The Next Best Thing

by Sarah Long

  ‘There are some stables in the next village,’ he said. ‘We could take her tomorrow.’ And maybe leave her there for an afternoon, he thought, while he took Jane off and showed her in no uncertain terms why she had to change her mind.

  ‘She’d love that,’ said Jane. ‘Horses are something you can’t do in London.’

  Another reason to leave the city. Another reason to change her life.

  ‘Good, that’s settled then. Tea?’ He poured it out and settled back in his chair to watch her. She looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You’re enjoying showing me how perfect my life would be here.’

  He shrugged. ‘You can see how it would be, I’m not an illusionist. You feel at home here, don’t you?’

  ‘Like I’ve lived here all my life.’

  ‘Well, there you are.’

  ‘Tell me about the flower business,’ she said. ‘How would you work it?’

  He drew up his chair and began to explain his plan, the growers he would use, the margins, the market he would be aiming for, the combination of direct mail and outlets. There was a big market, he had already established that, people who had traded in the rat race for the pleasures of everyday living, and what finer example of that could there be than a garden? He would also offer a garden design service, and employ a team of local people to do the hard digging, though he wanted to do it himself as well, he liked to get his hands dirty.

  She listened, chipping in and making comments and suggestions, which plants would work and which might not be so good. It seemed very real and well thought through.

  ‘You seem to have it all worked out,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I do. Once I’ve got my partner lined up, I’m all ready to go.’

  ‘Your partner?’

  ‘You of course. You know all about gardening. Plus, I’m in love with you.’

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

  ‘Remember what Churchill said. Never, ever, ever give up.’

  It was two o’clock when Will and Lydia returned. The barking dog warned of their arrival, followed by loud laughter as they approached the house, slightly the worse for wear.

  ‘Well, well, you’re still up, are you?’ said Will, stumbling round the corner onto the terrace. ‘What about that, Lydia, there we were worrying about them fretting about us, all alone in their beds, and here they are hobnobbing over the candlelight. Not up to anything, are you?’

  Lydia slumped down next to Jane and kicked off her metal sandals. ‘I tell you, those shoes are killing me, I don’t know what it is with them.’

  Will walked unsteadily to the edge of the terrace and stared down into the valley. ‘Look at that, eh, paradise lost and paradise regained. Got any brandy, Rupert?’

  ‘I think you’ve had enough,’ Rupert replied, ‘though I realise by saying that boring-old-banker box you’ve carved out for me.’

  ‘Merchant Ws, as we used to call you!’ Will was chortling at the memory. ‘Do you remember that, in the Eighties, how we used to laugh about merchant wankers?’

  ‘Not everyone can have an interesting job like yours,’ said Rupert. ‘Not everyone’s got your talent.’

  Will melted at the compliment. ‘Thank you for that, Rupert,’ he said, ‘but there’s no need to do yourself down. Some of us have got to work in the finance sector, each to his own, I say. And we artists all need our men in grey suits to do the money thing.’ He turned unsteadily. ‘Well, if you’re not going to offer me a nightcap, I might as well go to bed. Good night, Rupert, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night . . .’

  He staggered into the house, leaving an uneasy threesome sitting round the table.

  ‘Is the child OK?’ asked Lydia, rubbing her sore foot, I have to say it was quite well-behaved in the restaurant.’

  ‘She,’ said Jane.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She, not it. I wouldn’t refer to you as “it”.’

  ‘No, obviously not since I’m a fully fledged person. I’m inclined to take the Victorian view of kiddies, treat them as unisex until they reach the age of reason. You’ve seen those old photos of little boys with long golden hair and flowing white dresses.’

  ‘I’m going up,’ said Rupert, ‘and I suggest we all do the same.’

  ‘You’re right, I need to rest this foot,’ said Lydia. ‘See you tomorrow, Jane.’ She hobbled away, crossing the old terracotta tiles of the living room, then up the stairs to bed.

  Rupert blew out the candles and locked up while Jane carried the tea things through to the kitchen and rinsed them in the butler sink, setting them out on the heavy wood draining board.

