by Lulu Taylor
‘Oh,’ Francesca says, suddenly vague. ‘Things will happen in a while. We’re still getting permission for the architect’s plans. It’s so incredibly long. Every new bit takes weeks and weeks to agree, and then there are the endless site visits. You might see conservation officers and various people from Preserving England wandering around. I’ll tell them to let you know whenever they plan to visit, just so you’re not surprised.’
Olivia remembers the old man in the garden warning her about the laburnum. ‘Whatever happened about that caretaker? William, isn’t he? He’s still around.’
‘Yes,’ Francesca says, though it’s clear her mind isn’t on what she’s saying. ‘He’s proved a bit tiresome. He seems to have various tenancy agreements and promises that means he can stay as long as he likes. A bit of a bore, really, but it’s hardly worth spending a fortune fighting it when he might pop his clogs at any moment, and then the problem’s solved.’
Olivia gives her a startled look, surprised at the callous sound of this solution, but Francesca is out of her chair and down on the rug with the children, chatting to them and joining in with their game as much as they will let her. Olivia looks over at Dan with a smile, trying to signal her inner thoughts: I have a feeling the twins are making Cheska broody!
Dan is looking at the group on the rug, unsmiling, and he doesn’t catch Olivia’s eye. The kettle boils and she goes back to making the tea.
Chapter Fourteen
Francesca is on a high, but she’s trying to hide it. Excitement bubbles up in her every time she looks at the children, and she can hardly take her eyes off them. She is hiding it well, she believes. A lifetime of schooling herself in control and concealment has given her the gift of preventing others from knowing what she is thinking. Besides, she is careful. She makes sure to ask Olivia about herself, and to question Dan about how he enjoyed life in Argentina. He starts off talking to her almost warily, his sentences short and closed, as though she is the interrogator and he is intent on avoiding her questions, but soon he warms up, and seems to forget that there is anything other than complete normality between them. They slip back easily into their past relationship. Their past pretence.
In fact, there were two distinct stages to their relationship – before and after Olivia. Before . . . well, it was a shaky, difficult time that only began to improve when Francesca found Walt. After Olivia, it all seemed mysteriously healed. The first time she met Dan’s new girlfriend, he put his arm around Francesca’s shoulders and introduced her to Olivia as his oldest friend, and after that they had a tacit agreement that what went before would never be mentioned again, and that it would be ignored forever. It was almost as though they learned to see themselves as Olivia did: old friends, bound by their university experience, with a long, untroubled, platonic friendship that stayed firm through the vagaries of their romantic lives, the girlfriends and boyfriends that came and went, before Francesca found Walt, and Dan found Olivia. Francesca joined in with the facade because it was the only way she could stay close to Dan; if she began to make waves or remind him of things he’d rather forget, then he might pull away and be lost to her forever. And if Olivia ever suspected, she might well prefer it if Francesca stayed far away. So that was how it had been ever since.
And now there is another stage. The birth of the twins, and everything that brings with it.
It has not developed as she imagined. It’s been making her so anxious that she’s lain awake at night, darkness pressing against her eyes as she plays through scenario after scenario, wondering why Dan has turned cold on her: vanishing to Argentina, taking the twins, cutting off contact, not sending emails or photographs as she had hoped he might. Then she understood that he is staying true to form, simply ignoring whatever makes him uncomfortable or doesn’t fit with his version of reality. He wants, and needs, Olivia to be the mother of his children. So he had to wipe her, Cheska, out of the picture, certainly at first, or the scale of his deception, the con trick he’s pulled on Olivia, might prove too much. He might have to look at the truly awful thing he’s done, and he might feel compelled to confess and ruin everything, unless he can convince himself that it never happened. And she knows he is very good at doing that.
If my experience is anything to go by.
She recalls how beautifully and neatly Dan has always managed to forget everything in the past. And then he asked this momentous thing of her – well, all right, I offered, but still – and so perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised that he has decided to forget that too.
But he can’t. He’ll find that out. He can’t.
