Love Nest

by Julia Llewellyn

  They arrived at Claridge’s fifteen minutes early. Ginevra was already waiting for them in the bar, wearing a Dolce & Gabbana peasant top and skinny black jeans tucked into boots.

  ‘Ooh, look! A Russian hooker,’ Benjie hissed. ‘This place is really going downhill.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Lucinda nudged him. ‘At least we’re being spared Wolfgang.’

  ‘Such a shame. Because I was really looking forward to talking to him about corporate bonds and the Ryder Cup.’

  ‘You could have asked him for some fashion tips,’ Lucinda sniggered.

  ‘Ah, yah!’ said Benjie, in an unkind but accurate impression of their Austrian banker brother-in-law. ‘So ve are vearing ze primrose yellow sweater with white jeans today, Wolfie? Und ze cravat, of course.’ Brother and sister sniggered.

  Ginevra jumped to her feet. ‘Guys! Hey! So good to see you.’

  ‘You too, Gins.’ Kissing her, Lucinda felt guilty for her bitchiness. Ginevra and Wolfie might have offended many sensibilities with their Eurotrash outfits and inanely dull conversations about which was better, Klosters or St Moritz, but they hadn’t shot Bambi. She should be more charitable.

  ‘What are you doing in London?’ she asked.

  ‘Wolfie’s over here for some meetings. And remember Princess Marie-Carolina of Bulgaria who was in my class at La Chêneraie? It’s her baby shower this afternoon – she’s marrying some hedge fund guy, so I thought combine it with lunch with you guys and then go on and see her. Look, let me show you what I’ve bought her.’ She bent down and reached into a Selfridge’s carrier bag, revealing an – admittedly cute – yellow cashmere cardigan and bootees. ‘Adorable, n’est-ce-pas?’

  ‘Très joli,’ Lucinda yawned, as Benjie clapped his hands together with genuine rapture, crying: ‘That’s gorgeous, Gins! Do you think they do them in adult sizes?’

  ‘Good, good. So you’re all here.’

  Michael Gresham. Tall, solid, with a thick, silver head of hair. At the sound of his booming tones, heads swivelled and conversations stopped dead.

  ‘Hello, Daddy,’ Lucinda said, offering him her biggest, most beaming smile. But he looked right through her to her – arguably prettier – big sister.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Kiss, kiss. ‘How are you? Looking lovely, I must say.’

  ‘Thank you, Daddy,’ Ginevra smirked.

  Lucinda tried to ignore the envy that always flickered inside her at such exchanges and instead turned her attention to Gail. As usual she was standing a few respectful paces behind her husband, looking pretty but boring, in a grey tweed suit. Her lips were definitely more swollen than last time they’d seen each other, her hair a couple of tones blonder.

  ‘Mummy, how are things?’

  ‘Wonderful, thank you, darling.’ Kisses were exchanged to an overwhelming pong of Y by YSL. ‘Benjie, my darling little boy. And Ginevra! Oh, I love that necklace. Is it Bulgari?’ Lucinda rolled her eyes.

  ‘How are things with you, Benjamin?’ their father asked as they made their way to the dining room. ‘Working hard?’

  ‘Of course, Dad,’ Benjie smiled. ‘How about you?’

  Michael laughed, as he always did at his son’s teasing. ‘You know me. Your mother’s fussing over me as usual. Says if I carry on like this I’ll have a heart attack. I say I’d rather be dead than bored.’

  ‘You look in great shape to me, Daddy,’ Lucinda said. Michael continued to address Benjie.

  ‘So when are you going to quit that namby-pamby degree of yours? Stop cutting up dead animals and do something serious? Like economics.’

  ‘You’ve already got an economist in the family,’ Lucinda pointed out, but her father ignored her. Benjie’s decision to read zoology had been the bravest move of his short life. Daddy had been incredulous that anyone – not least his only son – would want to study anything that didn’t focus on money and how to make more of it, but Benjie had been adamant. For a week or so, Daddy had hummed about whether he’d fund such an airy-fairy decision, but Mummy had intervened, Benjie had made an insincere promise about doing a Master’s in finance and – until now – there had been no further discussion.

  ‘I’m doing well, Daddy,’ Benjie said quietly. ‘Predicted a first.’

