by Diana Hunt
That is one of the things I loved about Max: he came out with all these fascinating stories in his career.
‘Do you know what the symbols mean, Max?’
‘They are supposed to represent the senes - hearing, sight, touch, smell, taste, love. The background is 1000 flowers.’
‘I’ve heard that somewhere - mille fleurs.’
‘The woman and the unicorn, it seems, can have two meanings: either she is saintly and rejecting the sensuous world; or she represents seduction of the male unicorn.’
‘I don’t see the connection. The unicorn is horny enough, so I would go for the latter.’ (Perhaps there was an allegory for me somewhere: I must study it more closely.)
‘Very amusing - now I am going back to work. By the way, we are doing the first sitting tomorrow.’
‘In the studio?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think I’ll be safe?’
‘I expect you, young woman, to do as you’re told.’
I was ordered (for that is what it amounted to) to wear a black V-necked sweater or black blouse. (Why black, I wondered?) Anyhow, ‘doing as you’re told’ was the order of the day, so I entered the holy-of-holies after breakfast dressed in a black top and trousers. (I was tempted to wear nothing below the black blouse except black lace briefs, but on reflection thought that was pushing my luck.)
Max sat me on a dais in an old armchair and told me to sit up straight. I always sit straight; Judo taught me that: it was the first thing we learned: posture is everything. When orieental teachers say ‘bend’ they mean bend your knees and keep your back straight. Try it; it will damn-near kill you at the first attempt. So I sat there patiently while Max did what he called ‘blocking in’. Strangely, I wasn’t curious what was being put on the canvas. I am a vain woman, but I didn’t have feelings of vanity while Max was working on my portrait.
This procedure went on for several days, but I wasn’t always called into his studio. For which, of course, I was grateful (I’m not that patient). For I was hoping to take an exam in oral and written Italian with the Chartered Institute of Linguists before Christmas. But by the end of the week, both Max and I felt that we needed a break, not only from work, but from each other. So Max arranged to spend the weekend with Patricia and his grand-daughter. So I sorted his overnight bag and tidied the house before she collected him. But as I saw Richard’s car turn the corner I waved to him from the top step. As I slid next to him and slung my bag on the back seat, he looked at me warily, so I squeezed his knee and kissed him on the corner of his mouth. I said:
‘Now then, Richard Templeton: are you sure you can put up with me for the weekend?’
Even so, I felt guilty; as if I was just using Richard as therapy or indulging my sybaritic tendencies. But there was one thing uppermost in my mind: I would have to tell him sooner or later. But for now, we were going to have a great time - I’d make sure of that. I said:
‘Where are you taking me, sweetie: somewhere exciting: where an innocent gal would be in a hazardous situation?’
‘Just you wait and see.’
Well all I could say was, I hope you’re worth it, Richard, for I was wearing a really clingy dark-red woollen dress under my long black coat with faux fur collar - never mind the further contents in my bag, most of which I am sure I could be arrested for by the vice squad. This weekend, I will hopefully be a real tart. But he’d better be worth it - for I expect to be spoiled rotten. (Hold on a minute, Diana Hunt: what do you think you are doing? You are the one who slapped him in the face, then tried to get round him, then left him to lick his wounds for two weeks. You are hardly in a position to make demands, are you? Oh, shut up....Grrrrrrr.)
I glanced at his sat-nav and tried to work out where we were; but as far as I could tell he had lost me 15 minutes previously. Again, I asked: ‘Richard: where are we going?’
He turned and grinned. ‘Where are we going? We’re going home, Diana. That’s where we are going. And if you are good - and I hope that you are - because I’m still not sure that I still like you - you might get a bit spoilt.’
Was he a mind reader? ‘And where is home?’
‘We’re nearly there - home is Muswell Hill.’
Up to now we had driven through the inner reaches of London (not seeing much because of the rain-swept streets, lit only by rivers of light from commercial buildings and vehicle headlights). Richard had driven very carefully; but one could tell that this acme of German engineering was frustrated at being made to move slowly all the time. Then suddenly we turned a corner and I could make out a large, undulating stretch of green and lights from a large building at its peak. ‘What is that?’, I asked.
