by Clare Boyd
‘Okay, then. Good.’
Without delay, Lucas sped through a list of requirements for the renovation and she tapped them into her phone, wishing she had a pen and paper. His expectations of her, of everyone, of everything, of life, were so high, it was hard to keep up.
‘Slow down. It’s too much,’ she said.
Lucas sighed, and she felt useless before she had even begun. Raising his eyes to the cobwebbed rafters, he put his palms together as if in prayer and rested them on his lips. Then he spoke.
‘If you manage this for me, we can maybe forget the idea of Channing House. Find a day school for her.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. Deadly. If you can handle it, it’ll prove you’re better. Then we won’t have to explain ourselves to anyone.’
‘And you think I can do it?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s smoke and mirrors, Elizabeth. That’s all. Smoke and mirrors.’
‘Smoke and mirrors,’ she repeated, nodding.
‘You’re game?’
‘Yes. I’m game,’ she said, trying to sound convincing.
‘Good. Okay then.’
‘Shoot.’
He smiled at her and continued. ‘For maximum light, I think we need the existing glass pantiles to be converted rather than filled in.’
Unable to type as fast as he was talking, she pressed the voice record button. When he had finished, she said firmly, ‘I’ll talk to Piotr as soon as he’s back from London.’
‘Good. You’re great with him,’ he said, stooping under the door frame to go outside.
She thought of Piotr and his strange face; his poor English, his brusque manner, his sour smell. He was a man from beyond the horizon, who had once had both feet planted into that sloping-away other-world.
‘And then we’ve got outside to think about,’ Lucas added.
Elizabeth followed. She said, ‘Sally can do one of her beautiful flower borders here.’
‘God, haven’t I told you? Sally’s going to be away for six months. Gordon is bringing in Heather, their daughter, to work in her place.’
‘Heather? Really?’ Elizabeth’s mind swirled with this news. She had not met Heather Shaw, but she knew enough about her to feel immediately on edge. That familiar pain shot across her skull like a laser. A few months had passed since her last migraine, and she hoped this wasn’t the beginning of one. She feared the crushing pain that would radiate through her forehead and pound behind her eyes, disabling her until she would be forced to retreat to a darkened room; but even more terrifying were the hallucinations and disquieting visions that often accompanied them.
Pressing two fingers into her right temple, dulling the headache, stopping the spiral of unpleasant thoughts, she asked, ‘Is Sally all right?’
‘Her sister’s unwell, sadly.’
Perhaps it was the temporary loss of Sally, in her bobbled jumpers and pearly pink lipstick, that bothered Elizabeth more than the idea of Heather working here. Elizabeth did not like change, and Sally had been a constant and friendly presence in their grounds. For two decades before Lucas had inherited the plot, the Shaws’ green fingers had worked the soil, managing and tending to their design of the structured topiary and the looser seasonal plantings.
‘I’ll talk to Gordon about the borders,’ she said, zipping along the front of the barn, determined to stay focused, noting the tangles and weeds, anxious about them. Thinking aloud, she said, ‘Gordon is better at the maintenance side of things, but I’m never sure his design skills are up to much.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ Lucas laughed.
‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ she said, knowing that he did. ‘How do you want to manage the finances? Do you want to top up my housekeeping account? Or would you prefer it if I came to you to ask for cash?’
‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea to put all that money into your account like we did on the build.’
Elizabeth’s palms sweated. ‘God, I was such an idiot.’
‘We’ll do it in cash where we can, I think. Just to be safe. Or you can ask for my credit card whenever you need to make a transaction.’
‘Okay,’ she agreed, feeling better.
‘Right, I’m off,’ he said. ‘I won’t be late.’
‘Don’t forget to say goodbye to the kids!’ she called after him. Lucas, who loved Isla and Hugo very much, would not intend to neglect them, but when he was fired up about work, he disengaged too easily.
‘Good luck party-planning!’ he called back.
