“All I know is that the whole place is utter bollocks, Ruben and I’m tired of it. I’m planning my next move and it’ll be one giant leap out of there.”
“It sounds like Crossroads at that place,” he says, sniggering.
“It’s cheap enough for the masses but still decent enough for the toffs passing through… really attracts the worst kind of customer, and also the worst sort of staff who know they have options if the going gets tough. Undoubtedly they’ll get paid twice as much if they can just grin and bear the commute into London each day and work in a hotel there.”
“You’ll be gone from there soon, Freya. Pastures new and all that.”
“Yes.”
He rubs my feet so well, I begin to feel my lids fall.
Maybe he’s right… the ghosts this week are what have made me so tired.
Maybe it’s those I need to walk away from.
Not this new relationship.
Those pesky demons of the past, all wrapped up in that village I used to call home…
“It’ll be okay, Freya,” he promises, “don’t worry.”
Chapter Eighteen
That Can’t Be You
Sunday arrives all too soon and I find myself in a cab with Ruben, wondering if I should try to escape at the next traffic lights before it’s too late. Then I recall cab doors lock when the vehicle stops so that a fare can’t run away before paying. Drat.
Yesterday was hilarious. Ruben attempted to take me shopping in Chelsea. We walked into at least three designer stores and nothing fit. I’m only a size ten but I do have a generous rack. I can tell the women he’s used to keeping company aren’t like me… all sample sizes probably… not to mention, I rarely buy dresses, and if I have, they’ve been bought and taken in at the waist because of my boob to waist and hip ratio.
I could tell he was excited at the thought of splashing out on clothes for me, but the whole thing didn’t turn out the way he expected. It was clear we would find nothing for me in that neighbourhood so we stopped to have lunch at this dreadful vegan place he’d been recommended by a friend. It couldn’t have been more hoity-toity, plus I almost ran from the place screaming because of its whole meat-hating ethos.
After that, I told him I would go shopping on my own because it would be much easier. He gave me his credit card and the pin number and told me there was no limit. I accepted the card to make him happy but told myself I wasn’t going to buy stuff with his money.
So, I ran down to Oxford Street and bought a dozen dresses on his credit card…
I don’t know how it happened, but it just did. I had all these notions of finding one, horrid little dress and instead, I saw lots that I knew Ruben would like to see me in. When I got home and put on a fashion show for him, he looked so happy and after I tried on the last dress, he took me to bed and ravished me for hours. I’m still sore and the bumps in the road are hard to take.
“You look gorgeous,” he says, as if to allay all my worries and fears.
I could give him a hand-job? Right here, right now. That might get me out of this…
I must be giving off nervous vibes.
Anyway, the dress I decided on for today is a red velvet number which sits just above the knee, has long sleeves and a low-cut back. To maintain decorum at a family gathering, the lady at the sales counter told me to go and buy one of those bras that you stick to your body at the front without the need for straps or any of that, so I’m wearing one of those and praying to god it doesn’t ping off halfway through lunch. I curled my hair just how Ruben likes it and it’s flowing down my back. I’m wearing a black coat in the cab, not only because it’s cold outside, but also because Ruben’s hands would be all over me otherwise.
We pull up at the house and I’m in awe already—and we haven’t even gone inside yet.
Ruben pays the man and we stand on the pavement, staring up at a colossal four-storey property in Mayfair. It must be worth at least £20million… I couldn’t possibly guess.
“Don’t worry, they’re very humble,” he insists, grabbing my hand and leading me to the door. However, we don’t so much as knock. Before we even get to the door, there’s a woman in a maid’s uniform opening it to welcome us in.
“Hello, Ruben,” she says, and everything inside me goes rigid—and not in a good way. I develop a massive amount of tension in my neck and spine, a huge ball of fear in my throat, not to mention… my fanny is still sore and if I so much as sit down today with a wince, it’ll be witnessed by one of the staff, won’t it? You know what they say about posh people and their staff? They see all. I should know. Most of the time, I am one of those staff.
Voyeur becomes the subject, suddenly.
How foolish I was to imagine his parents would cook for us and we’d have time to get ready for the onslaught of questioning, some strong liquor soothing us before that time.
His parents will be on us right away because they’re able to entertain all while their staff do the hard work.
“Your coat, miss?” the servant asks, because maid, servant… house assistant… all sound bad, but she bloody looks like a servant in a light-blue pinafore with a white pinny over.
Crikey.
“Let me help,” Ruben interjects, taking the coat from my shoulders.
Evidently the poor servant’s been trying to prise it from me since we walked through the door, but I’ve been stood here like a loon, jaw open as I take in the entrance hall.
The floor is tiled black and white. No surprise. It’s gleaming, freshly polished I’d warrant. I look up and there’s a massive chandelier fully lit, hanging from the ceiling three floors up but with a long cable so that the actual lights are more around first-floor height. The curving walnut staircase has stairs down into the basement and then they go up and up and up to the third floor. Or fourth? I think I may have vertigo just looking up at the height of this place.
After my coat is taken, the maid introduces herself. “I’m Clarissa. Please don’t worry. Alexia is the best woman I’ve ever worked for. You’re going to have a lovely time, just relax.”
