Me and Mr Jones

by Lucy Diamond

  There was a lump in her throat. ‘Your watch, love? It’s on your bedside table,’ she’d replied. She’d had to busy herself hoovering bedroom four for the Flint family, who were arriving that afternoon, to stop herself dwelling on it any further.

  Now she took a long breath and looked at David. ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied candidly. ‘He’s been like that for a few weeks now. It’s probably just stress, he’s worked so hard lately. But we should keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He was frowning; the exact same frown she’d seen him wear as a boy when he was puzzling something out. ‘It was just … We were stripping the wallpaper in bedroom two earlier and he put the steamer on without filling it with water first.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I know it’s an easy mistake, but it could have been really dangerous – would have shorted-out the electrics, if I hadn’t noticed. And when I reminded him, he seemed … well, quite confused about the whole thing.’

  Lilian was silent for a moment, lips pressed together as she pictured the scene. Confused was a good way to describe her husband right now. A couple of times recently he’d woken in the night and had seemed completely disoriented, sitting bolt upright and staring at her wildly as if he didn’t know her. ‘It’s great you’re here, helping him, love,’ she said finally, hoping to soften the tension on her son’s face. ‘I’m sure that’s making things a lot easier for him.’ Not to mention saving him from being electrocuted or buggering up our power supply.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said again. ‘Well, I’ll stay as long as you need me anyway. You’re probably right – he just needs a break. You two should book a holiday after the summer, put your feet up for a change.’

  She scrubbed at the casserole dish, a hollow laugh bubbling in her throat. A holiday indeed! Chance would be a fine thing. She couldn’t even think about time off, when the Whartons were due on Thursday for a long weekend, along with Mr and Mrs Miller from Suffolk, and then a whole group of young women who were on some cycling tour or other the week after (she hoped they wouldn’t be too much trouble; girls nowadays got so rowdy at the drop of a hat). And then once they’d gone and the dust had settled, their Easter regulars would start arriving: the Brook family from Hampshire and … goodness, now she was forgetting. Lots of people anyway. Lots of hoovering, lots of cooking, lots of washing. The thought of a holiday was almost enough to make her cry with longing.

  ‘Seriously, Mum,’ David was saying. ‘While I’m staying, let me carry some of the load. Okay?’

  ‘Thanks, son,’ she replied. ‘I’m glad to have you here.’

  ‘In fact …’ An idea seemed to have taken root in him. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking. I’d love to get Em down here for a few days soon, show her how great the house is looking. Persuade her to think seriously about the two of us taking the place on. Why don’t you and Dad get away for a breather sometime next week? Just a couple of days. You could go and see Aunty Jean in Bournemouth maybe. Have a proper break.’

  Lilian felt quite overcome. Nobody had ever suggested such a thing to her before. Could she really leave Mulberry House in the hands of her son? She and Eddie never took time off once the busy season started, not properly. Even when it was Eddie’s brother’s funeral, they’d made a day trip of it, all the way up to Nottingham and back, rather than spend a whole night away and put their guests out.

  ‘You’ll have to let go sometime,’ David pointed out while she wrestled with the thought. ‘This could be our trial run. Emma might fall in love with the place, like I have, and then …’

  He left the sentence hanging tantalizingly unfinished. And then … they might move in for good and take up the reins. And then … she and Eddie could retire and live the quiet life.

  ‘Go on, be a devil,’ he coaxed. ‘Have some fun together. You said yourself that Dad needs a break.’

  That was what swung it. Eddie did need a change of scenery, a chance to put his feet up and relax. An image slid into her head of the two of them sagging into deckchairs on the front at Bournemouth, watching the tide roll in and out.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You’re on.’ She swallowed. ‘And about your dad – perhaps it’s best not to mention this to your brothers. For now anyway. We don’t want anyone to worry, do we?’

  Chapter Twelve

  Dear Mrs Timms,

  I’m delighted to be emailing details of our proposal for your fireplace order. As you will see, I am suggesting the Henley Asquith limestone, with the cast-iron insert and granite hearth, which has all the classic beauty I know you were keen to find.