The summer party was her opportunity to fix what she had broken. It was an incentive to get going, to stop moping, to keep Isla at home. She would persuade Bo and Walt Seacart to stay as their guests, manage the build on the barn conversion and help Lucas to seal the Seacart–Huxley investment deal. Their house and garden would be her new place of work.
She thought of Gordon and Sally’s daughter turning up for her first day tomorrow. She breathed while counting down from twenty and found a strawberry bonbon loose in her pocket. Chewing slowly, she promised herself she would keep it together. Not even that would derail her.
Five
My first day at Copper Lodge had arrived. To please my father, I had woken up half an hour early to make some real Scottish porridge, which I hoped would be as good as Aunt Maggie’s.
The rigmarole of my aunt’s method was only for the dedicated. I had watched her make it: stirring the steel-cut oats and whole milk with a wooden spurtle, always clockwise with her right hand, fearing the Devil would come for her if she changed hands or direction; round and round for half an hour, adding the essential pinch of salt, letting it simmer and bubble. She would put a pot of cream in the centre of the table for the family to dip into while we ate, always standing up, which my mother thought was bad for the digestion. When my father had been young, batches of this godly porridge had been poured into a kitchen drawer, left to cool and cut into slices. Every morning, he and his sister had taken a slice wrapped in brown paper and eaten it for breakfast on their way to school.
This morning, my porridge had turned out stodgy and lumpy.
Dad ate each mouthful of this ungodly offering with stalwart persistence, in silence. I made myself some toast and feared that I had inadvertently conjured the Devil.
We gathered our fleeces and sandwich tins and walked next door.
My toes and fingers tingled with nerves. Never before had I been officially invited onto the property; never before had I spoken to Lucas in the company of others.
‘Have you switched your mobile off?’ Dad asked me.
‘Yup.’
‘And the toilet in the camper van is out of order, so they’ve allowed us to use the one in the main house.’
‘What camper van?’
‘A Polish couple live in the grounds. The girl looks after the kids and her boyfriend is a builder. He’s going to work on the barn conversion.’
‘Wow. Any other staff I should know about?’
‘That’s it. Us and them.’
‘Us and them,’ I murmured, wishing that I wasn’t meeting Lucas again as his employee, his gardener. I was then deeply ashamed of myself for thinking it. My father was proud of his position and his work, and so was I.
‘And remember, if you’re ever invited into the main house, take your muddy boots off.’
‘What’s Elizabeth Huxley really like?’ I whispered as my father pressed the code into the sliding gate. Up until now, I had resisted pestering him for titbits of gossip, cautious of giving myself away, but the anticipation of meeting her overrode my previous restraint.
‘She’s our boss, and that’s all you need to know.’
‘But is she nice?’ I persisted.
He sighed, speaking quietly. ‘I don’t know. Rich people are different.’
I chuckled. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘Money changes people.’
‘On the surface, maybe.’
‘Just be polite when you meet th
em today.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ I said, goose bumps running across my skin.
Behind an enclave of tall poplar trees near the main road, my father opened up a wooden garage that must have belonged to the original house, where the tools, the lawnmower and larger machinery were kept. We left our sandwiches on the workbench and headed up to the main house. The magazine photographs had not prepared me for how impressive it was in real life, or for its unusual style. It was modern and low-slung, and stretched across the width of the garden, almost camouflaged. Its green copper roof allowed the round concrete pillars and shiny glass walls, unnatural and man-made, to settle into its environment. I could see right through the timber frame to the meadow and green landscape beyond, as if it were an apparition of a building, a distortion of molecules. The architect’s mix of materials was clashing at first, yet as my eye adjusted to its design, to its unfinished quality, I began to appreciate the juxtapositions. Its beauty spoke in whispers to a knowing audience. Like a beautiful woman who dared to arrive at a party wearing sneakers and no make-up, there was an aura of arrogance, of separateness.
I gulped in the details, in awe of how perfect it was.