Clarissa is a beautiful middle-aged woman with stunning hazel eyes and skin befitting of an Egyptian goddess. And she’s a servant…?
However, as her warm smile assails me, I begin to believe she’s genuine, and that this isn’t an episode of some horror film on Netflix where I’m about to be fed hallucinogens and dragged into a cult.
As we walk down a long corridor towards the back of the house where there’s a large sunroom, my heartbeat finally begins to slow and I’m reminded of Ruben’s presence beside me as he cups my elbow, guiding me down behind Clarissa.
We make it to the stunning, grand sunroom and I realise the house is even bigger than I thought. It’s not just tall, but wide too, not to mention it goes back and back. It makes me wonder if this didn’t used to be two houses and was knocked into one.
His parents are stood by a bar in the corner, huddled over some concoction they’re busy coming up with. Everything in this room is white and light, whereas the house (as I observed while traversing the corridor), is dominated by heavy dark furniture, warm tones and large fireplaces. This is where they spend time in the winter months then, I guess. It’s warm in here even without a radiator in sight, probably due to the sheer amount of glass letting light in.
“Oh, she’s here,” someone squeals, and I take my eyes off the decorated glass above to observe Ruben’s mother striding towards me.
I look to Ruben and he rolls his eyes. “Just your son here. Don’t mind me… thought I’d visit, you know?”
She flicks her fingers in his direction in a joking fashion and rushes towards me, her robe-like dress swirling around her. She’s a vision in bright pinks, oranges and violets, her clothes one-off and designed for comfort, heavily detailed, finely stitched and light as air by the looks of things. I should’ve worn one of my other dresses… one more floaty, like hers.
She flings her arms around me before kissing each chee
k. “My, my, he said you were beautiful. I’m so glad he’s brought home a real woman, finally.”
“It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Yes, yes! Well, I’m Alexia and this is my husband, Fred.”
I take a deep breath, something telling me that Ruben’s father is not going to be as lively as his mother. Fred appears beside his wife sporting a thick grey moustache which matches the hair on his head except for a few flecks of bygone red, still poking out. Ruben takes after his mother in looks, except his size and bulk match Fred’s. Ruben is handsome and beautiful, Fred isn’t. He’s one of those gents who could be a binman or an oil tycoon, who knows? He’s wearing chinos and a polo shirt he might have bought at Marks and Spencer, or else Ralph Lauren sent them over himself. There’s nothing about him that screams rich, apart from his wife, of course. He would never have landed Alexia without being rich.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Freya… is it?” He leans down to take my hand and kisses my knuckles.
“All right, all right,” Ruben says, stepping in to take my hand back. “Leave her alone, Dad.”
I’m suddenly beset by a strange, hot sensation in my chest. It’s that feeling of being provoked, but you don’t know what by—only that something’s happening you’re not quite sure of yet.
It’s got something to do with recognition, perhaps even familiarity.
It was when he spoke. His voice.
Fred Kitchener?
The name does seem to ring a bell, though I do meet a lot of people…
Hmm, there’s something definitely familiar about his voice.
Also, Ruben seems uncomfortable around his father, especially just then when his dad kissed my hand. He didn’t have anything to say about Alexia giving me two kisses and practically a full body hug, but Fred is a different story, it seems. Obviously, he doesn’t trust his father.
“Ruben has told us so little about you,” Fred says, locking eyes with Ruben who’s trying to regain his cool but is failing. The colour in his cheeks reminds me of when we’re having sex, his blood up. “Let’s have a little drink before we eat, shall we?”
“We’ve made sangria… anything to blot out the grey weather outside, hey?” Alexia says, her thick accent full of levity, I almost feel relaxed… but it lasts maybe a second, before I turn to look at Ruben again and find him once more unamused.
There’s a large sitting area at the left side of the room where Alexia suggests we all sit. Ruben and I sit tight together in one corner while his mother drapes her long limbs over another corner, arranging herself out like a fan, yards and yards of colourful fabric in stark contrast to the white sofa she’s sitting on.
Fred’s the last to get comfortable, bringing over a large tray bearing jugs of sangria and tumblers already teeming with ice and fruit. I accept a glass as does Ruben, but I feel his tension slacken, the same as mine, when his father finally sits beside his mother.
“So, what is it your father does, Freya?” Alexia asks, and I look around the room, trying to locate Clarissa. She lied to me about having a lovely time today. In fact, she gravely misled.
“How is that important?” Ruben says. “Why don’t you ask Freya what it is she does?”
She reacts to her son’s insult with the same snide smile of a cat who just outran a dog and then watched as he went sailing over the edge of a cliff.
“Why do we even need to talk about what I do or what I may have coming my way? Ruben and I have only been together a week, Mr and Mrs Kitchener.”
I feel flustered and I think they see this.
Maybe I should forgive their interrogation. After all, he’s their only surviving son. They want to see him matched up with someone worthy… compatible.
Fred clears his throat authoritatively, as if to bring order to the room. “What is it you do, Miss Carter?” his voice booms, demanding compliance.
I never told him my last name, unless Ruben did. My face must be redder than my dress by now.
