‘He was still so infuriatingly pleased with himself, though, and . . .’ Daisy hesitated, tailing off with a slow-rising blush.
‘And? You can’t stop there.’
She was in it, stuck, no backtracking, whatever it was, and looked distinctly sheepish.
‘Well, this gets a bit personal, Susannah, but you see, I tried on a wheeze . . . He was way out of puff after going at it on the first night, so I decided to have a bit of fun and try to make him see that he wasn’t quite the testosterone-tops boyo he thought himself. Men are so sensitive in that area and I reckoned he was twitchy anyway, worrying about being able to keep me in the sexual manner to which I was accustomed. He wouldn’t want me to have a second helping elsewhere. So I set about putting him through his paces. I did have a little wobble at one stage – a momentary panic vision of, well, coitus permanently interruptus, if you get what I mean. It does happen! I’ve read about it.’
I had to smile – although I couldn’t help feeling a pang of sympathy for poor Warren, as exhausted, by the sound of it, as a mating male lion keeping at it for days on end. ‘It’s a new slant on getting his comeuppance,’ I said. ‘Quite fitting really.’
Daisy giggled. ‘Anyway, when I told Warren that, sad and wretched as it was, I knew in my bones my true home was in London, he quickly assured me that he quite understood. He even patted his chest, saying perhaps it was for the best. He had to have a mind to his health these days, the old ticker and all that – the worry of getting old before his time.’
It explained the new longevity regime. The phone had been ringing and we needed to get going. ‘More coffee, Daisy? Want to hear my proposition now?’
‘Yes, please. I’ve been a bit shy to ask. It’s made me keep wittering on, I’m afraid.’
‘I wondered if you’d like to set up together? Partners. I’d bring in the business and you’d do most of the work. I’d like to start doing a little less now. It would be a chance to build up your skills, but it would be full on, not much time for cooking!’
‘Never in my wildest dreams . . .’ Daisy was off into a sea of superlatives, eyes shining like the evening star; her enthusiasm was a joy.
‘It’s hard work, it takes dedication, slog and perseverance – no running home to put on the corset for Simon.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘but I’ll be out of the house all day, so he can sit on the doorstep and whistle for it. I feel stronger, Susannah, properly over the beastly divorce now. I had a call from Gerald, the auctioneer, as well, which was cheering. He’s coming over in September, wants to take me to the opera, and has a friend he wants me to meet.’
‘And there’s always my forty-year-old son, Josh, whom I’m dying to see married! We’ll get together and sort all the work details very soon, Daisy, but right now I need to hit the phone. And my friend Charles is turning up later, so I want to titivate myself up a bit. Your food cornucopia couldn’t come in handier. He can have one of those sexy little cupcakes with his tea.’
Chapter 26
Charles came out of the lift wheeling a suitcase and carrying a Tesco cardboard holder with six bottles of wine. He usually brought me bundles of home-grown veg with clods of rich Norfolk earth stuck fast, but he’d driven straight from his daughter’s farm in Herefordshire and hadn’t, it seemed, dug up half her vegetable patch before coming. That was the trouble with garden produce, however same-day fresh, all the scrubbing clean and washing away of little living horrors on lettuces. It was more than a supermarket’s life was worth, to leave a grub or mini-snail clinging on, which was compensation of a sort for loss of taste and mass-market uniformity – just about.
‘I’d have brought you a tray of eggs as well,’ Charles said, kissing me cursorily as I went with him into the kitchen where he took the wine, ‘but I called in on my sister in Clapham to park old Ollie while I’m here and she swiped them. They were hand picked-up by me first thing, but probably a bit chicken-shitty for a townie like you.’
‘How can you do that to me! I have an absolute passion for new-laid eggs and you could have washed them and shown me you cared. Why didn’t you bring Ollie here anyway? I love dogs and Ollie’s such a slow old thing now, he’d be no trouble at all.’
‘Posh wouldn’t have thought so, a hick canine invading her palace. I mean, if you call a cat a ridiculous name like that, she has to live up to it.’
