by Wendy Holden
Rosie felt her resolve flag. The proposal, in any case, had a secret attraction for her. Having seen Ladymead so many times from the top of the hill, it would be fascinating to see inside the beautiful old place. As a sop to Bella, she mentioned this.
"Hate to disappoint you," was Bella's unexpected reaction, "but it'll be beyond hideous, darling. Believe me, I know what rock-star pads are like; I've done enough of them for Insider. Post-ironic ghastly, every last one of them. Swirly carpets, fish-tank walls, gold Trim-style phones, and Parker Knolls covered in beige plastic."
"Are you sure?" Rosie recalled the romantic golden huddle of buildings on the moor. She'd imagined great halls, not fish-tank walls.
"Oh, absolutely. Table football, vending machines, and inflatable armchairs everywhere you look. Believe me, they're all the same. Just horrid, darling."
"Oh. That's a shame."
"But think of the money, darling."
***
The following afternoon, after thinking long and hard about the money—even more so after the car had failed to start-—Rosie walked slowly up the long and twisting drive of Ladymead. Her legs ached. It had taken over an hour to make the journey from the cottage to the mansion, a period in which Rosie's dislike and distrust of her forthcoming commission had had time to harden. She was doing it for the money. This did not mean she had to like him.
It was difficult, however, not to like his estate. As she glimpsed acres of lush parkland between the fat trunks of the lime trees bordering the drive, Rosie tried not to be impressed.
Rounding the bend and facing the automatic black gates above and around which it was impossible to see, she struggled against feelings of intimidation. It was like something out of a Bond film.
"I've come to see, um, Mr. Locke," Rosie informed the juddering lens of a security camera. A click, a creak, and then the great gate swung back.
A fat tower of honey-colored stone stood before her, glittering with diamond-paned windows. Through the archway framed within a tumble of white roses, Rosie could see a paved courtyard; above, amid the riot of turrets and crenellations, a white flag bearing a rose tree and a lamb fluttered briskly in the breeze. It was, in short, the perfect medieval manor house. And at least ten times more beautiful than Rosie had imagined.
"It's gorgeous," she breathed despite herself. It seemed incredible, not to say tragic, that a place with so gracious an exterior could be filled with ironic junk inside. Yet Bella had assured her it would be—and when, Rosie thought with a tinge of sourness, had she ever been wrong? Particularly recently.
As a tall man dressed in black shimmied into view, she jumped.
"My apologies if I alarmed you, madam. I'm Murgatroyd, Mr. Locke's butler," the apparition rumbled at her in dignified tones. "This way, please."
Rosie sighed as she followed. So Bella was right. A butler, no less. Matt was a rock-star cliché after all. "I didn't realize he had a butler," she remarked as Murgatroyd glided across the courtyard, his polished shoes almost silent on the smooth and ancient stones. Rosie stumbled after him, taking in a jumbled impression of mullions, roses, the flash of ancient glass, and acres of weathered stone.
"Well, to be perfectly honest, madam, I don't think Mr. Locke did either, at first," Murgatroyd said.
Rosie frowned. What did he mean?
"What I intended to convey, madam," the butler added, evidently noticing her expression, "was that when Mr. Locke bought Ladymead, he very kindly took on all the existing staff. Very good of him, that was."
"Are there many staff?" Looking up at the ancient walls enclosing her, Rosie imagined an entire army of retainers hidden away.
"Only myself, madam. Sir Hadley, the former owner, had a much larger staff originally, but by the time Ladymead passed out of his hands, most of his requirements were being met by myself."
"You must have been a bit shocked when you heard Ladymead had been sold to a pop star," Rosie said provocatively, thinking this butler was too respectful for her liking. The tramplike, fisticuff-prone Matt Locke she had met bore little resemblance to the enlightened lord-of-the-manor figure whose praises were now being sung. Still, no doubt Matt's vandallike destruction of the fabric of her life was, as Bella predicted, reflected in his vandal-like destruction of the fabric of Ladymead. "I expect," Rosie probed, "there have been all sorts of changes to the house." Surely now Murgatroyd would mention the fish tanks?
