Love Nest

by Julia Llewellyn

  ‘So… been to see any interesting houses lately?’

  ‘A few,’ he said. And he was off. He told her about the bungalow in Loddiswell with dodgy foundations, the cottage with outbuildings in Malborough that would need complete modernization, the penthouse in Salcombe with rising damp.

  ‘I love Salcombe,’ Grace said. But Richie didn’t hear. Grace’s head swam even more. She kept staring at the bread. The starters were a long time coming. Eventually she could help herself no more. She took a seeded white roll, broke it open and began spreading it with a pat of Anchor butter.

  ‘Of course I saw there were potential problems with the basement, but the buyer didn’t seem to care…’

  God, it tasted good. The butter was salty and cold, the bread soft and crunchy at the same time. She finished it, then started on another one, just as her starter was put in front of her.

  ‘Oh, splendid,’ Richie said. But he made no move to eat, instead picking up his wine glass again. ‘Of course, it’s rare to survey a house as glorious as Chadlicote. I’ve already told you, it’s such a shame you’re selling it.’

  ‘And I’ve already told you, there’s no financial alternative. I desperately need to find a job as it is.’ It would be rude to leave the remnants of the roll, she decided, cramming it in.

  ‘I think we’d better toast that.’ Richie looked at his glass accusingly, as if it had somehow emptied itself, then turned to the waitress. ‘Thank you. Delicious. Might we have another bottle of the Macon, please, darling?’

  ‘I’m quite all right,’ Grace said hastily.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind a wee drop more. I can always get a taxi home. Red wine. Very good for you, you know. Full of anti-wotsits. Thin the blood. Sure you won’t join me?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Grace said. ‘So you grew up in Thribble Pington?’

  ‘Born and bred there. You know, I’m sure if you held out you could get a better price for Chadlicote than the Drakes are paying.’ In the candlelight his face was shining with sweat, though the room wasn’t particularly warm.

  ‘I’m sure. But we need to sell quickly. And they’re cash buyers.’

  ‘Possibly another cash buyer could be found. Ah, cheers.’ The waitress uncorked the new bottle and poured. Richie tasted it perfunctorily. ‘Very good, thank you. To new jobs.’

  Grace had meant just to play with the terrine but it was looking at her so invitingly. She had a mouthful. Oh! So rich. She had another. Before she knew it she’d eaten it all. She stared longingly at Richie’s half-touched plate. Maybe he was on a diet too, she thought, as he pushed around the salad leaves. She couldn’t bear to see the waitress remove it. Fortunately, the main courses followed quickly. Richie had chosen better, she thought, gazing longingly at his chicken in its rich sauce. But these potatoes were delectable, from the early Jersey Royals crop – and even more so if you added another butter pat.

  ‘So…’ Grace asked, after her plate was cleared. Richie’s – infuriatingly – was only half touched again. ‘Do you have any hobbies?’

  ‘Hobbies!’ He seemed amazed. ‘Not really. Do you?’

  ‘Well… I’m very fond of opera.’

  ‘Opera!’ he snorted. ‘All fat ladies singing about their lost loves. Serves them right. They should lose some weight. Oops. Sorry. No offence.’

  Fortunately, the waitress rematerialized. ‘Would you like coffee? Dessert?’ Grace decided she’d ask to see the menu. Why not? She’d broken the diet already, so she might as well go for it. She’d make it up by starving tomorrow.

  ‘No pud. I’m stuffed. But I’d love a coffee. An Irish one, I think. Treat myself.’ He smiled at her. ‘Wake me up for the drive. How about you?’

  ‘I’ll have a filter coffee, please. Black. No sugar.’

  ‘You sure no pud?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Grace said tightly.

  They drank their coffees and chat creakily resumed again.

  ‘Do you watch television ever?’ Grace tried. She kept thinking about the missed dessert.

  ‘Far too much! I’m a huge Doctor Who fan.’

  ‘Really! Me too.’ Her heart soared. Something in common after all. Finally conversation flowed. Who was their favourite Doctor (obviously Tom Baker), what the new one would be like. Grace began to relax. She hadn’t been wrong. There was a connection.

