woman.

  ‘But belting round?’ Mrs Biggins cocked her head. ‘He can only just’ve heard she was at Longbridge. If he’d’ve known earlier, he’d’ve been more refined, more formal about it all. Instead of which, he’s hammering on your door past supper-time!’

  Privately, Lydia reasoned it all out. Mrs Biggins had a point.

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How he came to hear?’

  ‘No.’ Lydia thought back to Saturday night. It was only Monday morning but the new week made Saturday suddenly feel very distant. That was no bad thing. She’d felt pretty wretched on Saturday – with her arm in a sling, with Verity gone. It had been enough to tell Xander that Verity wasn’t here – to then idle away half an hour with light and informal chit-chat about how she was, though her visit had privately disconcerted both of them.

  ‘Interesting, though,’ Mrs Biggins said, attempting to dust and then thinking she’d do it properly later. ‘Interesting to wonder about Xander’s Saturday night.’

  It was. Lydia admitted it to herself once her housekeeper had left the room with promises of mid-morning coffee. A daughter Lydia ceased to have any plans for, over whom she had no control – and a man she’d known since a boy in whom she was investing hopes and plans and whom, it seemed, was ticking them off for her one by one.

  Which left Lydia thinking about Miss Hutton – whose purpose was twofold. Stella might be fulfilling the obligation she knew nothing of – but she appeared to be failing in her objective to sell the bloody place. Irritated, Lydia walked to the hallway and made a phone call to Elmfield Estates.

  ‘What is going on?’

  ‘Good morning, Lady Lydia.’

  ‘Miss Hutton – have you heard nothing?’

  ‘I left messages for the Tompkins and the consortium. I have a Japanese gentleman keen to view on Wednesday.’

  ‘Why don’t I phone the Tompkins?’

  ‘Because that’s my job.’

  Lydia harrumphed.

  ‘And it’s not the done thing.’

  She harrumphed again.

  ‘And you hate the telephone,’ Stella said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘It shows.’

  Impudent girl! But Lydia had to admit, Stella had a point.

  ‘Lydia?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How is your arm?’

  ‘Much better. A little achy – still in this hideous sling. Thank you for asking.’

  And then Lydia thought, but I never told you about my arm. Lydia thought how she hadn’t seen Stella since before Verity’s visit. Lydia thought, how do you know about my arm? And then she simply thought, bugger this – I shall damn well ask you straight.

  ‘Miss Hutton – how did you know about my arm? Some rumour in the village that I was swinging from the chandeliers, perhaps? Or
that you’d twisted it, to have me part with Longbridge for a song, perhaps?’ Lydia liked that. Very good. ‘Well?’

  And Stella thought, very good, Lydia, you’ve got me. And Stella thought, can it hurt? She wanted to sing it from the rooftops anyway – the presence in her life of a lovely new boyf, as she was already calling him. She cleared her voice. ‘Xander told me.’

  ‘And when did you see Xander?’ Lydia’s inference was that surely Xander and Stella were linked only by Longbridge matters.

  Stella cleared her throat again. ‘On Saturday.’

  ‘Saturday?’

  ‘Socially.’

  ‘Socially!’

  Stella waited. ‘I owe you my gratitude, Lady Lydia.’ She was utterly sincere.

  ‘For what?’ Lydia wasn’t expecting such guilelessness.

  ‘For Xander, of course,’ said Stella.

  And Lydia realized she couldn’t play further with Stella’s honesty and sincerity. She’d just have to be gracious. ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Stella had heard her – but she wanted Lydia to repeat it, without the mumble.

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ said Lydia.

  Neither woman mentioned Verity though they were aware how Verity had brought Xander to each of them on Saturday.

  Geoff had the phone under the crook of his chin, gesturing to Stella while she was finishing her call to Lydia. Tomp-kins, he mouthed and Stella beckoned furiously for him to put the call through.

  Please please please.

  ‘Mr Tompkins! Good morning!’

  ‘Morning, Stells.’

  That’s fine. You can call me Stells.