‘Cats can adapt. There’s the whole of Burton Court too, for walking him – strict rules, but dogs are allowed. I’ve got my nice shiny electronic pass card and hardly ever use it.’
‘Well, you haven’t had much time to lately, have you, out summering with Mr Warren?’
I glared at Charles. ‘Am I ever going to hear the end of him? And you’ve done that silly name business to death, too; you’re a grown man, for God’s sake. He’s called Warren Lindsay, Mr Lindsay, whose Lippy Lager went viral with its lips bottle top.’
Charles was looking round the kitchen, hardly giving me his rapt attention; he’d put his six-bottle carrier on the island and seemed to want to tidy it away. ‘There’s room in the fridge for a couple of the Montrachet, which I love, thanks, and for the red too, Gruaud-Larose, no less. It could go on the racks in my new temperature-controlled wine cabin. I’m making tea, okay? And we’ve got cupcakes, courtesy of Daisy.’
‘How was the meeting with her? Cute little chaps, aren’t they, her cakes – one saucy bite.’ He polished one off, in two bites, and licked his fingers.
‘I suggested setting up together and she was rhapsodic about the idea, euphoric. And so she should be. I’m giving her a great break, but it suits me too – it’s the right time. She works hard, just needs a little guidance and won’t need much of that for long. So I’ll be a lady of more leisure soon, free to go and idle my time in France.’
Charles didn’t say, as I’d hoped, that there was always Norfolk. I wouldn’t have minded a few spells up there, spring, summer and autumn preferably. ‘I’m going next door with this tea,’ I said a bit more coolly, picking up the tray.
He took it from me, looking over it with a soft smile. ‘You look delicious. Honey gold, how I think of you. And I put that healthy glow down to the South of France entirely – which is my last word on the subject of your American.’
I winced, but it had been sweetly put.
Charles seemed tired, more mentally than showing any particular sign of physical stress. He seldom did. Some men – and women – took on the mantle of their age, stooping needlessly, thinking themselves into slowing up, discussing retirement, their ailments and creakiness with a certain pride. They enjoyed saying how out of date and past it they were; they took autumn to their hearts. Not Charles – he didn’t do stooping. People didn’t look at him and wonder, is he in his seventies, eighties? He held their attention, made them laugh and respond. He was an initiative-taker, a doer; he even pottered in a positive way, sharing thoughts and making interested observations.
His hair was silver-grey, what was left of it, a bohemian length, curling onto his collar, until he’d absentmindedly allowed some terrible local hairdresser to give it an appallingly vicious cut. His face was more folded than lined; nut-brown eyes, bushy eyebrows that were still dark, and his lips hadn’t yet disappeared into his gums. He had a Herefordshire tan to mask any tiredness; I did enjoy him.
‘You must be weary,’ I said, ‘after that long drive and squitty egg-collecting at dawn.’ I handed him his tea. ‘Dash of milk? Is all well with Rose now, everything sorted?’
‘Yep, sure.’ He hadn’t dismissed the mention of tiredness. I hoped he was okay.
Charles was in the armchair that Warren had sat in a couple of days ago, but he wasn’t leaning over the table to me with pleading eyes, wanting his hand held. He was preoccupied, annoyingly deep into some excluding private thought. ‘How long have I got you for?’ I asked, which made him start and remember I was there.
‘I need to talk to you about that actually,’ he said, snapping back and giving me his full concentratio
n, ‘perhaps over dinner. What’s your mood? Chelsea Italian? Somewhere like Wilton’s where it’s easy to talk? Gastro pub? Just name your place.’
‘How about staying home? Who needs the West End – and everywhere round here is just as loud and noisy on a Friday night. It’s a gorgeous evening, we could wander up the King’s Road and get something for supper. M & S and Waitrose are on my doorstep . . . they have good fish and meat. Daisy brought me some red Thai curry, but it would kill those delicious wines, be a crime to turn them up for Asian beer.’ Charles was looking irritatingly indulgent. ‘Daisy was bounteous this morning,’ I said, ‘even threw in a tub of her homemade marmalade ice cream. We could get some raspberries and blueberries to have as well – my locals have it all.’
