Love Nest

by Julia Llewellyn

  ‘I heard the funniest thing today…’ she tried, before launching into an anecdote about a client’s vibrator falling out of her bag. But Gareth barely cracked a smile. Well, sod him. It wasn’t Lucinda’s fault she didn’t want to be his girlfriend. But still she felt a little cold inside. She liked people to like her – especially at work – and now she’d ballsed things up with her closest ally.

  It was a bit silly really, she didn’t need friends to climb to the top of the tree, but the truth of it was that Lucinda wanted them. She could barely admit it to herself, but she was lonely living in London. Apart from Cass, she had no old friends there – they were in France, or Switzerland, or America, and she didn’t quite know how to make new ones. She had Benjie to hang out with, of course, but so much of his time was spent having sex with anonymous men on Clapham Common, where Lucinda hardly felt welcome.

  She was just about to try another tack with Gareth when a tall, rather grumpy-looking man in a grey raincoat stepped in front of them.

  ‘Gareth. How are you?’ He had a South-Efrikan accent, which to Lucinda’s ears always sounded humourless and cold.

  ‘Oh, hello, Anton.’ The men shook hands energetically. He was in his forties at a guess, quite good-looking, just with a decidedly irritable air to him. She wondered what was making him so cross. ‘How are things?’ Gareth was asking.

  ‘Busy as always. They said the credit crunch was going to send us all tits up, but it hasn’t been the case. Demand’s still exceptional.’

  Gareth noticed her standing there expectantly. ‘Anton, this is Lucinda. She’s just joined us. Lucinda, this is Anton Beleek. He’s a big property developer. You know the Craighill building? That’s his.’

  ‘Oh yes? I just took on a flat there today.’

  ‘Did you.’ He barely registered her, eyes still on Gareth. Sexist twat, Lucinda thought. Probably he’d dismissed her as an irrelevant secretary. ‘So how are things, Gareth? What’s your reading of the market?’

  They stood talking. Slow rain was starting to fall. Lucinda shuffled uneasily from foot to foot. They carried on talking. She hugged herself rather dramatically to make it clear she was damp and cold and a bit bored but they ignored her. Eventually, she cleared her throat.

  ‘Guys, since you’ve got so much to talk about I’ll leave you to it. Gareth, I’ll see you down at the Fox in a minute.’

  Gareth had the grace to look a bit embarrassed. Anton whoever-he-was didn’t. Well, bugger him.

  ‘No, no, I won’t keep you standing in the rain, Anton. But very good to see you. We should have lunch soon.’

  ‘We’ll do that,’ Anton said. They shook hands. He nodded at Lucinda. ‘’Bye.’

  ‘What a rude man,’ she said, watching his retreating back.

  ‘That’s just his manner,’ Gareth said, rather brusquely.

  ‘And he’s some big-shot property guy?’ she asked, still stung. ‘I bet he’s not like that when he’s wooing investors.’

  ‘Apparently he is. Doesn’t seem to make any difference. He owns half of the area. Must be worth trillions. He is a nice guy underneath it all, though. He’s just a little serious.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  For the first time in their brief but eventful walk, Gareth laughed. ‘Typical woman’s question. No, he’s not. He’s had a few girlfriends, I hear, but it’s never worked out. Too much of a workaholic.’

  ‘Too much of a rude pig more like,’ Lucinda said, pushing open the door of the Fox & Anchor and enjoying the warm blast of air that hit her face. ‘Hey, everyone,’ she said, approaching the gang at the bar. ‘Who’d like a drink?’

  7

  Late on Saturday morning the Drake family’s Volvo drove through a large rusting iron gate and on to a twisting, potholed drive, flanked by beech trees naked in the February air. The sky was a dull yellow that threatened snow, the ground was hard. Apart from the engine there was an air of total, slightly menacing silence.

  ‘Daddy, this is amazing,’ said Eloise, craning her head this way and that. ‘How much land is there?’

  ‘Lots,’ said Phil, grinning at her in the driver’s mirror. ‘Easily enough for you both to have a pony.’

  For the first time since hearing she was going to miss Isobel’s party, Bea smiled.

  ‘Two ponies!’