  ‘Right then,’ said Rupert, turning off the light and following her up the stairs. ‘Sweet dreams,’ he said when they reached the landing, kissing her softly before they turned away, into their separate bedrooms.

  Will was snoring loudly, his grey hair spread wildly over the pillow like a dying monarch. Just a few years ago his hair had been jet-black, contrasting with the billowing white shirts he wore in those days, like a glamorous pirate. He used to wear them unbuttoned to his chest in a look he based on the French intellectual Bernard-Henri Levy, a potent mix of brains and raw sex. He’d been dressed like that when he took Jane to see Theatre de Complicite at the 1CA. She’d been in love with him then, her very own European, pushing back the frontiers of cultural diversity.

  She switched her attention to her daughter, sweetly rosy in the little bed that had been set up for her, so she could sleep like a medieval dog at the feet of her masters. Liberty sighed in her sleep, a gentle, pure, milky sound, compared to her father’s guttural breathing.

  Jane put on the nightie she had bought specially for this holiday, a spinsterish thing, all white lace and ribbon, the sort you found in shops selling Provençal potpourri and chunky soap made from olive oil. It was the type you were meant to store in a drawer with lavender bags. Climbing into bed, she was like a chaste young girl in the virtuous ecstasy of taking holy orders. For the sake of her child, she would lie like this, in the quasi-matrimonial bed, for the rest of her life.

  FOURTEEN

  The next morning brought more dazzling sunshine, breaking over the hilltop and falling like a blessing on the terrace where Rupert and Jane were having breakfast. It was that exquisite spring sun that was never too strong, not yet obliging you to move your chair into the shade or seek shelter in coolly tiled indoor rooms.

  Rupert had been out to buy croissants and banettes, loose twists of bread still warm enough from the oven to melt the butter as Jane spread it, pale and creamy, for Liberty’s breakfast.

  ‘She’ll be back in a minute,’ said Jane, ‘after she’s played with the dog. He makes a fantastic nanny, you can see where Barrie got the idea from, for Peter Pan.’

  ‘Did you sleep all right?’

  He meant, had she had sex with Will.

  ‘Fine, thank you.’ She was able to meet his gaze. ‘How about you?’

  ‘A bit disturbed. Lydia’s suffering with her foot, she’s calling a doctor out to sec what’s wrong.’

  ‘A home visit, isn’t that rather dramatic?’

  ‘Not in France. It’s only in England that you have to be nearly dead before they’ll come and take a look. More coffee?’

  He filled her cup, then his own. She turned her face up to the sun and closed her eyes, happy to know as the warmth flooded into her that she had a full day ahead to do as she liked.

  There’s nothing like it, is there, the first sun of summer?’ she said. ‘I know you’re not supposed to do this any more, what with wrinkles and killer rays, but it just feels so good.’

  He wished she would come nearer and lie down with her head in his lap so he could stroke the hair back from her face and examine the faint freckles that had appeared since her arrival. Better still, he would take her upstairs and lay her out on his bed, and run a full check all over her body, committing to memory the exact location of every mole and
blemish and distinguishing feature. He’d done it so often in his dreams, he was curious to match it against the reality.

  ‘No sign of your partner,’ he said, ‘though I can’t bear that expression except in business. Howdy partner, it always makes me think of cowboys.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be seeing him for a while,’ said Jane, her eyes still closed. ‘He’s not a morning person at the best of times, and he was certainly putting it away last night.’ ‘We’ve all been there,’ said Rupert magnanimously. At least the drink had put Will out of action; he couldn’t bear the thought of him making love to Jane, seducing her with his clever remarks.

  ‘Where did you meet him anyway?’ he asked, turning a croissant between his fingers. He wanted to leave it alone, but he couldn’t.

  ‘Publishing party. I couldn’t believe my luck. Those things are so awful, people always looking over your shoulder for someone more interesting to talk to. And he just stayed talking to me all night. I was so thrilled . . . him a famous travel writer and me a nobody.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,’ he said crossly, ‘like you’re a bit of dirt at the bottom of the food chain. You’re worth a hundred of him.’