“I manage the Claremont Estate in Old Windsor.”
The two of them look at one another, as if in relief.
“Sorry, sorry,” Alexia gushes, “you just don’t know how many women he’s dated who’ve only been after his money.”
I laugh my head off, making everyone else laugh, even though a proper student of psychology would recognise how close to lunatic I must appear right now.
“Oh, I’m definitely not after his money,” I gush, but with an edge of menace that amuses Ruben, but leaves his parents wondering if I do, in fact, have ulterior motives.
The only motive I have is to have their son as naked as possible for the rest of our lives.
“Anyway, what is it you do, Mrs Kitchener? Artist, perhaps? Ruben and I have similar skills in being able to read people. It’s becoming clearer to me now why…”
We each have a fuck for a father.
Fred’s eyes are on me, and not in a pleased-as-punch-for-his-son way. Nope. He’s not even trying to hide his intrigue—he’s eyeing up what he could get for himself if it goes wrong between his son and me, or if indeed, he makes me an offer I cannot refuse.
“YES! YES! I am an artist,” she gushes, “how wonderful, and Ruben did not tell you?”
“No, no, honestly, she figured it out herself, Mamma,” he says, and I turn to see something new in his eyes. There’s a boyishness in him that he wouldn’t normally reveal with his father around, but perhaps with me by his side, he knows he no longer has to face that brute alone.
I squeeze his hand as Clarissa exclaims, “Lunch is served!”
After a lunch of lobster bisque, followed by chicken served with every type of salad going, all served in dainty little china pots, finished off with crème caramel and espresso, Alexia steals me away to give me a tour of the house. I’m ready for a lie down, but she remains as animated as she was an hour ago.
I’m shown to the library and she guides me to the First Editions shelf where there are a number of books worth upwards of £100K each, no doubt.
“Do you like to read?” she asks, as I’m gazing up at the floor-to-ceiling shelves, wondering just how many books there are in here. Also, have they catalogued every single one in case of fire? I guess that’s why they need staff… because they’ve got stuff.
“I used to read a great deal when I was young, but not these days. I don’t have time.”
She laughs as if I’m talking nonsense. “There is always time. Please, choose something and promise to read it or I won’t have it back and you’ll leave a gap in Clarissa’s perfectly alphabetized system.”
I laugh and shrug as she gives up trying to cajole me. We move on and she shows me the other downstairs rooms, including an enormous galley kitchen (I can tell they entertain a lot). There’s also a fine sitting room in Asian pink with huge sofas and a large, long-haired grey cat happily camped out by the fire. Alexia takes me past a closed door and whispers, “Fred’s study, let’s leave them to it.”
She’s very proud of her dining room which is even bigger than the sunroom earlier. She shows me the gaudy dinner service she and Fred received as a wedding present from her parents and tells me how she never uses it but can’t bear to throw it out either. She shows me the other dinner sets she has, some for aristocratic guests she says, others for drunken parties with friends (more robust), and one more humble set she only brings out at Christmas for the family, with a plain blue trim and nothing more, as if to remind herself it’s important to be grateful for the little things.
As we’re walking upstairs to the first floor, I decide to mention, “Ruben never said what it is Fred does.”
It’s not difficult to imagine that Alexia didn’t come from money, or else why would she have married him? This is all him, unless he helped propel her to the stars in her art career, maybe…
Even an art novice such as myself would still have heard of her if she was well-known, surely?
“Fred’s retired now but he used to drive a taxi.”
My jaw almo
st hits the floor. I roll it back up before she notices.
We reach a huge room, a vast open space in which the furniture is covered with dustsheets.
“This is where we entertain,” she says, “and yes, it’s me who’s paid for all of this.”
“A ballroom…” I almost trip over the word.
“It’s often used as a viewing room, Freya. You understand?”
I take a deep breath. “Your art.”
“Yes,” she says with glee.
“I’m so glad you’re the one,” I breathe, “just, so glad you’re the…”
“Breadwinner?”
“Yes, but also… a good influence for your boys. Modern attitudes and all that.”
She arches one eyebrow, even though it was already provocative. She sniffs and tells me, “Laurent and I were very close. Meanwhile Ruben and his father are more alike and used to be close, until they clashed and grew apart. Too similar if you ask me. And so, Laurent is dead and Ruben lives… they say the good die young. Maybe… I don’t know.”
There’s a lot wrong with what she just said, but then I never lost a child, so I can’t judge how that might affect someone.
“You blame yourself,” I infer.
“It’s been a while now, Freya. I don’t know who I blame anymore. Time passes and the pain grows duller, the blame disperses, perhaps with time the pain and the blame becomes compartmentalised… or the scar tissue becomes tougher to dig beneath.”
“Ruben tells me things, sometimes. I know he blames himself.”
“Hmm.” She continues showing me around the house, even though at this point, it’s her and not the house I’m much more interested in. “That’s probably why he started that ridiculous charity, even though he hasn’t a brain for business. Not at all. Ruben is his father’s child. He’s physical, always has been, always will be. Knows how to use his body and his mind, but only as part of a game.”
Kismet Page 15