  ‘Could we have a swimming pool?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Plenty of space.’ Before he’d been ill, Phil had been very firm about not spoiling the girls. But since his recovery he basically gave them whatever they asked for. It drove Karen nuts.

  The girls squealed and grasped each other.

  ‘A swimming pool! Amelia will be so jealous.’

  Phil grinned from ear to ear, as he glanced sideways at his wife. Karen replied with a grin that was – if anything – even wider. Only it didn’t extend to her eyes.

  ‘This is just what we need,’ Phil gabbled. ‘Country living. Fresh air. We could grow our own vegetables. No more stress. Loads of family time.’

  The car swept round a final wide bend, and standing before them was Chadlicote Manor.

  ‘It’s like a fairy castle,’ cried Bea, who – to her mother’s bemusement – at nine was still in the throes of the pink, Disney-princess obsession.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Eloise contradicted. ‘Does it have battlements? Or a moat? Or a drawbridge? It’s a Tudor manor house, isn’t it, Mummy? We did them in history last term.’

  ‘That’s right, honey,’ said Karen, trying to adjust her look of horror. The house was undeniably beautiful. But you didn’t exactly have to be a master builder to see that it had been horribly neglected.

  Car parked, the girls scrambled out and ran screaming towards the wide front steps guarded by two moss-covered stone greyhounds. Phil seized the huge brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head and banged it against the oak door.

  There was a sound of barking, a faint cry of ‘Coming’, a rattling of bolts and a clanking of locks and slowly it opened. On the threshold stood Miss Porter-Healey. Karen had imagined a petite old lady, smelling of violets, in a moth-eaten tweed suit. But this woman in a shabby green tracksuit was a few years younger than her. Yet oh, how different. While Karen was slender, with a raven’s-wing slick of dark hair, Miss Porter-Healey was mousy, tallish and – there was no politer word – fat. A pretty face, yes, but her blue eyes and cupid’s bow mouth were obscured by layers of blubber. A fat black pug wheezed asthmatically at her side, while behind it a skinny copper-coloured spaniel barked excitedly.

  ‘How do you do,’ she said in a soft voice, holding out her hand. Her nails, Karen noticed, were bitten to the quick. ‘I’m Grace. Excuse my get-up, you’re a bit earlier than I expected. I was just trying to get things shipshape for you. Come in, come in.’

  They shook hands, muttering introductions, then followed her into the vast entrance hall.

  ‘Cool!’ cried Bea.

  ‘Mum, look, there’s a minstrels’ gallery,’ cried Eloise. ‘It’s like Romeo and Juliet.’ She turned to Miss Porter-Healey. ‘That’s my favourite Shakespeare play.’

  Miss Porter-Healey probably wanted to slap the precocious brat and tell her to go and play with a Barbie, but to her credit she smiled kindly. ‘My brother and I used to do plays up there. You could do the same. Your mummy and daddy could sit down here and watch. Oh, down, Silvester, down.’ She grabbed the spaniel, who was happily humping Phil’s leg. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Quite all right. No problems,’ Phil laughed. The girls giggled. Silvester rolled on to his back and Bea started tickling his tummy.

  ‘Mummy, if we lived here could we have a dog?’

  ‘Um. Maybe, darling.’ Karen looked around. It was certainly an impressive space, with that huge staircase in the middle dominated by a dusty chandelier with no bulbs. Perhaps Miss Porter-Healey had removed them, hoping the dim light would conceal the ancient paper with fleur-de-lis pattern flapping off the walls. Or the crack in the floor by Karen’s feet. The girls were insp
ecting a ping-pong table in the far corner, held up by a pile of Penguin books.

  ‘Would you like to play?’ Grace asked. Karen felt embarrassed for her. Eloise and Bea didn’t play, they Wii’ed and MSN’ed. But to her surprise, they said, ‘OK.’ Seconds later they were laughing as the plastic ball skittered across the table.

  ‘What lovely girls,’ Grace said, sounding as if she meant it. Karen looked at her with fascination. Yup, there was no doubting it, she was in the presence of a full-blown spinster of the sort she’d thought existed only in Miss Marple novels. Grace looked around the space, smiling wistfully. ‘My brother and I had so many wonderful times here. It really is a magical house. But now my mother is dead and so… it has to go.’ Another timid smile. ‘It would need a lot of work done to restore it to its former glory. A lot of time and money. But it could be fabulous again.’