  Could you let me know your thoughts sometime this week, please? If you are happy with the style, I can go ahead and order that for you.

  Best wishes

  Emma Jones

  Emma pressed ‘Send’ with a flourish, and ticked ‘Fireplace/Timms’ off her list. She liked her job, but sometimes – just sometimes – she was reminded how ridiculous it would seem to an extraterrestrial. Sourcing the perfect cushion for a client … Deliberating for the best part of an hour about the exact paint shade required for a child’s bedroom … Costing up an Italian light fitting that was running into the high hundreds (when she knew damn well you could get something similar from BHS for fifty quid) … She’d done all of these things within the last week, and each one had made her die a little inside. Pandering to the whims of rich people with too much time on their hands was hardly akin to being a paramedic or a social worker or a teacher.

  Her phone rang and, as if to amplify her convictions about her career’s worthlessness, the caller was Jennifer Salisbury, one of her most demanding clients. Jennifer had more money than sense, and was constantly fretting about some trivial design detail or other. Emma wouldn’t have minded if she kept the fretting to the quiet confines of her own head, but she insisted on involving other people – namely Emma – every single bloody time.

  ‘Oh, hi, it’s Jen,’ she said. ‘I’m having a total trauma about the rug. It’s just not working for me, I’m afraid. Could you come and give me your opinion?’

  Emma sighed inwardly. The rug in question was a typically colourful Paul Smith design, made of Tibetan wool, and absolutely gorgeous. The only ‘problem’ any sane person could possibly have with such a beauty was deciding which room was lucky enough to feature it. But after ten years in this business Emma knew that the customer was always right, even if it meant they were a complete pain in the neck.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ve got another client to see in Clifton this afternoon, so why don’t I drop in afterwards?’

  ‘Oh, would you? You’re such a sweetheart. What would I do without you?’

  What indeed, thought Emma, hanging up. That was the question. Might Jennifer actually have to confront her loneliness, the pointlessness of her life, if Emma wasn’t there to be badgered day and night with an opinion about this, and advice about that? Might she gaze around her enormous, spectacularly proportioned Victorian house, which she’d spent tens of thousands of pounds on styling and decorating in the four years Emma had known her, and think what the hell have I been doing all this time? What’s this all for?

  But then Emma knew the answer to that already. The endless lavish design plans and consultations, the purchases, colours and tweaks – they were merely an attempt to stave off Jennifer’s encroaching boredom at being married to a millionaire who spent most of the week working in London. It gave her something to do, something to witter about to her posh friends over wine-bar lunches. They were all at it.

  Still, each to their own. Who was Emma to judge anyway? She’d spent much of her free time chatting online to other pregnancy-obsessed women lately, when she wasn’t popping disgusting fertility supplements into her gob. Her life wasn’t exactly a triumph, either, right now. She’d even found herself reading up on all the barmy conception attempts that other women put themselves through – post-coital headstands, acupuncture, hypnoconception CDs (whatever the hell they were), temperature charts … even secret one-night stands with men without pr
otection. The last was probably a step too far, admittedly, but she could see how the desperation took hold of you. It was already sinking its claws into her so deep she knew there would be scarring.

  She added ‘Rug/Salisbury’ to her list, then returned to the top of her ‘to do’s. Lighting for Newsom Family Room. Ah yes, the Newsoms, who were in the throes of the most wonderful barn conversion out near Queen Charlton. Now that she thought about it, there was another family, the Barratts, who were decorating their master bedroom over in Bath and wanted some lighting samples too. Goody, thought Emma, getting to her feet and putting her Mac on standby. Time to go shopping.

  Her assistant, Flo, a dreamy, dark-haired girl who never seemed to be fully in tune with the world around her, looked up and blinked. ‘Going out?’

  ‘Lighting,’ Emma replied briefly. ‘And then a couple of appointments in Clifton.’

  ‘What’s that, hair appointment followed by a manicure?’ teased Greg, one of the other designers. ‘Jonesy, Jonesy, Jonesy. When are you going to start doing some actual, you know, like, work around this place?’