  ‘You’re just biased,’ she said, pleased. It was nice to have someone bolster her up for a change. She hadn’t had much of that since her mother died, apart from Liberty’s passionate, unconditional love, which delighted her but at the same time sometimes threatened to overwhelm her.

  Liberty came running up to them now, her eyes wide, the important messenger bearing news.

  ‘There’s a man here,’ she panted, out of breath, ‘in a white car.’

  Moments later, the man in question appeared behind her. It was the doctor, carrying the traditional black bag that always invoked Jane’s irrational fear of all things medical. The bag of death, filled with needles and tubes and sharp implements for removing bits of human tissue that could then be displayed in small Petri dishes.

  Rupert led him away to see the patient, and Liberty sat down to tuck into her breakfast.

  ‘What’s the matter with Lydia?’

  ‘She’s hurt her foot.’

  ‘Did a horse stand on it? Cosima hurt her foot when her pony stood on it.’

  ‘No. That reminds me, how would you like to come with me to see some stables and see if you can go pony riding some time?’

  Jane was practically knocked off her chair by Liberty’s enthusiastic response.

  ‘I left a message on their answer phone,’ said Jane.

  ‘When they call back we’ll see when they can fit you in.’

  The doctor was swift in his verdict. One look at the swollen black foot and a feel of the pain at the top of Lydia’s leg was enough to make him ask to take a look at her footwear. She sent Rupert downstairs to retrieve the sandals from where she had kicked them off last night. There was no doubt about it, said the doctor, inspecting the metal straps of the very upmarket flipflops, she was suffering from a poisoned foot. It was the folly of fashion designers, he explained disapprovingly, to use metal for shoes, so patently unsuitable for the purpose, so damaging to the fragile epidermis. He wrote her out a prescription for antibiotics along with the usual six ancillary panaceas that the French had come to expect, and advised her to rest the foot and calm her fever.

  ‘You must admit it has a certain poetry,’ she said later, after limping outside to install herself on a sun-lounger. ‘Done for by Louis Vuitton. I wonder if I could sue?’

  Will appeared shortly after, showered and restored, in a pair of cream trousers. He gave everyone a brave smile then dragged a deckchair to the far end of the terrace where he sat down in a do-not-disturb kind of way with the new French translation of Plutarch’s letters, which was his idea of holiday reading.

  Rupert picked up his car keys. ‘I’m going to run into the village and get this prescription made up,’ he said. ‘Anyone care to join me?’

  He knew he was safely addressing an audience of one. Will waved his hand dismissively and Lydia was clearly going nowhere, while Liberty was at the bottom of the garden, throwing sticks for the dog.

  ‘I’ll come,’ said Jane with a nonchalant shrug. ‘Might as well.’

  ‘You don’t think they’re getting a bit too pally, do you?’ said Will from his deckchair, watching them disappear round the corner of the house.

  ‘Those two?’ Lydia snorted. ‘There are many words you could use to describe Rupert, but home-wrecker is not one of them. And Jane is hardly the type to go sniffing round other people’s fiances, they are both loyal to a fault.’ Loyalty was not high on Lydia’s list of must-have qualities. It was way down alongside dull virtues like sticking with it, counting your blessings and being kind to animals.

  She lowered her Chloe sunglasses and gave him a provocative look. ‘You, on the other hand, arc an altogether more dangerous proposition.’

  It was good to know he still had what it took, but Will was too hungover to bother with Lydia. ‘You just rest that foot,’ he said, returning to his book, ‘I don’t take advantage of the disabled.’

  Jane jumped happily into the Jeep beside Rupert. A trip to the local pharmacy was hardly a dream date, but she was alone with him, and the thrill was as acute as when her first boyfriend had walked her to the ice-cream shop.

  Rupert got out to open the gates and stopped to exchange a few words with the caretaker who was engaged with a hedge-trimmer. From their gestures Jane guessed they were discussing the happy relationship between his dog and Liberty, who were running races up and down the garden.