‘Muswell Hill golf club - and we are home. Welcome to number 40 Rhodes Avenue.’
I didn’t know where we would be or what I would see; perhaps some fashionable apartment in the Docklands or converted terrace in Notting Hill - but certainly not this. The detached house was set back from the avenue, fronted by double iron gates, a curved driveway, but no sign of a garden (it reminded me of Melanie’s home). It had a bow-fronted front room, next to which was a deep porch. The garage was attached to the right-hand side of the house. I noticed that the curtains on the windows of the, presumably, sitting-room were drawn together and a light shone behind them.
Richard parked the car and I followed him into the house. I had noticed that the light in the hallway was also on as we entered the porch (the lintel above the door had panes of different-coloured glass, red yellow green in an art-deco shape set into the wood frame.) As soon as I entered the hall, I was enveloped in warmth; so welcoming....and I told Richard so. There was a highly-polished half-moon table against the flock wallpaper on my right and a square gilt mirror above that. The soft hall carpet was dark green. Richard led me into the sitting room. This was dominated by an a marbled fire-surround; again, another square mirror with a fancy gilt frame; puttees raced around the edge wearing very little. Either side of the fire (burning brightly with living flames) were book shelves stacked with volumes arranged in size, the tallest on the bottom shelf; the shortest on the top (and I bet in alphabetical order).
The illumination came from table lamps artfully arranged on highly polished occasional tables. There were also a cream leather sofa and two tub chairs. At the far end of this room was a modern glass and chrome dining table, set with leather and chrome chairs. I thought: It was just like one of his hotel rooms. I sat down on one of the tub chairs. Richard said:
‘Let me take your coat and bag while you help yourself to a glass of champagne.’ He left the room. God, I thought - he’s behaving like a bloody butler. I retrieved the bottle from the bucket: Louis Roederer - crikey! I poured myself a glass: it was superb. Well, well, Diana, if the weekend continues like this, it’s going to be a stormer....I wandered around the cosy but perfect room: everything seemed to fit exactly where it should. I had never been in such surroundings since we stayed in a suite at the Quest-Ritson. ‘How’s the champagne?’
He had entered silently; I noticed that he had changed out of his business suit and shirt into chinos and a sweatshirt - at least he didn’t look like a butler anymore. He poured himself a glass of champagne, raised it, clinked it against mine. ‘How do you like my home?’
‘Your home is fabulous, Richard.’
‘I thought we would eat in - all right?’
‘Lovely.’
‘It is all prepared: would you care to set the table?’
‘Of course.’ I laid silver cutlery, lit two green candles, and placed a decanter of red wine on a mat in the centre.
But with all this perfection I had a feeling of dejavu: as we were previously. I wasn’t sure that I was entirely comfortable: Richard and a meal as perfect as in his restaurant on our first date: and I remember being mad at him then. Had he forgotten? But I ate the delicious pheasan
t and the crepes and drank the burgundy without saying anything. Richard seemed oblivious. We moved to the sitting room for coffee, and I watched him pour into tiny cups.
‘Richard?’
He turned and smiled. ‘Yes, Diana?’
‘What the fuck do you think you are doing?’
He dropped the silver coffee pot, and the contents swept on to his beautiful carpet in a dirty brown stream. The shock on his face was dreadful; he looked as if I struck him - which I suppose I had. Oh, Diana, you stupid cow. Oh, Richard, you poor man. I ran into the kitchen, soaked two tea cloths in cold water and swamped the dirty patch. Richard had slumped into one of the tub chairs. I removed as much of the stain as I could, returned the cloths to the kitchen, washed my hands, then stood by the fireplace, with my hands crossed over my chest, and tried to think what I was going to say next - if anything. But it was Richard who spoke first:
‘Diana: what on earth were you thinking, saying that - do you always have to be so coarse? What came over you? Weren’t you enjoying our evening?’