  There were six designers in the agency, and Greg was the joker of the pack. Tall, broad and ridiculously confident, he definitely fancied himself as Alpha Male, even competing with his own colleagues for business or prices.

  ‘Manicure? Brazilian you mean,’ Emma retaliated. ‘Shall I book you in for your usual back, sack and crack while I’m there? Followed by your … what was it you like, again? “Happy Ending” massage?’

  He laughed, then leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. ‘Have you really got a Brazilian, Jones? I’ve never actually seen one before. Hester refuses to do any kind of waxing down there – it’s all I can do to persuade her to give the hairy beast a trim now and then.’

  ‘Oh, Greg, stop, we don’t want to know! Too much information, dude!’ screeched Lottie, wincing and clapping her hands over her ears. She was, as usual, sitting with an open wedding magazine in front of her, ignoring her phone and not doing any work. Dressed today in a clingy fuchsia jumper, with the kind of cleavage that meant men never looked her in the eye, Lottie disapproved of almost everything Greg did or said. ‘The poor woman. Her ears must constantly be burning, having to put up with you and your big trap.’

  ‘At least her minge isn’t burning,’ Flo put in mildly. ‘Turns out I’m allergic to bikini waxes. Came up in a rash the first time I tried one. Never again.’

  ‘And on that bombshell …’ Emma said. ‘I’ll see you lot later.’

  ‘Missing you already!’ Greg yelled after her.

  Her mobile rang as she left the building: David. ‘Fancy bunking off?’ he asked.

  ‘Always,’ she replied. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘A few days in the countryside … a lovely big old house to ourselves … fresh air … romping in the meadows …’

  ‘Really?’ she asked, a smile stretching across her face. Then she clocked what he meant. Oh. Not a mini-break in the Cotswolds, then. More like Mulberry House with the in-laws and wet paint. ‘Are you talking about your parents’ place?’ she asked, trying not to sound too dispirited.

  ‘They’re away,’ he said. ‘We’d have it to ourselves.’

  ‘Oooh!’ God, it was like being a teenager again, she thought, remembering the secret fumbling sessions she’d had with sixth-form boyfriends while her parents were out. ‘Take your time!’ she’d trill under her breath, dashing for the phone whenever they went to Neighbourhood Watch meetings or a Caravan Club get-together. She could never hear ‘Love Is All Around’ by Wet Wet Wet without a flashback to the longest three minutes of her life, losing her virginity under her Laura Ashley duvet to Marc Abrahams, while her parents were out eyeing up new bedding plants in the Walsall Road garden centre.

  ‘What, all night? How come?’ she asked now, quickly blotting out the image of Marc Abrahams huffing and puffing before collapsing stickily on her.

  ‘I persuaded them to take some time off. So what do you think? Fancy playing Lady of the Manor?’

  She gave a snort. Lady of the Manor indeed. He made it sound like he was inviting her to Downton Abbey – Fawlty Towers, more like. But he sounded happy; so much happier than he’d been all year, and he wanted to be with her again. Given that the alternative was sourcing French curtain trim for Clifton Yahs, frankly she didn’t need to think twice. She coughed fakely into the phone. ‘Now you mention it, I think I’m coming down with something,’ she told him. ‘Better take a few days off to recover.’

  ‘A few days in bed, that’s what I prescribe,’ he said, and the words gave her a jolt of desire. Absence might well make the heart grow fonder, but it also seemed to be making the husband randier.

  ‘You read my mind, Dr Jones,’ she said huskily. ‘See you later.’

  Skiving work was surprisingly easy. After her client visit that afternoon, she phoned Tracey saying that she was going to finish early as she felt ropey, adding a few more pathetic coughs into the receiver for good measure. Then she drove home and packed a bag of silky undies, scented bath oils and a book she’d been meaning to read for ages.

  Oh, this was going to be fun, she thought to herself, singing at the top of her voice as she drove south. This might be exactly what she and David needed to get their marriage on track, some time off for good behaviour. She wasn’t ovulating for another ten days, so they could enjoy lots of no-pressure sex and smooching. You never know, she might even be able to drag him back to Bristol with her when she left.