"As indeed there were, madam." Murgatroyd glided to a halt before a vast and ancient oak door. As his hand turned a massive iron-ring handle, worn and polished from centuries of use, Rosie braced herself for the swirly carpets.
"This," Murgatroyd announced, ushering her in, "is the great hall."
"But it looks as if nothing has been altered for centuries," Rosie said after a few minutes' amazed scrutiny. Around her, bare white walls of an antique thickness, sprouting here and there enormous pairs of antlers, stretched from the sisal floor to the hammerbeam ceiling. A fireplace the size of a bus dominated one wall, above which, Rosie noticed, cavorted a plaster representation of the same lamb and rose tree emblazoned on the flag. At the far end, a narrow refectory table ran almost the entire width of the hall, its polished surface glowing in the mellow light of a nearby leaded window.
"Indeed, madam. Mr. Locke embarked on an extensive program of restoration soon after he took possession."
"Really?"
"Absolutely, madam," said Murgatroyd. "Restoring the great hall to its former condition is entirely the inspiration of Mr. Locke."
"I didn't realize he was interested in antiques," muttered Rosie, confounded.
"Indeed he is, madam. In fact, one of his first acts on acquiring Ladymead was to trace all the pieces of furniture that Sir Hadley, a descendant of the noble family that had owned the house for generations, was obliged to sell over the years." Could she, Rosie wondered, detect a hint of freezing disapproval in the butler's tone? "Mr. Locke persuaded all the auction houses to alert him when a piece was coming up. As most pieces were made for the house, they were easily identifiable by the Ladymead crest of a lamb and a rose tree, which you may have noticed on the panel above the fireplace over there."
Rosie goggled. "So the former owner just sold everything off?"
"Unfortunately, yes, madam." No doubt about the tone this time. "Sir Hadley was more interested in, ahem, bringing the house up-to-date, madam. In Sir Hadley's time, the walls of the great hall were covered in flock wallpaper and he used to keep his aquarium in it. This way, if you don't mind, madam."
Rosie followed as he glided on through a sequence of dark, paneled rooms. Eventually they emerged into an airy stone hall whose wide, shallow-treaded stone staircase rose the entire height of the building to a ceiling painted to represent Mount Olympus. Here, muscular gods reclined lasciviously alongside pert-breasted goddesses in skimpy lengths of rippling pastel silk.
At the top of the second flight of stairs, Murgatroyd pushed aside a heavy tapestry curtain. "The long gallery, madam. Generally considered to be one of Ladymead's finest rooms. Now that"—the butler permitted himself a gentle cough—"the billiards table and vending machines installed by Sir Hadley have been removed."
Rosie hardly heard him. Entranced, she was drinking in the details of the room that stretched before her like an amazingly long and ornate shoebox. One side was indented by lattice-windowed bays through which the sun poured in diamond patterns on the polished oak floorboards. Spread magnificently across the opposite wall were two marble fireplaces with vast and elaborate overmantels, again featuring the lamb and the rose, between which bristled hundreds of portraits in heavy and elaborate gold frames. In keeping with the splendor of their surroundings, the expressions on the faces were freezingly formal. Rosie stepped forward and examined the nearest, a haughty young woman with a very high forehead and skin the color of raw haddock. The intervening centuries had not reduced in the least the beady force of her stare.
"It's original," she muttered, tracing the fine brushwork
with her eye.
"Indeed it is, madam." Murgatroyd sounded almost offended at the suggestion it could have been otherwise. "They all are. Mostly seventeenth-century and dating from the time of Ladymead's main period of expansion and building. Although Mr. Locke is, I believe, planning to inaugurate a collection of twentieth—twentyfirstcentury, I should say—portraits."