‘The locals up east do, too,’ Charles grinned. ‘I’ve been ordering online . . .’
He had another of Daisy’s little cakes, another cup of tea, took his case to my bedroom and came back jerking his head bedroomwards. ‘Would you rather I put it in the spare? Mustn’t make assumptions.’
I stood up and draped my arms round his neck. ‘You can give me a kiss and not say the unnecessary. We should go if you’re up for this shopping jaunt. It’s six o’clock.’
Charles took the tea tray through to the kitchen and I followed, watching as he put the cups in the dishwasher, typically leaving the teapot and the rest. ‘Daisy would be thrilled to know you had three of her cupcakes,’ I said. ‘She thrills easily, though.’
We walked alongside Burton Court, up Smith Street and into the King’s Road. Charles was in grimy cream chinos and a blue check shirt; he hadn’t cleaned up yet from his long day. He held hands, threading his fingers through mine. His hands were roughened – it was from country living, long-ago days of backpacking and espousing of causes. Then came journalism; marriage, children, a hefty spell in the civil service. Writing biographies was a more recent development. Charles knew a lot of people and a lot of what went on.
Along the King’s Road shoppers and office workers struggled to get home, in tired huddles round bus stops. The traffic was nose to tail, the drivers of cars drumming their fingers on the wheel, keen to be off to the country, impatient to be out of town. Charles let go of my hand as groups of Sloaney girls with bare midriffs and puppy-fat thighs pushed past, tourists too, and soigné old ladies dipping their heads like birds. Charles, I felt, must be pining for pure air and a springy lawn under his feet.
We bought crab and fillet steak, well-washed new potatoes, packaged field mushrooms and squeaky-clean baby leeks. I was glad to get in again; it hadn’t been quite the balmy evening meander I’d envisaged. Perhaps not such a great idea, London’s charms were easily missed on a busy Friday at the end of the working day.
Charles deposited the carrier and stretched, long and lazily, before opening a bottle of the red wine, tasting it, tasting me and leading me by the hand to bed.
‘It’s been too long,’ he said, turning onto his side to face me and stroking my stomach with the back of his hand. ‘I’ve hated the summer, every single day of it. You see, I wasn’t at all sure you’d come back. It knocked me, thinking about how it would be, how I’d feel and what it would mean. When one knows someone quite as well as I know you, it becomes unthinkable that you wouldn’t be there.’
‘Ye of little faith,’ I said, feeling a contented completeness, however heavy with guilt. ‘Didn’t you have a little summer moment or two,’ I asked, turning to smile, voicing the thought, ‘in the past months?’
‘It crossed my mind, but the urge wasn’t there – and a dreadful dearth of temptation. No, I put all my energies into finishing the book and a few thises and thats.’
‘Such as?’
‘Tell you over supper. It’s getting late and I should have a shower.’
‘You need to, you’ve been smelling like a wet dog. Was Ollie rolling in hen dung?’
I had a pampering scented soak, dressed in Izabella printed palazzo pants and a silk top, only to go into the kitchen and cover them up with an apron while making mayonnaise. Charles was ahead of me, pouring glasses of Montrachet.
‘Staying home was a great idea,’ he said. ‘Do we have candles, or is that overdoing it?’ He nuzzled my ear, slipped a hand under the loose top. ‘You weren’t smelling of dog or even cat food, and now you’re filling the whole kitchen with Chanel, I’m feeling quite light-headed.’
‘The candles are second drawer down and there’s an array of holders in the walk-in cupboard to choose from. Shall we stay in here? The lights are on dimmers and you can talk to me while I cook the steaks.’
Charles went to put on a CD, Bill Withers, and we sipped our wine in the sitting room with the evening light slanting in, eating too many cashew nuts. ‘We’ll get fat,’ I said, palming another handful.
‘You could do with putting on some weight.’