  ‘And… er… you?’ Phil said cautiously, not knowing how to phrase it. But Grace caught his drift.

  ‘I would love to stay here. Chadlicote is a very much loved home.’ She paused for a second, then rallied. ‘But the rest of the family want me to sell. I shall move into a cottage which belongs to us in Little Dittonsbury. So I shall always be close by if you need any advice.’

  Phil’s eyes were sparkling. It was his ultimate fantasy come to life, shored up by months of convalescence spent watching Grand Designs and Property Ladder on More 4. Already, Karen could see him fantasizing about their struggle being turned into an hour-long narrative sandwiched between ads for building societies and loo roll. Couple buy crumbling pile. Couple have several hilarious misadventures as they painstakingly restore it. Couple go several hundred thousand over budget and work takes two years longer than scheduled, but eventually all is well and Kevin McCloud appears to announce he has had his doubts but is now bowled over by the owners’ creative vision, their loving attention to detail. Cue credits and trailer for next week’s episode.

  Karen shivered.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Grace said, scanning her flimsy top. ‘I turned the central heating on full this morning but it takes a while to get going. Would you like to borrow a coat?’

  ‘Oh no, I’m fine,’ Karen lied, resisting the urge to hug herself.

  They followed Grace round the house. Karen noted the creaking floorboards, disintegrating window frames with paint scattered beneath, the spiderwebs, the mould on the wooden shutters, the holes in the plasterwork that made it look as if it had been under fire from the SAS. It was all so shabbily un-chic, so depressing. Karen took in the piles of Doctor Who videos (not even DVDs!) in the tiny sitting room called the den, which Grace clearly inhabited year round in preference to the vast and draughty living room.

  Her heart tugged as they moved on to Grace’s tiny bedroom on the second floor. Sometimes Karen berated herself for having never truly appreciated her old single life of lie-ins and cocktails and weekend shopping trips to New York. But that, she realized, was the urban version of spinsterhood. If you were living in Devon, it meant four walls with drab flowery paper. A bookcase filled with ancient children’s paperbacks of The Secret Garden and The Wolves of Willoughby Chase. A mantelpiece covered in kitsch china ornaments that would have been incredibly amusing in a Hoxton living room but here just spoke of a lifetime shopping at village jumble sales and an inability to throw tat away.

  Phil peered out of the small window. ‘Look, Karen, you can see the lake.’

  ‘That’s why I stayed in this room,’ Miss Porter-Healey said. ‘I mean, it was mine as a girl and when I came back as an adult I could have moved into a bigger one, but there’s nothing like waking up in the morning and seeing the water. And besides… it reminds me of my childhood.’

  Phil nodded enthusiastically. He grew even more excited after he’d seen the master bedroom, the ‘nursery’, the six other bedrooms, the two studies and so on and so on and so on. ‘Imagine what you could do,’ he said quietly to Karen, though not so quietly Miss Porter-Healey couldn’t hear. ‘We could install a cinema. Have a games room. The heating’s knackered, we could rip it out and put in underfloor throughout.’

  Karen thought back to her own upbringing in the tiny two-bedroom cottage where they received regular visits from cousin Genette, who owned a massage parlour in Swansea, and her great-auntie Noreen, who’d turned up at Gran’s funeral with bare gums because her Dobermann cross had eaten her false teeth, and marvelled that she’d come so far. Why was she so ungrateful? Why didn’t she want to live in this mansion?

  After the tour, they inspected the dying, tangled wilderness that was the grounds. Somebody had once worked on them planting irises and roses, encircling the lawn with yew trees, but now it was all a haze of dense bramble. Still, the girls were in heaven, as if they’d been given £200 each to spend at Claire’s. Karen gazed at them in astonishment. Surely this couldn’t be her own offspring getting so excited about nature?

  ‘Look at this,’ Phil said contentedly, as they stopped for breath beside the gazebo, at the highest point in the property, with its dizzying views of rolling hills and, just there on the horizon, a slice of sea. The country light enhanced his gauntness. The weight he’d lost during his illness hadn’t even started to come back on and his hair hadn’t grown back yet – the doctors said it might never happen. His pocket started bleeping loudly.