  ‘Did you have a lovely weekend? Is Mrs Tompkins well?’

  ‘Thank you – yes to both.’

  ‘Good!’

  Tone it down.

  ‘Good. Mr Tompkins, I’m so glad you’ve called. Any thoughts about Longbridge Hall?’

  There was silence.

  Oh please oh please oh please.

  ‘Been thinking of little else, Stells. I love it, love the place. We both do. Can see it – you know – as the seat for Tompkins past and Tompkins future.’

  And Stella thought, so why can I sense the “but”.

  ‘But the problem is, it scares the wife. It’s too much to take on.’

  ‘If it’s the guide price –’ Stella butted in, desperate to head off the worst.

  ‘Not the price, darlin’. It’s got all them bedrooms – but only three baths. And a grand dining room – but a rubbish kitchen. And it’s listed, so it’s non-stop hassle, Stells, hassle all the way.’

  ‘But you could live in the dower house – while having the main house renovated? We could factor that into any offer you might make?’

  ‘No, Stells. Not just the house – all that farmland. I mean, I like a garden. I’ve got a huge one, myself, right now. And Longbridge has grounds – which is a rung up on a garden and I like that. But not the farm. We’re not farming people, Miss Hutton. No, Stells. I am sorry. Please pass me regards on to the Lady, won’t you? And you keep your eyes open, will you? For something big – with nice bathrooms, en-suite, you know? And a killer kitchen.’

  Stella was nodding. Mr Tompkins couldn’t hear it.

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Tompkins, of course.’

  She sat with her head in her hands until Geoff came over and gave her shoulder a gentle pat, partly to block the snidely triumphant look on Gill’s face.

  ‘All’s not lost,’ he said. ‘You have yet to phone back Mr Murdley.’

  ‘Mr Murdley?’

  ‘From the consortium,’ Geoff pointed to the Post-it he’d placed on the edge of Stella’s monitor.

  ‘How can I sell Longbridge to someone called Murdley? Isn’t there a Dickens character called Murdley? In a draughty house with secrets in the cellar and rumours floating out of the rotten rafters?’

  Geoff smiled benevolently. ‘You’re really not an estate agent, Stella, are you? You need to get out of this trade – just as soon as you’ve sold Longbridge and you can afford to.’

  ‘I can’t sell Longbridge to a consortium,’ she whispered.

  ‘That’s not for you to decide,’ Geoff said, quite sternly. He removed the Post-it, dialled the number on Stella’s phone and handed her the receiver when he heard the ringing tone. ‘And it was Murdstone,’ Geoff said.

  ‘David Copperfield,’ Stella said sadly.

  Mr Murdley was syrupy smooth on the phone. The offer was eleven, with exchange of contracts in two months, completion by the end of the year.

  ‘I will present this to Lady Lydia Fortescue,’ Stella said, ‘and report back to you.’

  Geoff tutted at Stella ten minutes later, as she’d remained at her desk staring into space.

  ‘What!’ she protested, to which he raised his eyebrows towards the phone. ‘Lydia hates the phone!’ His eyebrows inched higher. ‘I’m going there on Wednesday – the day after tomorrow. With a Japanese client. I’ll tell her then.’ His eyebrows stayed as they were. ‘Geoff,’ Stella remonstrated. ‘Let me do this my way.’ But she knew there was a right way to do things, and her proposed method was wrong. However, there was nothing wrong with waiting until later this afternoon – Lydia tended to nap, intentionally or otherwise, after lunch.

  Walking up St Andrew Street, Stella saw two commercial properties to let and as able as she was to imagine her gallery in either, the thought simply depressed her because it wasn’t remotely plausible. She mooched off to walk down to the river and sat there, picking at a sandwich and ignoring the swan and the geese and a couple of youths loitering on BMXs. Her mother called but Stella didn’t answer it. And then she thought of how her mother always said, if you’re feeling upset, do something to make yourself feel not so. She stared at Xander’s contact details. And sent a text.