  That was an outright lie. But Michael’s attention span was short and it had already moved on to his firstborn.

  ‘And what about you, Ginevra? Enjoying Madrid?’

  ‘Daddy, I love it there. I’m doing a Spanish course and I’m thinking about launching my own internet business with my friend Pia. We were thinking hand-made Madeiran lace christening gowns.’

  Lucinda snorted involuntarily. Daddy looked at her stonily.

  ‘Sorry, got some water up my nose.’

  ‘And you, Lucinda?’

  ‘I got the office commendation last month.’

  ‘Did you?’ A tiny flash of approval in his eyes. ‘Well done. Right, shall we order?’

  Lunch passed in the usual fashion. Ginevra, Benjie and Mummy had a heated discussion on whether Tory Burch’s wedges were suitable on a yachting holiday. Lucinda meanwhile tried to discuss emerging Far Eastern markets with her father. Michael didn’t appear particularly interested, though, looking at his BlackBerry and snorting, before bashing out a reply.

  ‘So, Lucinda?’ Ginevra asked as the main course was served (the others had all gone for steamed Menai Straits bass – typical low-calorie nonsense, in Lucinda’s opinion. She had the roast beef, because that was what Daddy was having). ‘Are you seeing anyone right now?’

  ‘She got a Valentine this morning,’ Benjie snitched.

  ‘No! Who from?’

  ‘The whole point about Valentines is that they’re anonymous,’ Lucinda pointed out, annoyed.

  ‘But you do know. It’s from a guy she works with. It was horrible. Cheap and tacky.’

  Ginevra smirked. ‘Does he know who you are, exactly?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t. Nobody knows.’

  Daddy frowned. ‘Are you sure? You’ve got to be careful.’

  It was the threat that hung over all of them. Fortune hunters. People who were only interested in them for the Gresham money. Of course at La Chêneraie that hadn’t been an issue – all the pupils had been the children of moguls and the Greshams were virtually the poor relations. But in the outside world, as she couldn’t help thinking of it, you had to watch out.

  ‘This guy doesn’t know who I am.’ She thought of Gareth, with that open, trusting face. Way too decent to be an estate agent. ‘And even if he did, well… he’s not like that.’

  Gail tried – and failed, thanks to all the Botox – to frown. ‘I don’t know, darling.’ She turned to Michael. ‘Do you really think this is a good idea? Maybe Lucinda shouldn’t be doing this job.’

  Lucinda felt a flash of panic. She loved being in London, being free to live like an ordinary person. What was the alternative? Finding a husband, like her sister.

  ‘Mummy, Daddy, everything’s fine! I love what I’m doing here. Don’t worry, no one’s being a fortune hunter.’ Eager to change the subject, she turned to Ginevra. ‘I love that nail polish. Is it Chanel?’

  12

  A week had passed since Valentine’s Day. A milk-white blur of snowdrops lined the drive to Chadlicote Manor. In the kitchen, Grace and Lou stood leaning against the Aga rail, clutching mugs of coffee (with skimmed milk for Grace – she always drank skimmed milk, just like she consumed litres of Diet Coke) and discussing the Drakes.

  ‘They’ve moved very quickly,’ Grace said. ‘They visited on Saturday, put in the offer on Monday, Sebby and Verity accepted it on Wednesday…’

  ‘Sebby and Verity and you,’ Lou corrected her.

  ‘Yes. Well… I thought it was rather a low offer but Verity said the market’s still very unpredictable and we should move things as fast as possible. So the survey’s happening tomorrow and…’ Grace shrugged.

  Lou eyed her with exasperated affection. ‘So what are they like?’

&n
bsp; ‘The Drakes? Delightful. He’s a rather serious chap, he’s been very ill and wants to completely change his life. She was very pretty. Thin.’ Grace hovered on the last word longingly, then continued. ‘A bit quiet, but then she had to take plenty on board. Lovely girls – that’ll be a change for this big old house. Brighten it up.’

  ‘Should be your children living here,’ Lou said quietly, just as there was a loud banging at the front door. The dogs started barking.

  ‘Far too early for the post,’ Grace said, puzzled. The banging grew louder as she ran along the cold passageway to the front door. The dogs were nearly frantic by the time she opened it. A stocky man with red hair, an even redder complexion, lots of freckles and a broad grin stood there. He wore a faded Barbour and orange cords. He held out a stubby-fingered hand.

