by Lynn Watson
As she approached and opened the rickety wooden gate, she didn’t look up to see if he was at the kitchen window. The front garden was overgrown and the sweet-smelling lavender bush swarming with bees. She broke off a small twig to sniff it, knocked and waited, unsure what to expect and experiencing a confused mix of sadness, trepidation and excitement.
Andy opened the door instantly; he must have been standing right behind it. They exchanged one of those long, meaningful looks, breaking it with an edgy laugh.
‘Are you going to invite me in, then?’
He moved backwards to make space for her to enter, tripping over a shoe or other stray object lying in the porch and almost losing his footing.
Everything looked the same, back to the way it was before they set up the bed in the sitting room, except for the sympathy cards arranged along the shelves, with photos of Judi propped in between. The pine table was covered with freshly picked garden produce in the woven baskets and Andy had laid out a lunch of bread and cheese in the sitting room, with salad, a bowl of deep red tomatoes and fresh orange juice. Another difference from before, she noted, was that Winnie the dog was friendlier, no longer aloof and keeping her distance.
Over lunch, he told her their local friends had been fantastic and he’d had lots of visitors. She listened for any mention of a special friend but he didn’t single anyone out, apart from one of his mates who had helped with keeping his building business on track.
‘What would you like to do this afternoon? We could take Winnie for a walk to the beach, later perhaps, after you’ve had a bit of a rest?’
‘Yes, later, that would be nice.’ Later – would that be before or after?
She followed him into the kitchen and watched as he stacked the dishwasher. His hair was longer, the dark curls at the end twisting and falling in different directions across his neck. As he leant forward and crouched to rearrange the crockery, the smooth brown skin on his lower back was exposed and then hidden again as he stood up and started to run the taps. She couldn’t tell if he was shy and playing for time or just carrying out a normal, everyday task in his normal, systematic way. Maybe it was wise to wait until the evening; use the day to relax more with each other.
She waited another minute, feeling the rise in tension as the silence continued and he didn’t turn round, busy at the sink. She looked up at the clock; still early afternoon. He started to turn and she made an impulsive move, aiming to seize him round the waist but instead pulling his shorts halfway down his bum. He yanked them up again with a cry of mock indignation and grabbed her hand.
Giggling like teenagers, they raced upstairs, kicked off their shoes and kneeled up face-to-face on the bed, taking off each other’s clothes one item at a time. This took Andy longer to accomplish, as Fran only had three items to take off him – shorts, T-shirt and tight black briefs. Naked and aroused, he was every bit as sexy and desirable as she had envisaged; even more so, if that were possible.
When they finally rolled away from each other and lay back to back, just their heels still touching, she reached to feel the small glass perfume bottles on the chest of drawers. Picking out Judi’s favourite fragrance, she sprayed a little on the inside of her wrists, twisting her forearms up to her face to catch the haunting scent. Andy turned over to make spoons and they stayed like that, comfortable and deeply relaxed. Fran heard Winnie climbing up the stairs and she soon padded into the room, her tail wagging with pleasure at finding them and then thumping hard against the side of the bed. She jumped up, did a one-and-a-half-circle turn and plonked herself down on top of their entwined legs and feet, which had long kicked off the duvet. When Fran lifted her head and leaned up on her elbows to look at the dog, her wet nose resting between her paws, it felt as if she were staring into Judi’s luminous brown eyes.
It was early evening when they set off to the beach, and they had fun throwing sticks for Winnie and watching her leaping about at the water’s edge. On the way back, they met a couple on the path who were strangers to Fran. The woman spoke in a personal way to Andy, clearly wanting to show that she was a close confidante with privileged information. She made no effort to acknowledge Fran and Andy didn’t think to introduce them. She felt like a spare part, an interloper even. The woman’s companion, presumably her partner, was uncivil to both Fran and Andy, striding ahead and waiting, with obvious impatience, fifty yards down the track. Fran’s doubts came flooding back. She could have stayed in London and accepted Ned’s invitation for dinner this evening. She didn’t belong here; it felt all wrong. It could even affect her relationship with Judi, or the spirit of it, which was not to be played around with.