So she has played the long game, the careful, patient waiting game, and that is something she is very good at indeed. It helps that she now has the priceless gift of access to the children. The only question is how much time is left, because that is a precious resource these days, and she can’t afford to squander too much of it. Things will need to happen before too long.
She sits now in the kitchen of the living quarters that she so carefully prepared for Dan and Olivia and the children. It might look artless but there is design in its rustic simplicity: she consulted one of her favourite interior designers on every aspect, trying to make sure it would prove irresistible to Olivia. She was delighted with the (expensive) result, and it is almost a little galling to see how Olivia has changed things, and spoiled some of the finish with her own additions, but Francesca has to admit to herself that the effect is pleasant. The atmosphere is of a cosy cottage, a family home. Only the height of the ceilings and certain touches of grandeur – the diamond-paned windows with a few coloured crests in them, the large slabs of limestone that make up the kitchen floor and the studded oak doors – give away the fact that this is actually part of the larger house, cut off into a separate dwelling years, if not centuries, before.
The children are back in their booster seats, eating their supper of strips of roast chicken and peas, accompanied by potato and carrot mashed together with nuggets of golden fried onion and a top of crisp cheese. Bea is trying hard to feed herself, digging her spoon into the orangey mash and scooping up what she can, then aiming it for her mouth. The lumps in her hair and smeared over her face show that her success is only partial, but she is enthusiastic.
‘Yum, yum,’ she says loudly when she eats a mouthful.
‘Come on, Stan, old chap,’ coaxes Dan, trying to get the boy to eat the food heaped on the end of the spoon he holds, but Stan keeps turning his head away, his lips pressed shut. ‘This one’s an aeroplane, look, it’s zooming into the airport . . . here it comes, down into the airport . . . open the airport, for pity’s sake, Stan, the passengers are going nuts right now!’
Francesca laughs as she watches, fighting the urge to join in.
Olivia looks tired now that she has rustled up another toddler meal, served on time with its correct balance of nutrients, but she is still alert, still on duty. Francesca recalls how grateful she once was to the nannies who took this tedious, repetitive task off her hands. She would often be busy and gladly hand the children over as the grizzly afternoon session began, right through suppertime to when the children were sitting happy and full in their baths, splashing in bubbles; or even beyond, until all she needed to do was go in and drop kisses on their soft, warm, sleepy faces as they lay in their cots, and whisper goodnight.
Perhaps I should have tried harder, she thinks, as she watches Olivia swoop in to make sure that Bea eats some chicken and drinks a mouthful of her highly diluted juice. In a way, she would love to be back there now, when Olympia and Frederick were sweet, soft-haired, smiling toddlers who were happy with whatever they had, and who reached for her hungrily, giving and receiving kisses and hugs without the accompaniment of requests for money or clothes or holidays. At the time it seemed like hard work that would go on forever. But actually, it was easy. And it was over in the blink of an eye. And now, gone for good.
‘Shall we have a glass of wine?’ Olivia asks, inadvertently brushing a blob of mash into
her hair as she wipes a stray strand from her forehead. She looks up at the clock, a vintage French station clock Francesca had shipped from a dealer in Aquitaine, and makes a face. ‘The sun is over the yard arm as far as I’m concerned. Anything after five o’clock is civilised!’ She smiles over at Francesca. ‘I’ve got some cold Gavi in the fridge.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ Francesca says. ‘But . . .’ She raises her eyebrows warningly. ‘Only one. I’m driving later.’ She turns to Dan. ‘So, Dan, how is the writing going? When will we be allowed to read the play?’
Olivia goes over to the fridge and starts looking for wine glasses (The long-stemmed crystal ones should be in the left-hand cupboard, thinks Francesca, but Olivia goes to the glass-fronted cupboard where the mugs previously were and takes the glasses from there) while Dan looks uncomfortable.
He clears his throat. ‘Well, no one’s read it yet. Not even Olivia. I’m not quite ready to show it to anyone. It’s kind of . . . sketchy. You know. Words here. Words there. A lot being formed as I go along.’
