by Moyes, Jojo
“I’ll get my milk.”
“Elvis the Pelvis,” said Frederick, who had walked in holding the dissected innards of an old wristwatch.
“I said D, you little idiot.” But Celia said it fondly. No wonder she’s being nice to everyone, thought Lottie. I’d be nice to everyone.
“Do you know, Mummy, Guy says my lips are like petals.”
“Bicycle pedals,” said Frederick, screaming with laughter. “Ow!”
“D for Dreamboat. D for Dreamy. He is a little dreamy, isn’t he, Mummy? I wonder where he’s gone sometimes. Shall we do one for you, Lottie? It might come out as a J . . . you never know.”
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOT INTO THAT GIRL,” SAID Mrs. Holden at Lottie’s bristling, departing back.
“Oh, Lottie’s Lottie. She’ll be all right. She’s just got a mood on about something.” Celia smoothed her hair back and checked her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. “Tell you what, do me another one. With that green apple there. We’ll use a sharper knife this time.”
LOTTIE WAS OFFERED A JOB IN THE SHOE SHOP. Shelford’s Shoes, at the far end of the Promenade. She took it, not because she had to (Dr. Holden said she was welcome to wait a while and decide what it was she wanted to do) but because being out at the shoe shop three days a week was so much easier than being at the Holdens’. And it was almost impossible to get to Arcadia. There were spies all over the village, just waiting to warn off anyone who ventured up toward the House of Sin.
Guy had left for almost a week, and for that short period she had been able to breathe again, had just about managed to appear normal. (Luckily Celia was so locked in to her little bubble of love that she hadn’t really questioned what Mrs. Holden was now referring to as Lottie’s “episodes.”) But then he had returned and said his father had told him to “have some fun, a little holiday” before starting his fledgling career in the family business. And Lottie, who had now become physically bowed by the weight of longing she carried around with her, had braced herself for yet more of the same.
Worse, he was now living with them. He had been about to search for lodgings, had asked the Holdens whether there was anywhere particular they would recommend—that Mrs. Chilton’s place, for example. But Mrs. Holden wouldn’t hear of it. She had made him up a room at Woodbridge Avenue. At the far end of the house, you understand. With a water closet of his own. So there would be no need for any walking around the house in the middle of the night, would there? (“Very sage, dear,” Mrs. Chilton had said. “There’s no accounting for hormones.”) But there had been no question of not having him stay. Mr. Bancroft Senior would see that they were a welcoming family. With a large house. The kind of family one would positively aspire to marry into. And the huge crate of exotic fruit he sent up every week in lieu of housekeeping money didn’t go amiss, admittedly. No point Sarah Chilton’s being on the receiving end of that.
And three days a week Lottie would walk resignedly down the hill and across the municipal park, bracing herself for a day of squeezing size-eight feet into size-seven Mary Janes and wondering how long she was going to be able to live with this degree of pain and longing.
Joe didn’t come.
It had taken her almost ten days to notice.
THEY DECIDED ON A LETTER. AN INVITATION. THERE were ways of getting people to do what you wanted without confrontation, Mrs. Holden said. And Mrs. Holden was very keen on avoiding confrontation. The ladies of the salon wrote a polite letter to Mrs. Julian Armand, asking if she would care to join them, partake of a few refreshments, and see a little of local society. It would be their pleasure, they said, to welcome a fellow aficionada of the arts. The inhabitants of Arcadia House had traditionally played a part in the town’s social and cultural life. (That last bit wasn’t strictly true, but, as Mrs. Chilton said, any woman worth her salt would feel obliged to attend.) “Nicely put,” said Mrs. Colquhoun.
“More than one way to skin a cat,” said Mrs. Chilton.
LOTTIE WAS ON HER WAY OUT WHEN MRS. HOLDEN caught her. She had decided to go to Joe’s house. It had been too long, and, locked in her own private purgatory, she had decided that any diversion would be a welcome one, even one involving Joe’s repeated protestations of devotion. She had developed, perhaps, a little more sympathy for him now. She had, after all, had a rude and unexpected introduction to the pain of unrequited love.