‘I’m sorry, Richard; it’s me, not you. I did a stupid thing, saying that. But...’
‘But what, Diana? Why would you want to spoil a pleasant evening. This is the second time....’
‘Yes: you think I would have learnt by now, wouldn’t you? You see, I detest fuss. And that time in your restaurant, with the waiters hovering, and all that ceremony. Then I come to your home, and it happens all over again. Richard: you were acting like a hotel manager - not a lover.’
And - to his credit - he laughed. ‘I see. Dear me - some women are never satisfied, are they. Are they all as ill-mannered in King’s Lynn? Or is it the rough country girl coming out: ‘‘You may take the girl out of Norfolk, but you can’t take Norfolk out of the girl’’ - is that it?’
I sat down quickly. ‘I asked for that, Richard. You know what I’m like - bloody-minded, difficult. I do regret it at times.’
He joined me on the sofa. ‘Oh, I know all about you, Diana Hunt. You made something of a reputation for yourself at the Ship Hotel.’
‘How did you know that!’
‘When you first invaded my hotel, I thought I had read your name somewhere, so I looked on the national staff files, and noted a housekeeper with your name. So I phoned Jim Morrison (an old friend) and he put me in the picture. You really made a pest of yourself there, didn’t you? But you certainly knocked the place into shape. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a job with me?’
And Diana was lost for words. I punched him on the arm, then kissed him on his cheek. ‘Sorry, Richard.’
‘That’s OK. So why don’t you make some fresh coffee like a good girl.’
‘Yes, sir.’ So, I was put in my place. Norfolk girl indeed! He was right, tho’. Now the atmophere was more relaxed, I had to discuss more with him. Richard was a nice guy, but he wasn’t a mug. He wasn’t manager of that hotel by being a soft touch. I said:
‘I want to talk about us. OK?’
‘I thought we ought to clear the air, Diana. But you first.’
‘Well, I need to tell you something, but it’s in confidence.’
‘Of course.’
‘Max has asked me to marry him, and I’ve accepted.’
Richard nearly spilled his coffee again. ‘Diana! You are full of shocks. When did this come about?’
I explained how Max and I came to such an arrangement (well, an edited version); that we needed each other: that it was to our mutual benefit and security. Richard listened to all this and didn’t interrupt. When I finished, he thought for a moment then said:
‘So where does this leave me, Diana? For a start, what are you doing here when you are engaged to Max?’
‘It doesn’t seem right, does it? Look, this is a business deal with me and Max - without seeming to be indelicate there is no sex involved. And don’t forget I’m telling you all this in confidence’.
Richard stood then wandered round the room. He said: ‘Where does this leave me. Am I going to be your cisebo? Your occasional lover?’
‘Let me answer your question with another, then you’ll know exactly where you are. Are you interested in marriage?’
‘No.’
‘Children?’
‘No,well, then. You confided in me that you were impotent. Yes?’
‘Correct: the result of an accident playing rugby at college.’
‘And you are not really interested in sex...’
‘Not really - just occasionally.’
‘But you like being with me?’
‘Most of the time. I like having a beautiful woman on my arm: official functions and all that....’
I walked over and put my arms round him. ‘Then don’t you think we could have the ideal arrangement?’
‘Maybe you are right. As it happens it is the golf club dinner tomorrow evening - I have two tickets.’
I kissed him. ‘Then let’s go and put the seal of approval upstairs.’
‘You mean?’
‘Of course - just leave it to Diana.’
‘What about the dishes?’
‘Sod the dishes.’
Chapter 17
LONDON; MUSWELL HILL
Richard attempted to bring me breakfast in bed - but I dislike that, so when he went downstairs I slipped into the shower. I let the warm water run over my body for a long time, over my hair to the ends of my toes. As I switched off, I heard him coming up; I stepped into the bedroom with a towel turban round my head and a short towel round my waist.