‘How many scenes have you completed?’ Francesca presses. She remembers suddenly that at university Dan was writing a novel. Everyone was very impressed. Novel writing was for sometime in the future, when life experience and maturity gave them something worth saying. The novel went on and on being written, even after university: written, edited and never finished, until one day Francesca realised that Dan must have thrown away far more words than he’d ever retained. Perhaps he’d even thrown away two or three novels’ worth of words. And still there was not one complete chapter to read. And then it was forgotten.
How long has he been working now? she wonders. Two years? I suppose he’s had the babies taking up a lot of working time, but even so . . . She is aware suddenly of Olivia listening carefully as she quietly uncorks the bottle and tips out the wine into the glasses.
‘It’s not really that easy to define a scene,’ Dan says, frowning as though thinking hard. ‘I mean, of course, I’ve got scenes. But until I reach the fifth act . . . you know, it will be hard to see exactly what work the earlier scenes are doing, and they’ll probably need to be completely rewritten. So there are scenes, and yet there aren’t.’ Then he laughs ruefully, as though realising how ridiculous he sounds.
‘So have you got anything finished? Any bits of scenes you’re happy with? I mean, in the first act, say?’ Francesca says. She thinks it’s fine for Dan to take the time he needs as long as he finishes eventually and the pattern of the abandoned novel is not repeated, but she knows Olivia is listening and suddenly has the sense that she has been under the impression that the play is more complete than Dan is now revealing. Olivia comes over quietly and puts a glass of wine in front of Francesca, slipping into the seat next to Bea, who is singing to herself as she chases peas around her melamine plate. Stan is banging his cup on the table as he munches his way through a mouthful of chicken. Over the noise, both women are listening hard to Dan.
Dan smiles his killer smile at her, the one that always melts her. ‘None I’d want to show you, Cheska. Not with your insight and judgement. I don’t want you to see it until it’s perfect, just in case you hate it.’
She smiles back at him, warmed by his praise. ‘I’m sure it’s brilliant, whatever stage it’s at. Is it a comedy? Are you going to say what it’s about?’
Dan looks thoughtful as he loads a plastic spoon with more food from Stan’s plate, ready to deliver the next mouthful as soon as Stan has finished the last. ‘It’s a kind of . . . it’s a black comedy. A bit satirical. A bit . . . you know, punchy, modern, relevant, absurd. A bit tragic too.’
Tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, she thinks, and wonders where that’s from. It’s a quote but from where? Shakespeare, I think . . . about something ridiculous. ‘Wow. I can’t wait to read it.’
‘I hope you’ll also get to see it,’ Dan says, with a modest smile. ‘Even if it ends up being staged in the top room of some east London pub.’
‘You should get in touch with Rupert,’ Francesca says. Rupert is one of their acquaintances from Cambridge who once directed student plays and is now a celebrated and award-winning producer. ‘Although I suppose he’s more film based these days.’
‘Yeah, I was thinking about that, but Rupert was always a bit of an idiot. I’m not sure I really trust his judgement, if I’m honest, not after he went and did that musical.’
‘Yes,’ Francesca agrees. ‘It was something of a sell-out. I suppose the money and the A-listers were too hard to resist. We can’t blame him for that.’
Dan snorts, as though he absolutely can blame him for that.
Olivia rolls her eyes lightly and says, ‘Money isn’t always a dirty word, Dan. It’s actually quite useful.’
Dan shrugs. ‘But what’s the point in anything if you just give up and take the cash?’
Francesca feels a tiny stab of something painful, as though Dan is referring to what happened to her: the promising career in human rights law that faltered and died, before she became a rich Swiss housewife. She rushes to hide her awkwardness and suggests a few other names of their contemporaries who now have positions of influence in the arts: a couple of actors, a theatre director, a script editor, a literary agent, quite a few who are now important at the BBC. It’s a reminder of how gilded they all were, and how much potential they all once had. How much was handed to us because of our university and the entrée it gave us? And the connections we made there? She recalls that two of the women at university who went on to be well-known actresses had famous parents. Nearly everyone from the circle she mixed in – bright, privately educated, privileged – had contacts to call upon. Even though she had no family connections, Francesca still had the name of her college to drop into conversation like a little magic talisman, her degree (‘From Cambridge? Goodness, you must be clever!’) and the name of her well-known tutor, a man who wrote bestselling books and presented television and radio programmes, who put her in touch with helpful people when she began her law studies, getting her work experience in chambers specialising in human rights. But it wasn’t only that, she reminds herself. It wasn’t just leg-ups. We all worked hard to get where we did.