“Lottie, is that you?”
Lottie halted in the hallway, sighing under her breath. There was little she wouldn’t do to avoid being paraded in front of the salon. She’d begun to hate that look of pitied understanding on their faces, their silent, sympathetic acknowledgment of her increasingly fragile place in the Holden household. She might like to get something more permanent soon, Mrs. Holden had said, more than once now. Perhaps go for a nice department store. There was a lovely one in Colchester.
“Yes, Mrs. Holden.”
“Can you come in, dear? I need to ask a favor of you.”
Lottie walked slowly into the parlor, smiling vaguely and insincerely at the expectant faces in front of her. The room, its temperature raised unnaturally by a newly fitted gas fire, seemed to swell with the overheated scents of slightly stale powder and Coty cream perfume.
“I was just going down to town,” she said.
“Yes, dear. But I’d like you to deliver a letter for me on the way.”
So that was it. She relaxed, turned to go.
“To the actress’s house. You know the one.”
Lottie turned back. “Arcadia?”
“Yes, dear. It’s an invitation.”
“But you said we weren’t to go there. You said it was full of—” She paused, trying to remember Mrs. Holden’s exact phrase.
“Yes, yes, I’m quite aware of what I said. But things have moved on. And we have decided to appeal to Mrs. Armand’s better judgment.”
“Right,” said Lottie, taking the proffered envelope. “See you later.”
“You’re not going to let her go alone.” That was Deirdre Colquhoun.
Susan Holden glanced around. There was a brief silence as the ladies looked at one another.
“Well, she can’t go by herself,” said Mrs. Colquhoun.
“She’s probably right, dear. After . . . everything. She’d be better to go with someone.”
“I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe,” said Lottie, not without some irritation.
“Yes, dear. But you have to accept that there are some things about which your elders know better. Where’s Celia, Susan?” Mrs. Chilton turned toward the door.
“She’s having her hair set,” said Mrs. Holden, who was beginning to look flustered. “Then she’s looking at some of the bridal books. It’s best to be prepared for these things. . . .”
“Well, she can’t go alone,” said Mrs. Colquhoun.
“There’s Guy,” ventured Mrs. Holden.
“Then send the boy with her. She’ll be safe with him.” Mrs. Chilton looked satisfied.
“G-Guy?” stammered Lottie, flushing.
“He’s in the study. Go and get him, dear. The sooner you’re there, the sooner you’ll be home. Besides, it’ll do Guy good to get out. He’s been stuck indoors with Freddie all morning. Poor boy is very patient,” she said, in explanation.
“B-but I’ll be fine by myself.”
“You’re being terribly antisocial at the moment,” said Mrs. Holden. “Honestly, it’s all I can do to drag her out of her room. Doesn’t see her friend Joe anymore, poor old Celia can hardly tempt her out . . . Come on, Lottie. Try to be a bit civil, will you?” Mrs. Holden left the room to find Guy.
“How’s the job, dear? Going well?” Mrs. Chilton had to ask twice.
“Fine,” said Lottie, struggling to keep her attention, aware that this would become another example of her surliness.
“I must come in for some winter boots. I’m definitely in need of some winter boots. Do you have any nice ones in yet, Lottie? Something with a bit of fleece in the lining?”
Oh, God, he was going to walk into the room. And she was going to have to talk to him.
“Lottie?”
“I think we’re still on sandals,” she whispered.
Mrs. Chilton raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Ansty. “I’ll stop by later in the week.”
She’d managed to leave the room without looking at him. She’d nodded a cursory greeting to his hello and then fixed her gaze resolutely on the floor, oblivious to the flickering glances of exasperation exchanged by the older women. But now that they were out of the house and walking briskly along the road, Lottie found herself in an acute dilemma, torn between the desperate desire to run from him and the agony of his considering her ignorant and rude.