  ‘Morning. Miss Porter-Healey, I presume. I’m Richie Prescott, the surveyor. How do you do?’

  ‘Surveyor? But that was meant to be tomorrow, wasn’t it?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘I don’t think so. Tuesday ten a.m. That’s what was written in my diary.’

  ‘I had Wednesday. I must have made a mistake.’ Grace was baffled. She didn’t get things like appointments wrong. There were few enough of them, after all. She must be even more befuddled than she realized.

  Richie Prescott frowned. ‘Well, if it’s not convenient we can always reschedule.’

  ‘No, no. Today is convenient. No problem at all. You’ll just have to tell me how I can help you.’

  ‘Good lord.’ Mr Prescott looked around the echoing hall. ‘Isn’t this just the most marvellous house in the world? I remember coming to the fête in the grounds here with my parents when I was a little boy. It’s a great privilege for me to be able to survey it.’ He patted Shackleton, who was slobbering on his trouser leg. ‘Hello, boy. Delighted to meet you.’

  Grace glowed, like other people did when their babies were admired. ‘I’m so glad you like the house. I mean, it’s a bit of a wreck, obviously, but it still is very special. To me. At least.’

  He glanced at her. ‘Why are you selling? If you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘Well, my mother is dead and after death duties… my brother and I simply can’t afford the upkeep.’

  ‘I see. I’m so very sorry. But what a marvellous space. The National Trust would be slavering to get their hands on it. Did you apply for any grants?’

  ‘I thought about it. But it’s so complicated and time-consuming and… my mother was very ill these past few years. Looking after her took up most of my time.’

  ‘Of course.’ A tiny pause, then, ‘Well. Where to start? It’s going to be a long job, I’m afraid. Are you all right just to leave me to it?’

  ‘Certainly. You tell me where you’d like to begin and I’ll guide you in the right direction. And would you like some tea or coffee to help you on your way?’

  ‘I’d love a coffee. How kind! Milk. But no sugar. Sweet enough, you know?’ He winked. Grace blushed as if she’d just opened an oven door.

  ‘I’ll start in the attic and work my way down, if I may,’ Mr Prescott was saying.

  ‘Of course. Shall I show you up there?’

  ‘No need. I assume I just keep climbing!’

  As he headed up the stairs the phone rang on the hall table. Grace picked it up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Grace?’ trilled a nasal woman.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Verity Porter-Healey on the line for you.’

  Grace never quite understood why picking up the phone and dialling was too challenging for Verity, but she said: ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Grace.’ As usual Verity sounded utterly affronted at having to talk to her.

  ‘Hello, Verity, how are the boys?’

  Deep sigh. ‘A nightmare. God, if only I’d known what I was letting myself in for. Still, I suppose you think I’m lucky to have them. Anyway, never mind. I was just calling about the surveyor’s visit tomorrow.’

  ‘Actually he’s here now.’

  ‘What? But he was due tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but he swears the appointment’s for today.’

  ‘Oh, Grace! You are being nice to him, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course! I’m making him coffee right now.’

  ‘This sale has got to go through. Otherwise I’m not sure I’ll be able to have a holiday at half-term and my heart is set on the Seychelles. I’ve been reading how vital Vitamin D is for the bones. I’m shattered, you know, I worked my arse off all last year and then I didn’t get a bloody bonus, as if world financial meltdown was somehow my fault.’

  ‘I know. Poor you. But really, the Drakes seemed very keen, I don’t think a bad survey will put them off.’

  ‘It had better not.’

  ‘All right, love to the boys, I… Oh!’ Grace peered into the handset, surprised. ‘She’s gone.’

  Lou, who’d been pretending to plump an ancient armchair’s cushions, rolled her eyes.

  ‘I don’t know, Lou. I do my best to be nice to her. But she can be so tricky. She’s always so distracted, and she snaps at the boys, which I hate, and she puts Sebby down all the time.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Lou neutrally.