Rosie felt a shudder of shock and excitement. Surely Matt did not intend her work to hang here—in this magnificent room, alongside what looked suspiciously like a couple of Clouets and at least one Kneller? And there, looming in a vast white gown out of the distance at the gallery end, wasn't that a portrait of the Virgin Queen herself? To be among such company was deeply flattering, but Rosie pushed the thought firmly aside. It was just a job. She had not wanted to come here. Even if it was one of the loveliest houses she had ever seen.
"Mr. Locke is on his way, madam," murmured Murgatroyd, showing her into one of the windowed bays where two battered but very comfortable-looking leather armchairs had been placed opposite each other. So the sitting was to take place in this room? As the butler moved away, Rosie fished out her sketch pads and pencils, feeling, as she did so, the inscrutable gaze of the portraits lining the wall. The silence and the stillness sang in her ears.
She almost leaped out of her skin as a gloomy figure appeared in the distance. It was, however, only Murgatroyd, reappearing with a tray bearing a silver coffeepot, cups and saucers, and a plate of biscuits. "Mr. Locke thought you might like some refreshments, madam."
"Thank you." Rosie realized she was starving. As soon as Murgatroyd disappeared, she fell on the plate of custard creams with a vengeance. Then a slammed door at the distant end of the gallery stopped her in mid crunch.
It was him. She could recognize his voice, advancing up the gallery, shouting. As he approached, she realized he was carrying a mobile.
"I tell you, Geordie, I'm not delivering until I'm ready. I don't care about their sodding schedules…I don't care, Geordie. If I handed it over now, it would be a fucking disaster…"
As Matt came into view of Rosie's bay, he pointed to his mobile and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. Well, that makes no odds to me… Anyway, look, I've got to shoot. A meeting…No, nothing you need to know about." Matt snapped the mobile away and threw himself into the chair opposite Rosie. She stiffened with dislike. At least with determination to show him that she disliked him.
"Sorry about that." He grinned at her and raked both hands through his disheveled hair. "Nice to see you again."
His open friendliness was the last thing she had expected. Charmed, despite herself, Rosie resisted the strong urge to grin back. She hated him, remember. She gave him a distant smile and noted that he was wearing the same hooded top and grubby cargo pants he had worn for Samantha's party.
"Bloody managers," Matt groaned, raising his eyes to the ornate ceiling. She had not noticed before how prominent his lips were. Or the way his eyes, deep and green as blades of grass, smoldered. Not that this made any difference to her, of course. The sudden fizz in her feet was merely the delight of the artist preparing to sketch a particularly interesting face. Wasn't it?
"All managers care about is the sodding money." He was looking at her and smiling. "No matter if the bloody album goes down the bog. There'll be another just like me around the corner. Or so they think. And they're probably right."
Rosie, shifting uncomfortably in the spotlight of those green eyes, oddly piercing above their sleepy bags, shrugged. She knew nothing about managers, unless you counted the one in the supermarket.
"Sorry to rabbit on," Matt said. "I'm having a couple of problems with the new album. Well, a couple of hundred, actually. Just won't come together, for some reason." He pulled a wry face. "Between you and me, I'm shitting myself about it."
This was both unexpected and profoundly disarming. Despite herself, Rosie felt her lips part in a smile.
"I mean, I can see the reviews now," Matt muttered. "'Can a performance this wooden give you splinters?' Or how about: 'About as much impact as a tea towel falling on your foot…'"
His features twisted in a mixture of anger, misery, and resignation. Feeling a twinge of sympathy, Rosie immediately forced it down. Why, after all, should she feel sorry for him?
"Aren't you going to start?" Matt asked, snapping forcibly out of his mood. "Warts and all," he told her, flashing his perfect teeth. "I want you to do me as I am."
Rosie nodded, thinking that, now that she was really looking at him, she had never seen anyone as wart-free in her life. As free of blemish in general. Beneath the mass of uncombed dark hair were cheekbones you could hang-glide off of and a nose of Botticelli straightness. He had the careless confidence of the assuredly beautiful, the extravagant untendedness of a pile of couture dumped on the bedroom floor. Bedroom floor? Rosie stopped herself sharply.