  ‘Oh!’ Miss Porter-Healey exclaimed. ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘My alarm,’ Phil said, digging in his pocket and pulling out an envelope marked ‘Noon’. He shook some pills out on to his palm, opened the bottle of water he always carried and swallowed them.

  ‘Sorry. I need to take so many vitamins to keep myself in shape and the best way to benefit from them is to have a few every few hours or so.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Miss Porter-Healey. Karen felt embarrassed, like she always did when Phil went through this pantomime. She could understand why; he’d been at death’s door, after all, but the fussing and obsessing still – quite unreasonably – annoyed her.

  Phil put his arm round her shoulder. ‘There seems to be a very special energy here.’

  ‘I think so,’ said Miss Porter-Healey.

  ‘I’ve been very ill, you see.’ He held up a hand to silence any platitudes. ‘Don’t worry, all is well now. But it’s forced me to take a good look at my life. Make many changes.’ He smiled ingratiatingly at Grace in the way he used to when he wanted to persuade someone to hand over a huge percentage of their company for a tiny sum of money.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but this place seems to hold so many opportunities. It could be opened to the public. Weddings. Corporate bonding days.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Grace smiled, although she seemed a little sad. ‘I was considering ventures like that, but then my mother got ill and nursing her took priority. But it would make me so happy to let everyone share Chadlicote’s beauty. And it would certainly help with the overheads, which are substantial, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, that’s pretty obvious,’ Phil said, but in a very friendly way, and everyone laughed. ‘But it sounds as if it could be ideal for us. Karen’s a bit apprehensive about jacking in her job and this would be a project for her.’

  He said it as if restoring Chadlicote was the equivalent of – say – buying and wrapping forty Christmas presents, a bit of a hassle but fun really. Another rictus grin from Karen. Her jaw was aching from so much fake smiling, her head from calculating what this would all entail. Years, probably decades, of builder hell; long, freezing winters. And all for a future discussing marquees with stressed brides and bulk-buying white wine to serve junior executives on away-days.

  A lifetime of being exiled from the friends she’d taken such an age to make, who’d promise to visit but wouldn’t. Of seeing the career she adored knocked brutally on the head.

  Of being stuck in the middle of nowhere with a man she was no longer sure she loved.

  Karen would have forever to live with the secret that although she was obviously overjoyed her husband was st
ill alive, she sometimes fantasized about life if he had died. She and the girls would have been devastated, of course they would. But she would have been alone, starting again.

  For Karen was in the nightmarish position of being still married to a man who bore virtually no resemblance to the one she’d married. The Phil who had survived his cancer was nervier, more anxious about silly little things and careless about big issues like money. He said he wanted to spend more time with the girls, to appreciate the finer things in life, to watch the grass grow, but then he wasted hours slumped in front of sport, or – worse, in Karen’s opinion – on the internet communicating with other cancer ‘survivors’, swapping tips about vitamin supplements and homoeopathy.

  All the burdens he had used to shoulder, like dealing with bills or little household repairs, tended to get passed to Karen, because he said stress was bad for him. He wouldn’t go on holiday to hot places any more because he was frightened of the sun, and he insisted on a vegetarian or vegan diet, which was tricky since the girls ate virtually nothing but sausages, chicken and bolognese sauce (which Bea inspected forensically for any trace of hidden vegetable).

  The result was that Karen had changed too. She was a far angrier person than she had been. Angry with her husband for suffering so unstoically. For his demands – which, while being utterly reasonable, were still infuriating. Then she was even angrier with herself for being so unsympathetic.

  Of course everyone told her how brave they both were. It was one of the ways people coped with cancer, to see it as an ennobling experience. But the truth was cancer hadn’t enlarged their spirits, it had reduced them, made them both petty-minded and cross.

  But then she looked at Phil again. His cheeks were ruddy. He looked the happiest Karen had seen in months.

  She was going to have to go along with this plan. She’d been studying the ground, but now, looking up, she caught Grace’s eye. The pain there made Karen feel slightly sick.