For the rest of the day, she felt conflicted. The chance encounter reminded her of how little she understood Andy. And her position was odd, to say the least; discreditable to others who didn’t know her and maybe even to herself, given the overtly lustful nature of her thoughts. It was a tussle, half of her taking this moralistic line and half hanging on to the extraordinary experience that had drawn them all together, the volatile bundle of emotions.
They went to sleep late in their separate bedrooms and she was woken by the brawling of the seagulls, which were noisier and more aggressive than ever, now that the youngsters were growing and battling for perches and air space. She tried to remember her final dream. It wasn’t a good dream; she knew that from her uneasy mood on waking. Concentrate, let it through… yes, it was a party, she was at a party with Judi and Andy’s friends, but Judi wasn’t there and she couldn’t find Andy in the crowd. Then there was sudden panic, a fire with leaping flames and smoke. Everyone was running to escape from the house and she had to reach Andy and rescue him. It was a promise to Judi, to save him. As she shouted his name, a woman stopped beside her, a local friend but not the one they had met on the path. The woman spoke in a breezy way, saying that Andy was fine. He had got bored and left the party hours ago.
Fran swung her legs over the side of the bed, digging her toes into the deep pile of the rug as she pushed the dream to the back of her mind. Her toes were tingling and she suddenly smiled as she wiggled them about, remembering the fabulous high of the previous afternoon. As she crept along the landing and down the steep, creaking stairs, she managed to avoid treading on the watchful Winnie, who was on guard outside Andy’s bedroom and dutifully followed her down.
‘Be careful, Frankie,’ she said to herself in a half-audible whisper. ‘It’s only meant to be a holiday. That’s all you’re covered for, remember. Don’t push it.’
Chapter 7
Despite her growing apprehension, she couldn’t help admiring Ned’s style as he weaved between the tables, stepping back politely to let the tray-wielding waitresses pass. It was the first time she had seen him in a proper suit and it looked beautiful on him. The cut of the trousers accentuated his long legs and the open-neck shirt was just the right shade of pink. Fran glanced sideways to decipher the expression on Daniela’s face as Ned signalled to show that he had spotted them.
‘Is this him coming over now, Fran? Ah yes, it must be.’
Daniela had no clue that this man was Fran’s lover, and Fran had no intention of telling her. Daniela stood up to offer him a businesslike handshake, while Fran attracted the attention of a waitress standing at the other end of the bar, with a bored expression and hands folded in at-ease mode. They were in a Central London hotel, where retired people meeting for lunch mingled with business types briefing colleagues or making deals and freelancers focused on their electronic devices. Today, there was also a sprinkling of hotel guests and foreign tourists deciding how best to enjoy the city in the rain.
The meeting was happening because Daniela had had another approach from the shadowy stranger at the dancing class, this time as she was turning into her own front path after an evening out with friends. She had told Fran and Vicky about it a couple of days ago, commenting that he was turning up the heat, showing he knew where she lived. She had demanded to know the name of his boss and he said he coul
dn’t reveal his identity yet, as he had various business interests and needed to keep them separate. Then he had added, ‘We’ll use a code name for now. His code name is Infrared.’
The middleman then repeated and expanded on his line that this Infrared character traded in similar products and was interested in coming to an agreement with Daniela, so they could both run their enterprises successfully and wouldn’t get in each other’s way. Code name Infrared – it sounded both sinister and ludicrous, but this time Fran knew better than to make any rash comment.
Daniela had told them that she might agree to an exploratory meeting, as these guys weren’t going to go away and she had to know what kind of threat they posed. She was discussing tactics with Osvaldo but as a cautionary measure, she had decided to close the Junoco distribution centre and set it up again in a new location. Fran had immediately thought of Ned and his portfolio of properties in South London, telling Daniela and Vicky that he was her Junoco partner, had a great head for business and would be reliably discreet.