There was silence for a few minutes. Rosie sketched away vigorously. The sooner she got the preliminary sketches finished, the sooner she could move on to canvas and get the whole thing over and done with. Matt, meanwhile, had lapsed deep into thought. His long hands plucked restlessly at each other. Obsessing about his album, Rosie imagined, her pencil tracing the fine curve of his jawbone. The jawbone suddenly moved.
"Look, I'm really sorry about the party," Matt burst out suddenly. "Hitting your boyfriend and all that."
"Ex-boyfriend," muttered Rosie, immediately wishing that she hadn't. No doubt it would amuse him to know how what he had started had finished. A blush began to spread about her face and neck.
"You must be pretty pissed off with me," Matt continued. The green eyes, she saw, looked almost anguished. "I'm really sorry. Gutted, in fact."
"I don't want to talk about it," Rosie said, drawing furiously. It was difficult to have an embarrassing conversation with someone whose face you were forced to stare at frequently. She focused on his mouth, noticing the contrast of his heavy lips to the delicate planes and shadows of the rest of his face.
"I understand," Matt said. "But I'd like to talk about it. I'd like to explain why I behaved the way I did. Calling myself Kevin and everything. Must have seemed pretty strange."
Just a bit, Rosie thought crossly, pressing her pencil hard into the paper. Yet, despite herself, she was surprised. She had been determined to avoid at all costs the subject of the party; in the unlikely event they ended up discussing it, she had been expecting aggression and defensiveness on Matt's part. Arrogant imperviousness, even. But apology? Never.
"It did seem strange," she admitted. "But," she added in a rush of fairness, "it must have seemed pretty odd that I didn't recognize you. I'm afraid I've no idea about famous people at all, you see. I don't know who anyone is. It used to drive my boyfriend mad. My ex-boyfriend, I mean…" She winced.
The bee-stung lips stretched in a broad smile. "To be honest, I was thrilled, when you didn't know who I was. I didn't want to be recognized."
Thrilled? Didn't want to be recognized? And he a famous rock star. Was he making fun of her?
"Not very rock star of me, I know." Matt grinned, effortlessly reading her thoughts. "But I was terrified of going to that party. I'd planned to go in disguise, but Oakie wouldn't let me. So I dressed down. It was brilliant when that Grubster woman or whatever her name is thought I was a builder."
Rosie smiled faintly at the memory of them both standing apprehensively before the Tudor rose doorbell and half-timbered closed-circuit camera. Kevin/Matt had seemed perfectly all right then. That was before the world fell in.
"So why go at all?" she challenged.
She expected a bit of bluster at this, but instead Matt looked at her keenly. "Can I trust you? I feel that I can, but I'd hate to read what I'm about to tell you splashed over the News of the World or whatever."
Rosie hesitated, not wanting his confidences. "You don't have to tell me anything," she blurted out. The bleeding hearts of the famous or, failing that, their fridges, were more Mark's department. On the other hand, being the r
ecipient of celebrity confidences—even if Mark was unaware of it—would give her a certain satisfaction, especially as they were the secrets of a star he had been desperate to interview. "Not if you don't want to," she added more reasonably.
"Well, I'd like to if you can bear it. It would help me to talk." He paused for a few seconds before adding, in a rush, "I only went to the party because Oakie made me."
Rosie was frankly disappointed. As star revelations went, it was hardly seismic.
"Don't you want to know who Oakie is?"
Rosie looked up. "If you like."
"Oakie Cokie is my therapist." Matt searched her face for a reaction. She looked back at him blankly. What did he want her to say?
"I don't want to sound like an egomaniac or anything," he said, his eyes fixed on her in a mixture of amazement and amusement, "but I thought you might have heard I'd become, um, a bit of a recluse. I mean, I'm not trying to blow my own trumpet, but it was on the front page of all the papers and OK! did a special commemorative edition…Oh my God, just listen to me." He let out what sounded suspiciously like a snort. His shoulders were shaking, Rosie saw.
