Dressing the Dearloves

by Kelly Doust

  It wasn’t awful, Sylvie thought to herself, trying to get her head around the images. Just strange.

  ‘So all the work you’ve been doing up to now’s been a complete waste of time?’ Gigi asked, reaching out a beringed finger and clicking onto the next page impatiently, which revealed a mocked-up drawing of an apartment interior, set inside the current façade. Small and poky, the apartment nonetheless appeared very well appointed; modern, with Caesarstone countertops and tiny en suites, and living areas which looked out over the hills towards Frome, as well as further back over the rise and down into the valley.

  The penthouse was a Le Corbusier-style glass and metal construction that rested on the top of Bledesford’s deconstructed roof like an anvil. A five-bedroom apartment designed to take in the spectacular beauty of the surrounding countryside in a three-sixty view. As well as an outdoor roof garden, complete with terraced shade and barbecue, and creepers imagined upon the overhanging gardens of Babylon.

  Bledesford Downs, they were calling it. It was written at the bottom of every page, in a fetching sans-serif script, trademarked by the successful property corporation.

  ‘It hasn’t been a waste of time!’ cried Wendy, shaking her head. ‘It got us an offer, need I remind you?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re going to come in and change it all anyway. They’ll have bulldozers and cranes crawling all over the place, making a bloody mess of everything.’ Gigi let out a disgusted snort and pushed the tablet back towards Wendy. ‘But honestly,’ she said, staring at them each in turn, ‘I really don’t mind what you do. As far as I’m concerned, Bledesford belongs to you and your family now, Robin – that means you, Wendy and Sylvie. I don’t think Lizzie’s going to be around for much longer, so she’s out of the equation. What?’ she asked, seeing the horror cross Sylvie’s face. ‘It’s the truth! And as such, the three of you should decide what you’re going to do with it. But, personally, I think it’d be a grand shame.’

  Gigi hitched up her kaftan to lean on the table, steepling her chubby fingers in front of her for emphasis. ‘Personally, I think Bledesford is looking better than it has in years – especially with all you’ve done, Wendy, and Sylvie, and that Nick of yours. He’s worth his weight in gold, that boy. A lot of the land has been sold off over the years, but Bledesford’s still surrounded by all this luscious green . . . and, well, its history. Is this really what you want to see happen to the place?’

  ‘Gigi has a point,’ her father said, knocking back the last of the wine in his glass and not meeting her mother’s eyes.

  Wendy frowned and moved the bottle so it was out of his reach.

  ‘What?’ he said crossly.

  Sylvie hadn’t seen her parents so out of sorts with each other in a long time. She looked around at all their faces. Her mother’s, frustrated but somehow hopeful; Robin’s, frowning and silent; Gigi, with her inscrutable Buddha face on.

  ‘Darling, what do you think?’ Wendy asked suddenly, turning to Sylvie. ‘It’s too good for us to turn down, surely? I honestly don’t know how much longer we can hold on if we don’t take this offer,’ she said, her voice breaking.

  Sylvie’s heart flipped in her chest, her breath coming ragged all of a sudden, as they waited for her response. After the brooch fiasco, she couldn’t bear to disappoint her mother again.

  ‘Um, I— I don’t know,’ she managed, looking around for a glass of water, her heart beating faster than ever. Sylvie put a hand to her chest, which was sore and tight, trying to ignore the shooting pains. Gigi passed a glass to her and Sylvie gulped it down quickly. She tried to slow her breath and the great thumping in her chest, which felt like it was about to explode.

  Wendy jumped to her feet. ‘Your pills – are they in your bag?’ she asked Sylvie without waiting for an answer.

  ‘I—’ Sylvie just about managed, before Wendy returned to the room, thrusting a pill into her daughter’s hands, removing another from the blister pack.

  ‘Here,’ Wendy said, passing Sylvie more water.

  Sylvie swallowed gratefully and tried to regulate her breathing as she waited for the panic to loosen its grip.