  ‘And have you… Do you… Is there anyone in your life?’

  She emitted a short, surprised laugh. ‘No! Goodness me, absolutely not.’

  ‘It’s not that funny, is it?’ He drank a little more. ‘I was married. Broke up two years ago. Divorce coming through now. All very sad but life goes on.’

  She nodded gravely. ‘It does, yes. Indeed.’ So he’d been married. Was that a bad thing? Did he want to be reconciled with his wife? Or did it mean he had loved and wanted to love again?

  ‘We’d better get going, I guess,’ he said, as the dining room cleared and the waitress began to stash chairs on top of tables. He had polished off the second bottle of wine and was slurring slightly. He gestured for the bill. Grace made a motion for her bag.

  ‘No, no. Don’t be silly. I won’t hear of it.’ He got out his credit card and plonked it down.

  ‘You need to ask them to call a taxi,’ Grace reminded him.

  ‘Oh yes. So I do.’ He looked in the direction of the waitress, who was at the till.

  Grace dared to voice the thought she’d been toying with. ‘Or I could always give you a lift.’

  ‘Could you? Marvellous!’

  So he climbed into the old Mini which reeked of damp Shackleton.

  ‘Sorry about the smell,’ she said as she reversed out of the car park.

  ‘Don’t be silly. You know I love dogs.’

  He loved dogs! Another shared interest.

  It was a beautiful night, with a clear sky full of stars and three-quarters of a moon. As Grace drove him down the twisting country lanes that led to Little Bedlington, where he lived, her heart felt as if it was struggling to escape from her ribcage. She was going back to his house. What would happen next? Would he invite her in? Would he try to kiss her? Or something more? She didn’t know what she wanted to happen, all she knew was she mustn’t blow it.

  ‘It’s a left here,’ he said.

  She’d expected a sweet cottage with hollyhocks outside and roses around the door, but in fact they were in front of a block of new-build flats. She turned off the engine. He turned his head towards her.

  ‘Thank you. That was a lovely evening.’

  ‘Thank you for dinner.’

  ‘And thanks for the lift home. You’re a star.’ He opened his door and climbed out. ‘’Bye,’ he said, bending down. The door slammed and he turned his back to her, fumbling in his pocket for his keys. For a second Grace stared after him, then, hand shaking, she turned on the ignition and began driving back towards Chadlicote.

  17

  Lucinda was sure she’d never hear from Anton again and that suited her just fine. But in fact he called her just two days later in the office.

  ‘I have a craving for top-notch Japanese food, and knowing your adventurous streak I thought you might like to join me.’

  ‘Oh!’ Lucinda felt uncharacteristically flustered. Joanne was watching her suspiciously, which made her even more undecided, so she said: ‘Yes, OK. Why not?’

  They went to a cute little place in Soho, where she stuffed her face with sushi and gyoza and tsukemono. Anton told her about how he used to live in Tokyo. He made her laugh with tales of crazy Japanese behaviour. They discussed his developments.

  ‘Luxury is still where it’s at,’ he told her. ‘The more ridiculous the gimmick the more the clients go mad for it. Even with the downturn, they’re still demanding twenty-four-hour room service, floor-to-ceiling fridges. Panic rooms. Eyeball scanners. Bulletproof windows. The latest thing is mirrors with a time delay. You can stand with your back to it and then turn round to check out your rear view. Everybody wants one. Everyone wants
to live like a billionaire.’

  He didn’t mention Cass’s phone call or the Valentine, and at the end of the evening he put her in a cab with just a kiss on the cheek. After the Gareth debacle, Lucinda was relieved. He still liked her. They could be friends. A bit of an odd friendship, admittedly, but so what? In keeping with her upbringing, she sent him a brief thank-you note but she heard nothing back. She was a bit surprised, but relieved. So that was that, then.

  But then, a week later, he called to invite her to Covent Garden.

  ‘I know my love of opera firmly betrays me as an old git,’ he said with a smile in his voice. ‘And you may find the idea abominable. But I thought it was worth a punt.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘I adore opera. Sometimes I go with my father. What is it?’