‘Can’t you say I’m skinny and scraggy if you think it? It’s so maddening that. Anyway not everyone agrees: some people write me up as svelte.’
‘Then “some people” must be right.’
‘Stoppit! I’ll have a complex now, and want the lights out in bed.’
‘You’re past having complexes, too old for all that.’
‘I’m not too old to be sensitive or have complexes, and I resent that – and if you knew me half as well as you say you do, you’d know that already.’
‘Can we eat now, in the interests of building you up?’
The table was at the living end of the kitchen, very small, a round, white modern design. Charles had found glass candle-holders, fat white candles, and brought in a bunch of sweet peas from the sitting room. ‘Those are out of son Al’s North London garden,’ I said, coming with the crab and a bowl of mayonnaise. ‘He’s discovered soil – he’ll be bringing me earthy veg soon, like you. You’re not opening the other Montrachet? We’ll be blotto.’
‘It’s Friday night. And it’s had more time to get properly cold. I was thinking, on the way here,’ Charles said, ‘slogging down the motorway, about when we first met and what I’d felt. Can you remember where it was, anything at all about it? I’d be impressed – we were at different stages of life.’
‘I can remember exactly.’ I said, having in fact been very aware of Charles at the time. ‘It was soon after I’d married Max, on a weekend at Mondstowe. It was actually only days before my father died. That house was such a vast unforgiving old place; Max had a great childhood there, but even tiptoeing around made the most frightful clatter on the flags and stone stairs. It was quite a family reunion, that weekend, as I recall. Both Max’s brothers were there, along with their girlfriends and friends.’
‘Yep, I was one of the friends. Not the best of company, since you ruined that weekend. I couldn’t take my eyes off you and you were newly married to your effete antique-dealer whom I instantly loathed. I developed a good line in dry cynicism . . .’
‘. . . which you’ve never really lost?’ I finished for him. ‘Come off it, Charles, I’m not having any of this. You’d had a sumptuous brunette on your arm. I take it she didn’t last? She’d looked Brazilian or Italian or something, but sounded very Home Counties. Which of Max’s brothers did you know?’
‘The elder, Humphrey. I still see him on and off. He keeps going – outlived Max, is still running the estate. We were at school together, we go back that far.’
‘You were at school with everyone.’
‘Big school.’
‘I remember thinking, that weekend,’ I said, ‘that you were very straight up and must be in the Army. We weren’t next to each other at any meal and you never sought me out so I couldn’t ask.’
‘Can you really recall that much? Have another glass of Montrachet, it seems to work wonders.’
I was rather amazed myself, but Charles was the catalyst and it was all coming back. Memories of the years with Edward were always with me, but everything before – save for Bella and a few harrowing dramas with Joe – was more soft-focus, curled at the edges, only com
ing clearly to mind with a prompt. Now Charles had handed me the sepia photograph album, open at that page.
‘I’d have liked to ask about the Army, see if I was right. You could have come to chat that weekend! Remember old Ronnie Wickham, Max’s crusty father? He was the most blatant womanizer going, pounced on every girl his sons brought near the place. I’m sure the one you came with was no exception.’ I could see her now, displaying her wares, her cleavage elevated to magnetic effect.
‘Anyway, Max once told me about a joke trap a gang of their friends had decided to set for his father. A famous redhead model, I won’t say who, had bet that he’d come knocking on her door, the old grabber, and said if they hid after lights out behind the heavy curtains in her room, where, with the thick castle walls, there was a window-seat and space to crouch, they’d have their proof. Sure enough, old Ronnie came tap-tapping on the door and crept in, advancing on her in his striped pyjamas – only for some drunk fool to start giggling hysterically, and then they’d all tumbled out, bringing the curtain rail down with them. The redhead was never allowed back, but she’d won her bet.’
‘I had heard it before,’ Charles grinned, God, he could be maddening. He’d eaten every morsel of the crab, always had a great appetite and had developed quite a little paunch of late. It was there to stay, I thought; hard to see him sticking to a ‘longevity regime’ like Warren.
Tell the Girl Page 39