And then, for her, it all came to a shuddering halt. A blanket of deep sadness drops slowly over her. How did that happen? She’s never wanted to think about it. She’s always felt that she took the only path open to her, in order to survive. Anything else is too much to consider.
Olivia stands up, as though she is suddenly bored with the conversation. ‘Come on, Cheska, let me show you round the rest of the house. Dan, can you give Bea her yoghurt? She’s finished, haven’t you, sweetie? You’ve eaten it all, you clever thing! Isn’t she clever?’ She leans down to nuzzle the little girl, who beams and crows loudly with pleasure at her cleverness.
‘Sure,’ Dan says, scooping up more for Stan, who is still slowly eating and now interested in the food in the trench at the bottom of his bib.
‘Stan can have one too when he’s finished.’ Olivia picks up her wine and cocks her head towards the door to the rest of the cottage. ‘Follow me, Cheska.’
Francesca stands up, also picking up her glass. She’d like to stay with the children, and was planning to offer to help Stan eat his yoghurt, but she’s also interested in the bedrooms. She wants to be able to visualise where the twins sleep. ‘Lovely, yes please.’
Olivia leads her out of the kitchen, nursing her wine glass against her chest, one hand on the bowl and one on the base of the stem. The condensation makes a dark stain over the blue of her top. ‘We’re so grateful for this, you know that. Lucky for us you wanted to use this for a staff annexe or a holiday let, it’s been furnished so nicely.’
‘You’re so welcome. I’m happy to help.’ Francesca looks around curiously. She can see pictures and books, familiar from the flat in London, and yet different in this new environment. The previous neat impersonality of the cottage is now full of the presence of individuals, from the photographs on the hall tabl
e to the bright orange folded-paper-like lampshade, a massive piece of origami, that’s now suspended in the stairwell and looking unexpectedly splendid, like a Cubist sun beaming above them against the mellow stone of the old walls as they climb the stairs that turn back on themselves to reach the first floor. Olivia talks about the villa in Argentina as she shows Francesca around, and Francesca half listens, nodding and asking questions but actually looking as hard as she can. There are three bedrooms; the one at the front with the view of the garden has been turned into the twins’ nursery, with two large white cots on either side of the room, two small white wardrobes against each wall, and a shared changing table in between. There are bright framed posters on the wall – Barbar floating over a country in a convoy of balloons, the Gruffalo and Beatrix Potter – and alphabet letters adhered at jaunty angles. I hope those come off.
‘Oh, isn’t it sweet!’ Francesca exclaims. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘They love it,’ Olivia says, her tone content. ‘And in the evenings I can hear the wood pigeon cooing them to sleep.’ She leads the way out of the bedroom and into the hall, down towards the spare room. ‘Now, this one I’ve barely touched, as we don’t need it right now. Until we have visitors, anyway.’
Francesca peeps in. It is indeed just as she left it, with the double bed neatly made, a quilt of pale country floral squares over a snowy duvet, piled with white pillows and pastel cushions. A cream armchair with more cushions sits in the corner. On the dressing table are a few essentials any guest would want: a jar of cotton wool balls, a box of tissues, a nail file and some upmarket make-up remover, along with an expensive hand cream. At the window is a pretty view towards the side of the garden – not as pretty as the front view but still acceptable. This edge of the west wing of the house is on the side that has been less altered. Perhaps a school caretaker or elderly teacher lived here. At any rate, the other wing is far more like a school, with its swimming pool and abandoned gymnasium. This side is more homely. It reminds Francesca of holidays in the Lake District, where she was taken when she was young. Their only holiday of the year: a week’s walking in the Lakes, staying in the cottage of a friend of the family who charged the bare minimum. But she loved it, being away from home, seeing the beauty of the countryside and the grandeur of the hills. This place makes her feel the same way: comforted, refreshed and renewed.