  ‘It’s La Traviata.’

  ‘One of my favourites.’

  ‘Really?’

  Cass laughed when Lucinda told her. ‘This is your third date, right? And we all know what’s expected on the third date.’

  ‘It’s not a date.’

  ‘Oh yes. What is it then, exactly?’

  ‘He knows I’m not interested in him in that way. He’s like a kind of mentor.’

  ‘Mentor?’ Cass snorted. ‘I suppose that could be another word for sugar daddy.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. You know I don’t need a sugar daddy. I’ve got a real dad.’

  ‘I know that. But En-ton doesn’t. Just watch it. That’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Lucinda said in a teenagery voice so Joanne looked up and glared at her. The opera was the following evening after work, no time to change. She wore a grey slip dress and kitten heels, very conservative, not remotely provocative. They had the best seats in the house. It was a fantastic production and by the interval Lucinda was enraptured. She should go out more. This was what London was all about.

  They fought their way through the crowd to the bar. Two champagne flutes were standing next to an ice bucket labelled ‘Beleek’.

  ‘That was fantastic,’ Lucinda exclaimed, as a white-haired middle-aged man with a huge stomach, only partly concealed by his blazer, tapped Anton on the shoulder.

  ‘Mate! How absolutely marvellous to see you!’

  ‘Giles!’ They shook hands. ‘You too. I didn’t take you for an opera buff.’

  ‘Can’t say I am. Contacts dragged me along.’ He nodded condescendingly at Lucinda. ‘And who is your girlfriend?’

  Lucinda expected Anton to explain the situation. But instead he just said: ‘This is Lucinda Gresham. Lucinda, meet my dear old friend Giles Wakeham. Lucinda’s an agent at Dunraven Mackie, you know.’

  ‘Oh yes? So tell me, Anton. Any news about the Prior Development…’ And they were off: jaw-jawing while Lucinda stood completely ignored. It reminded her of the first time she’d met Anton and of what an unevolved, old-fashioned man he was. Just like Daddy, she realized with a jolt. To be fair, he was trying to include her, turning to her and asking her opinion, but Giles wasn’t remotely interested in anything she had to say and kept talking over her.

  Huffily, Lucinda pulled her mobile out of her bag. A text from Nick Crex. Oh help. The poor Meehans were still arguing about whether to accept his offer. She opened it.

  Shep Bush gig rescheduled for Friday. U still on guest list plus one. Nick Crex

  The bell started ringing, summoning them back to their seats. Giles disappeared into the crowd with a ‘Good to see you, old chap. We’ll have to get you both over for dinner soon.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Anton said, with a wry shrug. ‘Very presumptuous of him.’ There was a brief silence and then he faintly raised his right eyebrow, like Roger Moore. Lucinda felt slightly nauseous.

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said faintly. The bell rang again. She couldn’t concentrate on the second act. She was being an idiot, letting Anton take her out. He was ancient, with ancient friends who were jumping to unflattering conclusions about her being his girlfriend. As if. She wouldn’t see him again. But then came the second interval and no sign of Giles. Instead a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches was waiting for them, along with two more flutes of champagne.

  ‘Oh, wonderful,’ Lucinda exclaimed. ‘I was starving.’

  ‘I thought you might be. These things are bloody long.’

  They stood at the corner of the bar, munching the sandwiches and chatting. Again, the early unease melted away as they discussed various operas.

  ‘In the summer we’ll go to Glyndebourne,’ Anton said. ‘The perfect combination: sublime music and then a long, long interval so you can have a three-course picnic in the beautiful grounds. I’ll get my housekeeper to prepare it.’

  ‘That sounds lovely,’ Lucinda said, before she could stop herself.

  Throughout the final third she wondered what she was doing. Of course she’d love to go to Glyndebourne, it had always been one of her ambitions, but did she really have to go with Anton? But then again, why not? He was obviously lonely, he obviously enjoyed her company. They liked talking about property. Why couldn’t a younger woman spend time with an older man without people thinking it was dodgy? But Lucinda’s other voice told her that men in their forties didn’t have platonic friendships with women in their twenties. She had to cool things, be unavailable next time he asked her out.