The garden – my parents’ creation – complemented the modern architecture. I remembered my mother’s sketches and their original plantings. After years of maturity, it was more beautiful than ever; award-worthy. They had added a structured hedge design that guarded the loose planting in the beds, stepping up to the task they had faced after the build.
I remembered visiting the more traditional garden that had belonged to Mr and Mrs Huxley Senior. Every year they had allowed hordes of locals to mill around the beds and along the paths at the Surrey open garden event. Mr Huxley had spoken to the punters about the garden as though he had designed it himself, which had not bothered my parents. Creating it had been enough for them. This garden was their first child, their entire focus. I had always accepted that my father loved it a little more than he loved me. In spite of the many challenges it threw their way, it certainly never answered back like I had.
But every swirling petal and shuddering leaf belonged to Lucas Huxley, and my initial wonder was toned down by the anxiety I now felt about seeing him.
* * *
‘Ready?’ my father asked, towering over me as I knelt in the flower bed.
‘Yup!’ I said, expecting another task.
Since this morning, he had been teaching me how to use the tools to trim the hedges, how to mow strips across the lawn, how to chainsaw the wood correctly, how to dig holes big enough for the route systems of an avenue of trees, how to weed around swimming pools and tennis courts. He had even shown me a brick wall that he had laid and a fence that he had built. At Copper Lodge, he turned his hand to anything they asked of him: fixing outbuildings’ roofs, digging trenches for cabling, realigning garage doors, grouting patio flagstones, unblocking drains. There didn’t seem to be enough hours in the week ahead to make a dent in the long list of tasks we had been asked to complete. It didn’t faze me. Hard work equalled peace of mind. Anything was better than fretting about money in the middle of the night.
‘Lucas is home and he’s keen to say hello.’
My stomach flipped. I had been so busy, I had almost forgotten.
‘Cool,’ I said, brushing off the soil from my hands, feeling very uncool.
‘It’ll only take five minutes and then we can head off home.’
I straightened, and walked stiffly up to the house, swallowing repeatedly and wiping my sweaty hands up and down my jeans, blowing on them, wanting to cool them. I tried to remember how to breathe.
A woman a few years younger than me with peroxide-blonde hair was waiting for us by the floor-to-ceiling sliding windows. As I took off my muddy boots, I looked around at the interior.
It was the same airy, sparse room that I had scrutinised so often in the copy of House & Garden. The slate and glass galley kitchen was at the back, adjacent to the sitting room area of low leather sofas. There were hardwood partition walls hung with modern paintings like splatters that stopped where the ceiling vaulting of beams began. However impressive it was, the reality of the house reminded me of viewing rentals with Rob. The estate agents’ details always promised us the perfect flat, but when we viewed them in 3D, they were smaller than we had imagined, and had smells and aspects that changed them for the worse. It wasn’t that I disliked the interior of Copper Lodge; it was simply less soulful than I had imagined. There was a sinus-clearing rush of cleanliness, and sharp edges everywhere. The chilliness from the concrete underfoot seemed to rise through my bones and into my head.
‘I am Agata,’ the young woman said, in a strong Polish accent.
‘Hi.’ I put my hand out, and she took it for a moment, absorbing its tremor.
‘He’s in the …’ she began, pointing to a door, twisting her peroxide ponytail into a knot before undoing it again and repeating the process. She was so thin, she looked like a pretty child with malnutrition. Her eyes were close together, appealingly so, but they were deep-set, haunted. Her cheeks were covered in a layer of fine downy hair.
‘The study?’ Gordon said.
Agata nodded and handed us a pair of fluffy grey slippers each.
‘I’m fine in socks,’ Dad said, sniffing. But I took mine, too nervous to say no.
‘I just get …’ Agata said, darting into the kitchen and pouring some frothed milk into a cup of coffee. ‘For Lucas.’
My father and I followed her through a heavy brown door into a narrow corridor that was darker than the rest of the house. The walls were panels of polished wood decorated with more paintings. Too many, I thought. But I was no judge.