  ‘Hey! I’ve been trying to reach you. Where have you been?’ Ben asked when she picked up the phone on the fourth or fifth ring. It was late at night, long after the conversation with her family at the dinner table, but Sylvie was still reeling.

  ‘Up in London for a bit,’ she said quietly, in a daze from her anxiety medication and the news. ‘You were right, the thing with the V&A didn’t work out.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’ He stopped, falling silent on the other end of the line.

  Although she’d been ignoring him – over the past week Ben had called again and again, and sent her texts – his impeccable Texan manners didn’t fail him. She knew her treatment of him was beyond unfair, but up until this point she’d been unable to help herself. It was now or never, though – it was time to talk.

  Sylvie cleared her throat. ‘We’re working through other options, with the collection. But it doesn’t seem so important now, because . . . Well, Mum just found out that someone’s made us an offer.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Ben said cautiously, and Sylvie hated herself for making this lovely, confident man sound so small and unsure of himself. Biting her lip, she wondered what to say next. How could it be that you shared so much with a person – not just sex, but fun, friendship and the grown-up intimacy of living with someone for the first time – only to feel this nothingness? This space between you? She had gone and fucked it all up again, and she knew she should be devastated, but all she felt was an overwhelming tiredness.

  ‘Look, I’m—’

  ‘I’m just calling because—’

  ‘Sorry, you speak.’

  ‘No, you.’

  ‘Okay, well.’ Sylvie drew a deep breath. ‘Ben, I’m so sorry—’ The story rushed out quickly, her words almost tripping over each other to escape.

  ‘Don’t. Just . . . don’t,’ he said quietly, his voice heavy, as she apologised again.

  Sylvie could almost feel his sadness radiating through the phone. ‘I— I’ll sort something out with my stuff. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but just throw it in the lock-up downstairs when you get the chance,’ she said.

  ‘That’s why I’m ringing, actually,’ he said slowly. ‘I already have, Sylvie. I— I’ve met someone else. That’s why I’ve been trying to call you.’

  ‘Ben, I . . .’ Despite herself, Sylvie felt a pang of loss. ‘The girl in the photo. I’m happy for you.’

  ‘That’s big of you,’ he drawled.

  Sylvie scratched at her arm, wondering if her nails would draw blood. She felt wretched. She deserved everything she got.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ben sighed. ‘I think I just needed to . . . get that out. It’s been months. I don’t know what’s happened to you. I don’t really want to know any more. You’re obviously not interested and I need to move on.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

  ‘I know. Me too.’

  And with that, he was gone.

  Sylvie flung herself on the bed. She knew she should feel horrible. She did, on the surface. Embarrassed and mean and full of shame. But deep down there was something else. When she thought about Ben and the mystery girl on Facebook, the pretty blonde, she tried to summon up feelings of jealousy and regret, but instead all she felt was a resounding relief.

  Squinting at her phone screen, she typed out a message.

  U up?

  Yup.

  ‘Hi! I wasn’t expecting you to call,’ Nick said, a smile in his voice.

  ‘Sorry it’s so late.’

  ‘It’s fine – I’ve just been having dinner with Mum and Dad.’

  ‘Snap.’ Sylvie decided not to mention what had just happened with Ben. It felt weird, somehow, bringing him into the conversation.

  ‘So, what’s up?’

  ‘Um, well . . . we just found out that someone’s made us an offer. A developer.
’

  Nick let out a low whistle. ‘A good one?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sylvie said quietly, unable to hide the uncertainty in her voice.

  ‘You don’t sound happy.’

  ‘I . . . I know I should be, but it’s just . . . the stuff they want to do with the place. I can’t really believe it.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘Not bad. Just strange.’

  ‘I get it,’ Nick said. ‘You poor thing.’

  It felt good to have someone to talk to, Sylvie realised, relaxing against the pillows. Someone who wasn’t in her family but someone who nevertheless really understood the situation. To be able to discuss it in a way that wasn’t weighted with emotion, guilt, obligation or worry was wonderful.

  ‘There’s so much history here – not just for Lizzie and all of us but, you know, English history – centuries and centuries of it. How could it be gone, just like that? But I keep thinking of Mum and Dad, and how much they need the money, so . . .’ Sylvie trailed off.