She felt guilty that she couldn’t give Ned the whole picture, as Daniela wanted such strict control over what was said and when. She had simply mentioned the need for a new distribution centre in London, as the Junoco business was starting to take off and they expected a large proportion of their expanding market to be in the capital. As for the uncertain legality of the venture, Ned had shown zero interest in that aspect when she introduced him to the Junoco truffles and she didn’t know if he would pursue it now with Daniela. It would probably depend on how attractive an offer she was willing to make. Fran was still astonished by her own involvement in all this and, although alarmed by the rather menacing aspect that had crept in, she was carried along by the thrill of it.
When Ned sat down, Daniela was her normal friendly and expansive self and the initial wariness that Fran caught in her eyes and gestures soon eased off. This allowed Fran herself to relax and start enjoying her role in bringing them together. Ned was attentive, leaning forward and stroking his chin thoughtfully until Daniela came to a natural pause and waited for his response. He spoke confidently and authoritatively, setting out his offer.
‘I have an empty warehouse unit, it should be big enough. I’ll need to check the dimensions and let you know. It’s on an industrial estate and there’s decent parking and plenty of delivery vehicles, so your vans shouldn’t stand out in any way. The unit has been empty for a few months and I was thinking of selling it, but I’d be happy to give you an initial six-or twelve-month lease.’
He paused and looked round the lounge, as if to check that no one was listening in. A young woman at a nearby table smiled impulsively over her laptop and then quickly averted her gaze, embarrassed that he had caught her admiring him.
‘It’s relatively high-risk, of course. I’d have to add a premium to allow for the extra security, care and discretion you require.’
Daniela turned sharply to Fran as he said this, and Fran shook her head almost imperceptibly to indicate that she hadn’t breached any confidentiality.
‘I explained to Ned that Junoco has a wholly natural secret ingredient, and that our competitors are bound to be interested in trying to identify and get hold of it.’
‘That’s good. I understand and appreciate your concern over security, Ned, and I’d be happy to come to an agreement, once I’ve visited and checked out the unit and site. We’ll get the details sorted, so we can move in as soon as possible. I have one more thing to settle, before we go any further. Nobody else is to know the location of the distribution centre, not even Fran, okay?’
She then deftly turned the conversation to Ned’s wider business interests and, just as she had done in her initial meeting with Fran, zoned in on a particular aspect; in this case, his dealings in expensive apartments overlooking the Thames. Did he own these apartments or manage them? The answer was both. Who were the buyers? They were mainly overseas investors, many of whom had no intention of living in them or letting them out. Fran thought of Ned’s charming mansion flat and was glad he had stayed on his quiet, tree-lined street, rather than moving, as he obviously could have done, to a high-spec glass pad with a prestigious view of the river and wealthy, absent neighbours.
‘It’s interesting that you have a stake in the two hotels, as well,’ Daniela was saying. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if we should reshape our strategy and bring forward the second stage, when we aim to target institutional clients – hotels, clubs and so on. If you have these contacts, Ned, maybe we could find a way to bring you in? It’s just a thought, off the top of my head.’
‘Well, it hadn’t occurred to me that you were going in that direction, but yes, I am attracted to the business concept and what you’re planning to do. Oh, and by the way, my French has improved dramatically since I tasted the Junoco truffles. Even my teenage daughters are impressed, which is saying something.’
What about Daniela’s family, her personal life? Apart from her cousin Osvaldo, whom she spoke of as a business associate, she hadn’t mentioned anyone; a partner or children. Now she stood up and sailed out of the lounge in her billowing way, squeezing herself between two nearby tables and apologising for a tipped-over jug of milk as she went. Fran looked quizzically at Ned, who nodded back while stroking his forehead with his fingers.