Before Agata had a chance to open the middle of three doors, Lucas burst through it, almost bouncing. ‘Hello,’ he beamed, ruffling his loopy blond curls and blinking his long, fair eyelashes rapidly at us as though he hadn’t seen human life in years.
Blood collected in my heart and it thumped, once, as though announcing the arrival of a big important feeling. He looked even more handsome than I remembered. As a younger man, he had had shorter hair and a rangier body, but now his hair curled behind his ears, like an earnest boy’s, and his broad shoulders and olive tan spoke of wealth and a good life. I was reminded of how commanding his height was, and of the small mole high on his cheekbone, perfectly placed, where an artist might draw it. I wanted the door to shut again, allowing me to re-present myself as a completely different person. A magnificent person who had sophisticated conversations up my sleeve, and clean clothes. Appearing in front of him as normal old me was agonising.
‘I’m Heather,’ I said inanely, and then stuck my hand out for him to shake.
He took it. His touch could have melted me clean away. ‘I’m Lucas,’ he said, grinning, holding my hand for longer than an employer should.
My father cleared his throat, a small frown twitching in one eyebrow.
‘Let’s walk and talk while we wait for Elizabeth,’ Lucas said, charging off.
Agata came up beside him to hand him his coffee. He took it and drank it with one small sip and two gulps. As he walked, his long limbs had a swinging, striding confidence. I shuffled along behind him, trying to keep up in my ridiculous slippers. We shared eye contact for a split second as he spoke over his shoulder, and I doubted my heart could withstand the shocks of electricity.
‘Where’s Elizabeth, does anyone know?’ he asked, taking his mobile out from his shorts pocket. Before any of us had a chance to answer, he was speaking into it. ‘Hi, darling. Gordon and Heather are here to talk about the borders around the barn, remember? … Ha! Don’t worry, we’ll wait for you.’
Agata looked at me briefly.
‘Agata, you make the best coffee in the world,’ Lucas said, leaving his cup on the breakfast bar and adding, ‘Tell Elizabeth we’ll be down by the barn.’
My father and I followed him into the garden.
Lucas slowed down, hanging back to walk next to me a
long the pathway. ‘How’s your auntie doing?’ he asked, dropping his voice. His eyes matched the clear sky behind him, as though he were born to complement it.
‘Much better now that Mum’s there.’
‘We’ll miss her. But thrilled to have you on board,’ he said, speeding up ahead again. His nervous energy was infectious. I became excited about an unidentifiable adventure ahead, and eager to follow.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
We passed the laurel hedge. It had grown to twice its original size, but I recognised where I was immediately. The water gulped at the filter. The feel of the pool water was a sensory memory that raised the hairs across my arms.
‘Through there is the swimming pool, but then you probably remember that,’ Lucas said.
‘Dad never let me near it,’ I replied coolly, glancing at my father, the blood coursing through my veins.
My father looked up, missing again what he had missed in the past. ‘That laurel’s due for a trim,’ he said.
Lucas caught my eye and I silently willed him not to talk about the pool again. There was a playful Dare me! glint in his eye. My cheeks flamed.
‘We really need Elizabeth,’ he said, grinning. ‘She had some ideas for the border, apparently.’
My face cooled, but before we reached the barn, he stopped and pointed at the delicate pink and white flowers that drooped behind the box hedge. ‘What are those called again?’ he asked me.
I gaped at him, startled by his audacity, then fired out my answer like a pupil asked to stand up in assembly. ‘Bleeding hearts.’
‘And the Latin?’
‘Lampro—’ my father began.
‘Lamprocapnos spectabilis,’ I cut in.
‘You know your stuff.’
My father cleared his throat. ‘Aye, she does.’
‘Are you going to take over your dad’s business here?’
‘I retrained,’ I said, flushing; it was a thorny subject between me and my father. ‘I’m a swimming coach now.’
Lucas stared at me as though I had told him I was an astronaut. ‘I’m glad,’ he said before walking off.