  But at the end of the evening as he opened the cab door to her, he said, ‘I was thinking of going down to the country next weekend. For some walking. I don’t know if…’

  ‘Um, yes that could be fun,’ she said. ‘I’ll just have to check my diary, but I don’t think I’m doing anything.’

  ‘I hope not,’ he said intensely, then he pulled her close and kissed her on both cheeks. He smelt good: of pine and surf. ‘I’ll call you soon, Lucinda. Thank you for a wonderful evening.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said. She climbed in, the door closed. As the taxi moved off, she resolved that a little trip to the country couldn’t hurt. After all, she really did love walking. At home one of her favourite things was following a mountain trail in the Alps. Trotting from the Tube to the office to a viewing and back again was hardly the same. She’d see precisely what Anton was suggesting before rejecting anything out of hand. In the meantime, she remembered, there was the Vertical Blinds gig. But that was a step too far. Imagine Anton’s stiff, besuited figure moving jerkily to guitar riffs. No. She’d see if Benjie was free.

  But Benjie was going out with a crowd from college. Cass was away skiing with Tim. Sitting in the office the following morning, Lucinda wondered who she could ask. Gareth was sitting at his desk, yakking to a client. She hadn’t spent time with him in a while, and the worry that he was cross with her still niggled. This could be a nice goodwill gesture. She approached him.

  ‘Are you free on Friday night?’

  She couldn’t be sure, but Gareth seemed to go a little pinker in the cheeks. Oh no. Not another guy taking her friendliness the wrong way. She continued quickly. ‘The guy from the Vertical Blinds who’s buying Flat 15 has put me on the guest list for their gig at Shepherd’s Bush Empire. I know you’re a huge fan so I was wondering if you’d like to come along.’

  ‘Really? I’d love to.’ He beamed. Lucinda beamed back.

  ‘We’ll go after work on Friday, then.’

  As so often these days, Karen woke around five and couldn’t get back to sleep. Worries were banging on her brain like bailiffs at a debtor’s door. She didn’t want to wake Phil – he was obsessive about his sleep. So after half an hour she put on her dressing gown and went downstairs. Clutching what would be the first of the day’s many mugs of coffee, she wandered from room to room. Rooms she’d decorated so lovingly. Rooms filled with memories. Bea toddling beaming across the playroom, then bashing her head on the flagstone floor. Eloise practising her flute in the conservatory. Years of Christmases with the big tree in the living room and the scent of spicy candles. It had been the perfect family home: bright, a bit cluttered, tasteful but in a colourful way – Karen hated
anything beige or monochrome.

  She moved on to the kitchen. Sitting down at the huge pine table, she remembered her and Phil laughing there with friends. Friends. The illness had certainly shown them in a new light. Some – surprisingly not by any means those she’d considered A-list – had been rocks. They’d brought round casseroles, driven Phil to hospital appointments, listened to him banging on about platelets and blood counts for hours.

  But then there’d been others like Jon, best man at their wedding, who’d sent a box of chocolates and then never called again. Or the distant acquaintances who’d suddenly decided that Phil was their closest buddy, but by that token his pain must be their pain, who would burst into tears, saying how devastated they were, how they didn’t think they could cope, so Phil and Karen ended up comforting them. Who would turn up uninvited and sit around, accepting Karen’s increasingly resentful offers of cups of tea, while wringing their hands and saying they wished there was something they could do to help.

  People they barely knew wanting to kiss and hug them, and asking questions about Phil’s bowel movements and telling them about how they’d heard of a marvellous herbalist in the Congo and how maybe Phil should travel there for treatment – after all, it would be selfish not to do everything in his power to fight the disease. People who told Phil to ‘think positive’ – as if that was the magic cure that medical science had been missing all those years.

  Karen had to accept that the cancer had changed everything. So why not change houses too? But how could she make the final break from the place where her daughters had played, where they’d prepared for their first day at school? From the place where, for a few brief years, everything had been, in hindsight, perfect.

  ‘You all right?’ said Phil behind her.