  ‘And what do your mum and dad think?’

  ‘Mum’s keen, she’s worried sick about the repayments, so it’s like a godsend to her. Dad’s not sure, and Gigi, well, she said it was up to us but she was predictably Gigi – shirking any responsibility and being all, you know, om, these things shall pass . . .’

  Nick laughed. ‘She’s not wrong though. On paper, I guess it looks like a sound investment, particularly if they’re willing to offer you some money now.’ He paused. ‘But you must be a bit pleased. That means you get to go back to New York, right?’

  Sylvie swallowed. She hadn’t really thought about what calling it quits with Ben would mean. What was there to return to now?

  ‘I suppose so.’ Fiddling with a lock of hair, she felt obscurely disappointed by his response.

  Nick continued. ‘But I can imagine how hard it must be to give up something that’s so much a part of you and your family . . .’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly it,’ Sylvie said, sitting up. Nick had nailed it – it was like releasing a precious part of her soul, the thought of selling the place. When had that happened? She hadn’t realised she felt like that before.

  ‘I really did think I’d be more relieved when we had an offer, but now . . .’

  ‘When do you have to decide by?’

  ‘The end of the month,’ Sylvie said flatly. ‘Otherwise they take the offer off the table, apparently, and go looking for something else.’

  Nick whistled again. ‘Doesn’t give you much time, does it?’

  When she’d mentioned the sale to Ben, he’d thought it was good news. But Nick . . . well, he seemed to put his finger on her feelings. She couldn’t help comparing how different the two of them were, how Nick seemed tuned in to her somehow.

  ‘I’d better let you go,’ she said, feeling suddenly awkward.

  ‘No trouble. I’ll stop by in the morning, yeah?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’ It was oddly formal.

  ‘Night then, Quicksilver.’

  ‘Night, Nichol-arse.’

  She heard his low chuckle as she put down the phone. She closed her eyes, smiling at the ceiling, and felt herself drift away.

  25

  Victoria: London, 1941

  ‘Sorry,’ asked Victoria, incredulous. ‘I’m what?’

  ‘Pregnant,’ said the grey-haired physician, studying her over the half-moon of his spectacles. ‘About six weeks, I’d say, judging from your uterus. I take it this is a surprise to you?’

  Pregnant? Oh, dear God. She couldn’t believe it. And yet she’d been feeling so awful lately. Queasy and foggy in the brain for no reason. She’d put it down to the after-effects of the bombing and her shock; this was the last thing she’d been expecting.

  The doctor mistook her despair for something else.

  ‘I know it’s difficult to consider raising a child in these times Mrs, um, Dearlove,’ he said, glancing at her case file, which was sitting on his desk. ‘Especially when your husband is away. Is that the case, Mrs Dearlove – is your husband fighting at the front?’

  ‘Oh – yes,’ said Victoria, swallowing down the sudden bile rising in her throat and thrusting her left hand, with its telltale naked ring finger, in her pocket. She thought she might be sick.

  The doctor’s arm shot out, reaching for a kidney-shaped bowl. He passed it to her in a practised move. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You’re looking a little green around the gills . . .’

  Victoria accepted it with a wan smile. She thanked her lucky stars that she’d tried this new surgery around the corner, instead of visiting her regular family doctor. Dr Simpson had been seeing them for every complaint they’d had since they were children, but he was based down in Frome. Dr Simpson knew she was unmarried, of course; he’d be as horrified as she was if he knew she was pregnant.

  ‘Do you have any family nearby?’ the doctor asked.

  Victoria raised her eyes to meet his, still dumbfounded.

  ‘Yes. My sister,’ she said, rising from her seat unsteadily. She’d tried to control the roiling wave of emotions bubbling up inside, but they were threatening to overwhelm her.