  ‘But she’s right. We do need to sell the house as quickly as possible. Little Alfie needs to be transferred to a private school, the primary he’s at won’t prepare him for the eleven plus and if he doesn’t get into a private school he’ll be bullied terribly because he’s so sensitive and…’ Grace shook her head. ‘I’d better get that coffee up to Mr Prescott.’

  Grace took the coffee up the stairs, stopping on the way to glance into the nursery, as Mummy had – with slight affectation – called it. The rocking horse, the doll’s house, the tiny children’s chairs – all sitting there like something from a museum. Grace tried not to think too much about children. They were her secret dream. But nobody was interested in her, or ever likely to be now. It was all right. Basil and Alfie loved the rocking horse and – who knew – maybe Verity would have a girl one day and she could have the doll’s house. It would be lovely to have a niece. She could read her the stories she’d enjoyed as a child: Ballet Shoes and What Katy Did and the entire Chalet School. She was sure Sebby would like another one, but Verity always laughed at the idea, saying unless he started to help out a bit with childcare two was more than enough. Which was very unfair; Sebby was a marvellous father, always playing monsters with the boys. It wasn’t his fault work exhausted him and he needed a lie-in at weekends.

  But perhaps all was not lost, she thought, stopping to catch her breath on the landing. She was only thirty-four. She just needed to meet some men. She’d considered online dating, or the personal columns in the Telegraph, but she couldn’t quite summon the nerve. She felt the same about finding a job. Grace was used to the air of faint pity in people’s eyes when they regarded her. She’d seen it in Karen Drake’s. It made her ashamed. And it made her more inclined than ever to lock herself away and eat and eat.

  But that could change. She’d start a diet tomorrow, she decided. Tonight she’d finish all the bad foods in the house – the cheesecake in the freezer, the pizza in the fridge, the tin of Quality Street. Tomorrow morning she would start afresh. Ryvita for breakfast. Ryvita and cottage cheese for lunch. Cottage cheese on salad for supper. She’d take the dogs for a long, long walk and in the evening she’d do sit-ups in front of a Doctor Who video.

  She pushed open the attic door. Richie Prescott was crouched under the eaves, surrounded by hatboxes, trunks bulging with faded linen, broken garden furniture and bad watercolours. He turned to her, smiling.

  ‘I bet you played wonderful games of hide and seek up here.’

  ‘We did,’ Grace agreed shyly.

  ‘Marvellous. Ah, thank you!’ He took the coffee and inhaled in mock comic-book style. ‘Just what a man needs on a winter’s morning.’ He reached in his pocket and pulled out a slim silver hip flask. ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he said, catching her eye. ‘Just
a drop of the Scottish stuff to warm my cockles. It is freezing up here.’

  ‘Oh, I do apologize!’ Grace exclaimed. ‘It… well, of course we don’t heat the attic. But I’m afraid it doesn’t get much better as you go downstairs. Would you like to borrow a coat? A jersey?’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry.’ He drained his coffee in one. ‘Plenty of padding on me, more’s the pity. And like I say, a little bit of the amber nectar never goes amiss, ha, ha. Now don’t you worry about me again. This is going to take several hours, so shall I just come and find you when I finish?’

  ‘Do. I’ll probably be in the kitchen. Or my study.’

  But downstairs again, she felt oddly self-conscious. She knew there were still a million things to do, but with Richie in the house she couldn’t settle to any of them. She flicked through her diary. As she’d thought. Richie Prescott was down as coming on Wednesday morning. She must be going batty. She went back to the kitchen. Lou had gone by now but had left one of her game pies warming in the oven. Automatically, as Grace had always done, she set the table with a knife, fork, spoon. A napkin. A glass of water. Salt and pepper grinders.

  Then she stopped. The lonely setting for one struck her as utterly pathetic. Suddenly, angrily, she removed everything. Tucking the dish under her gloved arm, she began forking pie into her mouth. Great mouthfuls of crust, lumps of meat that moved painfully down her throat, failing – as usual – to heal the pain in her heart.

  She’d just finished when she heard a tap at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ she cried, putting the dish down and wiping the crumbs from her mouth.

  Richie Prescott stuck his head round.

  ‘Only me! Terribly sorry to bother you, but could I trouble you to use your phone? As you know, there’s no mobile reception here and I want to check my messages. Just worrying a touch that this appointment was meant to be tomorrow and today I should be somewhere else.’