Thrusting her hands deep into her pockets, her face down against the wind, she concentrated on keeping her breathing regular. It was almost beyond her to consider anything else. Soon he will be gone, she told herself like a mantra. And then I can force everything to be normal again.
So bent on her task was Lottie that it took her some minutes to hear him.
“Lottie? Lottie, hey, slow down!”
She stopped and glanced backward, hoping that the wind whipping her hair would hide the flush that spread rapidly across her face.
He reached out an arm, as if to slow her. “Are we in a hurry?”
His voice had a slight accent, as if those loose-speaking, easy-limbed countries of his youth had rubbed the corners off him. He moved fluidly, as if there were enjoyment in the act of movement alone, as if there were no physical full stops to him.
Lottie searched for an answer. “No,” she said eventually. “Sorry.”
They walked on, more slowly this time, in silence. Lottie nodded a greeting at one of her neighbors, who raised his hat at them both, observing, “Blowy.”
“Who was that?”
“Just Mr. Hillguard.”
“He the one with the dog?”
“That’s Mr. Atkinson.” She paused, feeling her cheeks sting. “He’s got a mustache, too.”
A mustache. A mustache, she scolded herself. Who the hell notices a person’s mustache? She began to pick up her pace as they headed up the hill toward Arcadia. Please let this be over soon, she willed. Please let him remember some errand he has to do in town. Please just let me be.
“Lottie?”
She stopped, biting back tears. She was starting to feel slightly hysterical.
“Lottie, please wait.”
She turned. Looked on him fully for the second time. He stood before her, huge chestnut eyes set in a too-handsome face. Bewildered. Half smiling.
“Have I offended you?”
“What?”
He shook his head slightly. “I’m not entirely sure what I’ve done, but I’d like to know.”
How can you not know? she thought. How can you not see? Don’t you see in me what I see in you? She waited briefly to answer. Just in case he did.
Wanted to weep with exasperation when he didn’t.
“You haven’t done anything,” she said, and began walking again so that he couldn’t see how hard she was biting her cheeks.
“Hey. Hey.”
He had grabbed hold of her sleeve. She pulled her arm away as if he had burned her.
“You’ve been avoiding me since I got here. Is this some weird thing because of me and Celia? I know you’ve always been close.”
“Of course not,” she said crossly. “Now, please let’s go on. I’m very busy today.”
“I don’t see how,” came the voice behind her. “You seem to spend most of your time stuck in your room.”
A big lump of nothing had swollen in the back of Lottie’s throat. It was beginning to choke her. Her eyes were pricking with tears. Make him go away, God. Please. It’s not fair to do this to me.
But Guy pulled level with her again. “You know, you remind me of someone.” He didn’t actually look at her this time. Just kept walking alongside her. “I can’t work out who just yet. But I will. Is this the house?”
Out of the wind, the sun flooded her back with its warmth. Lottie walked slightly less briskly up the drive, the gravel crunching under her feet. She had got halfway to the house when she realized she could not hear his.
“Wow.”
He was standing back, one hand lifted to his brow, squinting into the sunlight. “Who lives here?”
“Adeline. And her husband, Julian. And some of their friends.”
“It’s not like an English house. It’s like the houses I grew up with. Oh, wow.”
He was grinning now, walking toward the house, peering sideways up at the cubic windows, at the bleached white of its façade.
“You know, I’m not so keen on British houses. The traditional Victorian types or all that mock-Tudor stuff. They feel kind of dark and poky to me. Even Celia’s folks’ house. This is much more my kind of thing.”
“I like it,” said Lottie.
“I didn’t think there were houses like this over here.”
“How long is it since you lived over here?”
He paused. Frowned. “About twenty years. I was around six when we first left England. Are we going in?”
Lottie looked at the envelope in her hand. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I suppose we could just pop it through the letterbox. . . .”
She looked longingly at the door. It had been almost two weeks since she’d visited. Celia hadn’t wanted to come with her. “Oh, that crowd,” she’d said dismissively. “Bunch of boring misfits. You want to come to London, Lots. Have some real fun. You might meet someone.”