  ‘Good, good . . .’ the doctor carried on regardless, watching Victoria wobble to her feet and then getting up to escort her to the door. ‘Do try to lean on her as much as you can, won’t you, Mrs Dearlove? In your condition you shouldn’t be taking on too much. Rest when you feel like it, and try to avoid anything that makes you feel too anxious. I know that’s easier said than done, but it’s good for you and even better for the baby.’ He held the door open. ‘The war will be over soon, then we can all count our blessings.’

  She felt the platitudes wash over her, and sensed his impatience to hurry her from his room.

  Walking down the steps of the surgery in a stupor, she wondered what on earth she was going to do. Victoria didn’t keep secrets from her sister – not ever – but she hadn’t told Lizzie anything – anything at all – about what had happened with Emil that night.

  Her thoughts flashed back to Morton’s. She could scarcely believe what had happened herself. She and Emil had danced together for hours, and the dancing and the brandy had made heat flow through her limbs. She’d felt lighter, freer and more alive than she’d ever felt before.

  Reaching to brush a lock of hair out of her eyes, Emil’s thumb had brushed against her cheek, and she’d moved against him. That was all it had taken.

  Victoria thought of the way they’d left the club, hand in hand, walking up into the street, the jacket of her Wren uniform slung over her arm and her simple cotton blouse open at the neck. His collar had been open as well, smooth chest shining from the heat of the packed basement bar.

  ‘May I walk you home, Miss Dearlove?’ he’d asked, his eyes crinkling as he smiled down at her.

  Victoria nodded, suddenly shy, but knowing more than anything else in the world that she couldn’t bear it if he let go of her hand.

  It was three or four in the morning, and the streets were quiet as they walked towards Lizzie’s house. Victoria was still worried about Lizzie – her sister hadn’t shown up at Morton’s that evening as agreed – but deep down she knew her sister was safe. She would know if anything happened to Lizzie, wouldn’t she? Victoria was sure she’d sense it if something was wrong. Besides, she was simply too happy to be anxious.

  As they drew closer, their steps slowed, both unwilling for the night to come to an end. And then, far too soon, they were on the street looking across at Lizzie and Reggie’s grand Georgian terrace.

  ‘This is a very beautiful street,’ he said, looking around. ‘Is that your sister’s house?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and they stood for a moment, looking up at the white portico façade and blank, shuttered windows.

  ‘Well, then, Miss Dearlove,’ he said and, all of a sudden, she felt quite urgently that she couldn’t bear to say goodbye. She tugged at his sleeve.

  ‘Look,’ she said and pointed. ‘Let me show you. It’s quite lovely . . . one
of my favourite places in London.’ They were standing in front of the entrance to the small park in the middle of the square.

  ‘Shhhh,’ she said, pulling out a ring of keys from her purse.

  Carefully she slid the brass key into the gate, pushing it open a few inches when it unlocked. It creaked loudly and she hesitated for a moment, anxious, but then gently pushed it open a little more. When the gap was wide enough to fit both of them through, she grabbed Emil’s warm hand, led him inside and closed it softly behind them.

  The moonlight cast a pale yellow pool on the paving stones that wound towards the shadowy centre of the park, where Victoria knew there was a bench on a tiny patch of grass. As the two of them walked slowly into the centre of the park in the gloom, both bench and grass gradually revealed themselves in the shadows. The scent of roses carried to her on the breeze, and Victoria sat down, looking up at him. Emil still stood uncertainly beside the bench, the silvery moon reflected in his dark eyes.

  She patted the bench beside her, and finally he sat down, shuffling along towards her so that their thighs were touching. She felt a strange, warm relief flood through her.

  ‘Do you always live with your sister?’ Emil asked softly, tilting his head towards hers.

  ‘For the moment, yes. That’s my room, up there,’ Victoria said, pointing up to the third-storey bedroom which was hers. Emil stared up for a moment, then turned back to her, his eyes shining in the moonlight.

  ‘But this is not where you grew up, yes?’

  ‘No. That was Bledesford.’ Victoria sighed and then started to explain about how much she loved her home in the country, with its acres of parkland, fountains and greenhouse, and her north-facing sewing room, which caught the light all day and offered such a beautiful view of the gardens on the estate.