‘You’re making damp marks on the carpet, and you look like the Queen of Sheba.’ He put the breakfast tray on the bedside table, sat on the edge of the bed and studied me. I let the towel drop to the floor - but just before it landed on the carpet I snatched it and held it out. He said:
‘You are naked, Miss Hunt.’
‘Yes, I am. Do you like what you see, Mr Templeton, or do you object?’
‘I don’t object in the least. You are beautiful.’
I donned my kimono and sat next to him, and said: ‘You are beautiful too; I saw your naked body last night.’ Richard said nothing, but poured me a cup of coffee. I hope he didn’t compare me with the prissy-looking Victorian women in the prints I noticed when I was astride him. Also, wondering, now, where the two lithographs by Max were situated. Richard took the tray downstairs while I made myself decent.
We ate in the kitchen - fresh croissants and coffee, Duchy Original conserves. I was hungry (when aren’t I not?). He watched me eat. Then suddenly I dropped the last croissant on my plate and dashed upstairs. ‘Scuse me! Oh, sod!’ When I came down some minutes later, Richard had not moved (but I noticed that he had eaten the last croissant). He looked at me blankly.
‘Are you all right, Diana?’
I found myself blushing. ‘Yes: sorry about that. Er, emergency: time of the month came upon me.’
‘I understand, of course.’
‘It was probably your fault, anyway.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘All that desipient activity last night.’ He stood and gave me an old-fashioned look. ‘You,’ he said, ‘can earn your keep and wash the dishes.’ Richard left me to it. During this chore, I started thinking about my behaviour last evening. You really were a cow, Diana, saying that to the poor man, making him spill coffee on his beautiful rug. But I think I made up for it when we got to bed. Getting him going wasn’t such an effort this time. Even so, I do like it when I’m in control during love-making. And the thing is, I like Richard; I feel good in his company - so, in future, Diana, don’t cock things up.
We spent Saturday morning window shopping along the Broadway, moving among the crowds looking for Christmas bargains; well not entirely window shopping. As we left Richard’s house, I said: ‘Darling, re the golf club
do tonight.’
‘Yes?’
‘I didn’t know, of course, so I....’
‘....Have nothing to wear?’
‘Er, yes...’
‘Dear me - maybe you should wear that little silk number you almost had on in bed.’
‘Richard!’ As if I would go out in a chemise. ‘So we are going to stop staring in store windows and go inside somewhere.’ I knew that men hate shopping, so we stopped at the first boutique that looked as if it might have something of quality. Richard sat on a wobbly chair while I raided the racks. I came back with a silk plum-coloured evening dress. It had a lovely ruffled bosom with ‘bootlace’ straps and was gathered at the waist with layers of silk that swept to the hem. I went and tried it on. I fitted perfectly - it did wonders for my boobs. I trotted down the shop, did a swirl, and asked the sales-lady: ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you will knock them in the aisles. Is it for a special occasion, madam?’
‘The golf club annual bash.’
‘Then may I say you will be under no handicap.’
Richard watched this performance in silence, then said to the woman: ‘May I have a word with my friend?’
‘Of course, sir.’
I sashayed over. ‘What do you think?’
‘Wonderful. Will you let me buy it - Christmas present, if you like?’
‘Oh, Richard - thank you. On one condition.’
‘You’re making conditions now are you.’
‘No, I didn’t mean...what I was going to say was I would wear it only when I’m with you - leave it at your house. It would be special.’
‘Agreed.’
Crikey - how much money did my lover have? But I meant what I said about the dress. While the woman was packing, I sent him off to a coffee house, explaining that I needed to visit Boots’ chemists; ‘a small matter of a girl’s hygiene, you understand’.
‘Of course.’ What a sweet man. Have you ever wondered why I’m so bossy? Well, I’m a woman for a start. Also, you see, I have always seemed to be surrounded by incompetents. But in the situation in which I find myself now I had better be careful. By the time I had found him at a table near the window, I saw him speaking to a well dressed, attractive middle-aged woman; they obviously knew each other. I sidled up.