‘Yes, it was much as I expected, apart from the final suggestion about using my contacts. It appeared to go well, and I like Daniela’s business style and directness – quite refreshing. I haven’t got the measure of her yet and she was a little guarded, but that’s natural in the context and I think we can work together. Thanks for the introduction, Fran, much appreciated. I’m off to France to visit my girls, but what about Friday next week? Are you free for dinner?’
She stirred her coffee and let the froth drop in slow motion off the edge of the spoon. The prospect of dinner with him at the end of next week suited her perfectly, as she was hoping Andy would come to visit her sometime in the next few days.
‘I’d love to. You look very fanciable today, I have to say; hunky in pink. Maybe we could have the promised hat show then, entrance by ticket only?’
‘I’ll ask my agent. It will be expensive for an exclusive show, naturally.’
***
‘What are you doing with yourself, Francesca, now you have gone off to London? I have forgotten – fashion, is it?’
Her mother’s heavy emphasis on the words ‘gone off to London’ left her in no doubt as to her gist: Now you have abandoned me. It was ridiculous, as Fran could reach the family house from London almost as quickly as when she was living in the countryside. She was beginning to realise that Eleanor had persuaded her to change her weekend plans and come down to Sussex because she felt neglected and needed someone to complain to.
‘I’ve taken a part-time job working in a shop, a boutique place called Frocks and Chocs. It’s just five minutes’ walk from my house.’
‘A shop, that’s odd, isn’t it, for you? Why would you want to work in a shop?’
She really was a crabby, snobbish old woman.
‘It’s very nice, actually. It’s interesting and fun; I’m enjoying it. The clothes are beautiful and original and some of the customers are colourful characters.’
Eleanor sniffed, tilted her chin and peered at her daughter over her glasses. If only she could understand how boringly predictable she was, how stuck in a rut of her own making. It was unfair, perhaps, to think like this about someone in her eighties, but there it was; Fran wasn’t prepared to take the blame any more.
‘Well, I’ve had about enough of colourful characters, myself,’ Eleanor said. She was truly spiteful; she always had been.
An episode floated up from the distant past, when Fran was five or six. She had told a visitor she was going to be an actress when she grew up, and her mother had laughed and remarked in her no-nonsense voice, ‘My dear, you have neither the looks nor the talent to be an actress.’
Sitting opposite her now, Fran felt the red heat of humili
ation all over again and had to fight the urge to talk back, to deliver some belated home truths: I don’t even know what to call you, how to address you. Have you not noticed that I haven’t called you anything for forty-odd years? Mum, Mother, Mummy, Eleanor – none of them are right. I don’t know who you are to me. You have never talked to me, confided in me, believed in me, rooted for me, not once, ever.
‘Are you listening to me, Francesca? You look like you’re gazing out the window.’
Fran plucked a couple of key words from her recall of what her mother had just been saying, filling in the gaps from her wider grasp of the situation.
‘I’m listening. You and George aren’t getting on and you think Cerise is always taking his side.’
‘It’s not that we’re not getting on, it’s that he’s impossible. He disappears off down to the café and he forgets to put out his dirty clothes for Mrs Beatty, and she won’t go in his room, so he’s wearing the same smelly old things every day. On top of which, he can’t manage the top stairs any more; he’s too wobbly on his feet and he keeps slipping. I can hear him falling about up there.’
Fran sighed to herself. This was going to topple over and land on her, sooner or later. She was an only child and neither Cerise nor George had any children. They were all in their eighties and their home would become unmanageable, being on three floors and with those awkward, old-fashioned bathrooms and toilets. Her father had left his estate in equal shares to his wife and ex-wife, Cerise and Eleanor, no doubt imagining they would sell the house, not set up a ménage à trois with George. As a housemate, but also as George’s sister, Cerise was always going to be more tolerant of his eccentric habits and passions than Eleanor, so there was massive scope for friction over what to do about him.