  It wasn’t until she arrived at Mulberry House and saw an unfamiliar black Volkswagen and a silver Ka parked outside that she realized she and David wouldn’t actually be alone.

  No way, she thought, gripping the steering wheel with unnecessary tightness. No frigging way. She’d assumed that Lilian and Eddie were going out of town because they had no bookings this week – not so that she and David could step in and play ‘mine host’ in their absence. Over my dead body, she thought grimly.

  David must have been watching for her arrival because he was there in the doorway before she’d even hauled her bag out of the boot. ‘Hello,’ he said, crunching over the gravel drive and kissing her.

  She tried to let go of the tension in her shoulders as she hugged him, but couldn’t help commenting, ‘So I see we’ve got guests’ in a strangled-sounding voice.

  ‘Yeah, the Whartons and the Millers,’ he said, taking her weekend bag from her as if he was the resident butler. ‘Thought we could give it a practice run – you know, managing the place.’

  A practice run. Managing the place. Stop right there, she wanted to shout, one hand up like a police officer. But just as she was opening her mouth a portly gentleman appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Mr Jones! About that travel iron … ?’

  ‘I’ll be right with you, Mr Miller,’ David replied. ‘This is my wife, Emma, by the way.’

  ‘Hello,’ Emma said weakly. This was starting to feel like a bad dream. She wished she hadn’t laid on her fake illness quite so thoroughly to Tracey earlier; a miraculous recovery might well be in order at this rate.

  ‘Hello there!’ he cried jovially. He was in his fifties, she reckoned, with a bulging gut that must have taken many whisky evenings to cultivate and a horrible thick moustache. For an awful moment she imagined how it would tickle against one’s bare thigh and felt nauseous. ‘My wife wants to borrow an iron, you see – your husband wasn’t sure where such a thing was kept!’

  Don’t look at me, love, she wanted to say. I haven’t the foggiest. This may come as a shock, but being female doesn’t give me the superpower to sniff one out like a hound.

  She put on a bland Stepford smile, just to freak out David. ‘Let’s go inside, shall we?’ she said pleasantly. ‘I can track a domestic appliance from twenty paces, you watch.’

  Once the iron had been located and presented with a flourish to Fatty Miller, Emma poured herself a strong gin and eyeballed David. He hung his head guiltily, like a dog told off for pinching bisc
uits. ‘Sorry, Em,’ he said. ‘I should have been straight with you. I just thought it might be … a laugh.’

  ‘A laugh,’ she repeated, necking such a massive mouthful of gin it made her eyes water.

  ‘I still think we could make a go of this place,’ he said earnestly. ‘Honestly, I’ve loved being down here for the last few weeks. We could transform the house, the pair of us, make it really special.’

  She cast an appraising eye around the old farmhouse kitchen they were standing in: a well-proportioned square room with big windows overlooking the garden. There was a large table with six chairs around it, a proper old-fashioned larder cupboard and a wooden dresser stacked with Lilian’s beloved Chinese willow-pattern dinner service.

  Emma, who could never switch off her designer mode, had always thought there was so much potential in this room, if only her in-laws had the inclination to change it. For starters, she’d paint the whole room Joa’s White, with brilliant-white gloss around the skirting and the larder door. She’d get a joiner to replace the tired old units with some lovely old-fashioned wooden cupboards, rip off the peeling Formica worktop and lay a massive marble strip in its place; she’d grow herbs along the sunny windowsill, hang a bright Roman blind from the window and …

  ‘We could,’ she agreed thoughtfully, ‘but—’

  ‘This could be it, Em. Our way out of the city. A family home of our own – even better than the Bishopstone house.’

  She bit her lip. She’d loved the Bishopstone house, the one they’d almost bought before David lost his job and everything started going wrong. It was meant to be their happy-ever-after home. The first time they’d stepped over the threshold she’d almost been able to hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet on the gorgeous Victorian tiling of the hall floor, the laughter and excitement of their children on Christmas mornings and at birthday parties. She’d imagined this whole life for them there: the dog they’d have, the dinner parties they’d throw, the tasteful Farrow & Ball walls, the bread-smelling kitchen …