  Having a rotten day

  Then she wondered if Xander hadn’t yet ascribed an ID to her number. So she sent another.

  This is Stella

  Xander was mid-conversation with Mrs Gregg when his phone bleeped through two messages close together. Mrs Gregg observed him grinning inanely at his phone and realized he wasn’t going to finish his sentence. She watched him stare at the ceiling before tapping out a message.

  This is Xander. A rotten day deserves a nice evening. You free? Xx

  She liked it that he didn’t abbreviate. She thought she ought to go easy on the Emojis.

  Would love to – but it’s a school night.

  Mrs Gregg noted that, after that bleep, Xander responded quicker.

  Does Will like fish & chips? Do you?

  Stella regarded her limp sandwich and thought about fish and chips for tea. With the best delivery man in town. She couldn’t think of a larky reply. So she just wrote yes please – thanks ever so. And after she’d sent it, she thought, my mum’s right. So she phoned her as she walked back to the office.

  Let the afternoon fly by! Let Lydia not be in.

  But the afternoon dragged. And Lydia was in.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hullo – it’s Stella again.’

  ‘Couldn’t this wait until Wednesday when you bring Japan?’

  ‘I have news – from the Tompkins and Mr Murdley.’

  ‘Murdley?’

  ‘From the consortium.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The consortium are offering eleven.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But what about my friend Mr Tompkins?’

  ‘Your friend Mr Tompkins sends his regards –’ Stella closed her eyes. ‘But I’m afraid Longbridge isn’t for him.’

  There was a long pause. Lydia’s voice, when it came, was brittle. ‘But it is,’ she said. ‘It is for him.’

  ‘But not for his wife.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ said Stella softly. ‘People want en-suites and dressing rooms and snazzy kitchens. It’s what they expect.’

  ‘Has the woman no vision!’

  Stella knew Lydia was just frustrated. ‘They
wished Longbridge was as they can picture – but they just don’t want the undertaking themselves. Or the farmland.’

  Silence again. ‘I see.’

  ‘So we have the consortium and the Hakshimis, both on eleven. I suggest we let them each know we have another offer – plus a viewing on Wednesday.’

  ‘As you see best,’ said Lydia. And she hung up.

  Will was delighted with his fish supper – not least because his friend Xander insisted they ate straight off the paper, ignoring the way his mum put her hands on her hips in disgust. Xander didn’t even want his mum’s knives and forks – telling her that it was a travesty (whatever that was – but Will could guess) not to use the wooden spork, as Xander called it. Spork, thought Will – what an ace word! He would call horrid Benji at school a spork from now on. So they all sat at the table, with hills and valleys of paper between them, piles of big fat chips and fish that fell from the batter in landslides of glossy white flakes. And his mum was a bit giggly which sounded nice. And she let him stay up fifteen whole minutes later to allow Xander to play in a Lego space battle. Will thought how his mum was double-nice when their friend Xander was about.

  Ready for bed in R2D2 pyjamas, he looked Xander up and down. ‘Do you want to come again? You can be Anakin next time. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Brill,’ said Xander.

  ‘Just go and ask my mum – she’ll definitely say yes.’

  ‘OK,’ said Xander. ‘Night then, Will.’

  Xander came downstairs and into the kitchen, his finger to his lip to hush her until he was close next to her, kissing her silently. Her arms about his neck, his hands in her hair, tugging out her pony-tail to weave his fingers in and out. His hands sweeping over her body, cupping a breast, taking a squeeze between her legs, leading her hand to the thick cord of hardness trapped tormentingly behind his trousers.

  Stella pulled away. ‘We can’t – not yet. Not with Will –’

  ‘I completely understand.’

  Then he pulled Stella close again, running his hands over her, whispering into the top of her head. ‘When I get home, I’ll have to have an almighty wank.’

  Stella giggled. It sounded so licentious – yet actually, the thought of it turned her on.

  ‘And while you’re hard at it,’ she said, tracing the shape of his straining cock, ‘know that I’ll be doing the same.’