“I’m not meant to like them,” she explained now to Guy. “The people who live here. But I do.”
Guy looked at her. “Then let’s go in.”
It was Frances who opened the door, not Marnie. “Marnie’s gone,” she explained, turning back down the corridor, wiping fish scales from her hands onto an ill-fitting white apron. “Left us. Rather a pain really. None of us are particularly good at domestic things. I’m meant to be preparing fish for supper. I’ve made the most awful mess of the kitchen.”
“This is Guy,” said Lottie. But Frances just waved a hand. There were too many visitors to Arcadia to make formal introductions really worthwhile.
“Adeline’s out on the terrace. She’s meant to be planning our mural.”
While Guy gazed around him at the house, Lottie stole furtive glances at his profile. Say something awful, she willed. Be dismissive about Frances. Make me go off you. Please.
“What’s the fish?” he said.
“Trout. Awful, slimy things. They’ve been flying all over the kitchen.”
“Want me to have a go? I’m pretty handy at gutting fish.”
Frances’s relief was palpable. “Oh, would you?” she said, and ushered him into the kitchen, where on a table two rainbow trout bled silkily onto the bleached wooden table.
“I don’t know why she left. But she was always cross with us about something. I was rather afraid of her by the end, moody old thing. She disapproved of us. Our household.”
Adeline had appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a long, finely pleated black skirt with a white blouse and black necktie. She smiled, her eyes on Guy. “I think she would have been more comfortable with something . . . a little more traditional. Have you brought us a new guest, Lottie?”
“This is Guy,” Lottie said. Then forced herself to add, “Celia’s fiancé.”
Adeline’s gaze flickered from Guy to Lottie and back again. She paused, as if considering something, then smiled and lifted a hand in greeting. “It is lovely to meet you, Guy. And I should offer my congratulations.”
There was a short silence.
“We never seem to keep housekeepers for very long. Will this knife do? It’s not terribly sharp.” Frances held up the bloodied knife.
Guy tested the blade on his thumb. “No wonder you’re having trouble. This is about as sharp as a butter knife. Got a steel? I’ll sharpen it for you.”
“I suppos
e we should get someone else in,” said Frances. “We never think of things like sharpening knives.” She rubbed distractedly at her cheek, unwittingly leaving a bloodied smear.
“Oh, it’s such a bore finding staff.” Adeline looked briefly ill-tempered. She raised a hand to her forehead theatrically. “I can never think of the right questions to ask. And I never check that they’re doing the right things. I don’t even know what it is they should be doing.”
“And they always end up getting cross with us,” said Frances.
“You need staff to manage your staff,” said Guy, who, with deft, sweeping motions was sharpening the blade along the upheld steel.
“You know, you’re quite right,” said Adeline. She must like him, Lottie observed; she reserved that smile only for people she felt relaxed with. Lottie had known her long enough now to recognize the other kind, where the corners of her mouth lifted but not her eyes.
Lottie, meanwhile, simply stared at Guy, hypnotized by the regular, metronomic swoosh of metal against metal, the repetitive flash of his tanned arm under his shirt. He was so beautiful; his skin looked almost polished, the way the light from the windows reflected off the planes of his cheekbones. His hair, unfashionably long, lay in dark gold layers, darkening toward his collar as if harboring rich secrets beneath. On his left eyebrow several hairs at the junction with his browbone were white, possibly the result of some accident in a past life. I bet Celia hasn’t noticed that, thought Lottie absently. I bet she doesn’t see half the things I can see.
Adeline saw.
Lottie, lost in her reverie, felt the increasing heat of her stare and, turning to meet her eye, found herself blushing as if caught in the middle of some transgression.
“And where is Celia today?”
“Having her hair done. Mrs. Holden asked Guy to come with me.” She hadn’t meant it to sound so defensive.
But Adeline just nodded.
“There!” Guy held up one of the trout; gutted and filleted, it hung balefully by its tail. “Want me to show you how to do the other one?”