  Rupert got back behind the wheel and the caretaker nodded to her as they drove past. She lowered the window and spoke to him in French about the dog and the garden. His wife appeared, a stocky woman with the aubergine-coloured hair that seemed a favourite with the locals. They eventually made their escape, amid much smiling and waving.

  ‘You see, you even speak French,’ said Rupert. ‘It was meant to be.’

  In the village, he backed skilfully into an unfeasibly small space between an old Renault and a bashed-up white van. It was pathetic to admire a man’s ability to park a car, but Jane couldn’t help it. Obviously what women wanted was intelligent conversation and men who understood them and shared a commitment to gender equality. But for pure sexiness you couldn’t beat old-fashioned male competence.

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ she said.

  ‘Fine, I won’t be long.’

  She wanted to stay in the car so she could watch him cross the road and walk down the street. When he came out of the shop she would compare him with the other customers and give them all marks out of ten.

  The village was bustling with Easter weekenders, and the pharmacy was busy. First man out hardly counted, too old and gnarled. Second man, not bad in a French strutting-cock sort of way, low centre of gravity, pointy shoes, five out of ten. The third man was young and gawky, thin in a way that lacked energy, as opposed to wiry thin, four out of ten. Next up was obviously an incomer, probably Dutch, with too much facial hair and a dodgy money-belt, four again.

  She remembered a game she used to play with the girls at work. It was during the sales conferences, those depraved events when a hundred employees would hole up in a hotel and brag about how much they had drunk. You had to pretend someone was holding a gun to your head and forcing you to go to bed with one of the reps. Which one would you choose? How they had laughed. Some years later, the game became more sophisticated. Names would be produced from a hat and you had to decide whether to shoot, shag or marry the individual in question. Her thoughts briefly flickered back to Will, lounging on Rupert’s terrace. She frowned for a second, but brightened again when she saw Rupert come out of the pharmacy, filling the doorway, broad and English, looking unkempt with his hair falling over his face, his shirt unironed. Objectively, thought Jane, he would be a six or a seven, maybe an eight a few years back. But she was no longer being objective. He opened the car door and threw the bag of medicine onto the back seat. />
  ‘Shall we get some bread for lunch?’ he said. ‘Maybe a couple of fougasses? Why are you laughing?’

  ‘I’m not laughing.’

  ‘Smiling, then.’

  ‘I love you.’

  He climbed in beside her and she smelt the now-familiar scent of his embrace. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘so can we stop messing around now?’

  When they got back to the house, Lydia was still on the sun-lounger, a pile of magazines beside her.

  ‘God, I’m bored,’ she said. ‘It’s all very well loafing around when it’s your choice, but as soon as you’re told to put your feet up, the whole thing becomes tedious beyond words.’

  Rupert went in to fetch a glass of water then came out and opened the boxes of medicine, counting out the correct doses on the garden table.

  ‘You are a sweetie,’ she said as he handed her two tablets, ‘I can see how wonderful it will be in our old age. You can push me around in a wheelchair and get one of those pill-boxes with compartments for each day of the week.’

  Rupert smiled guiltily. He knew it wouldn’t happen, but had no idea how he was going to break the news. Until he did, it had to be business as usual.

  ‘It’s a shocking thought,’ Lydia went on, ‘being old. You don’t need to think about it in the city, far too much going on. But when you come somewhere like this, all there is to do is sit around and wait for death. Have you noticed how many old people there are in this village?’

  ‘I like old people,’ said Jane, who had settled down into the chair beside Lydia and was trying to act normally, to calm her thoughts into some sort of pattern. ‘I like the way they can say what they want,’ she added. ‘They’ve got less to lose, I suppose, it makes them more reckless.’

  ‘Come to think of it,’ said Lydia, ‘I don’t think I’ve spoken to anyone over fifty since my grandmother died. How old’s Will, by the way?’

  They all looked at him across the terrace where he was engrossed in his hook.

  ‘Fifty next year,’ said Jane. He’ll be sixty soon, she thought, he’ll be drawing a pension and I’ll be responsible for him. She had never thought of it in those terms before.