by Anne Weale
‘Have you known him all your life?’
‘Yes, he came here about the same time as my parents. My sisters were born at Larchwood. When my father bought the house it was semi-derelict and going for the proverbial song. A lot of large houses were cheap when my parents were young because of the shortage of staff. He foresaw that central heating and other domestic appliances would make most of the manual labour unnecessary.’
Lucia had noticed that he always referred to ‘my mother’ and ‘my father’ instead of saying ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ as Jenny did. As his relationship with his mother was a close one, she concluded that this was a formality he used in talking to her, a way of keeping her at arm’s length.
Yet the look in his eyes when he was sucking the small wound left by the splinter had been the reverse of aloof. It had been hot and hungry, as if it were months since he had been near a woman and she had done something deliberately provocative.
CHAPTER FIVE
ON THE short drive to the surgery neither of them had spoken and, although his car was a spacious one, she had been intensely aware of his tall frame alongside her and the lean brown hand that could so easily move from the gear lever to her thigh. Of course there was not the slightest chance that it would, but she had not been able to stop herself imagining how it would feel if it did.
No other man she had met, including those she had dated, had made her as physically conscious of her body, or his, as this man did. Considering that he and she had nothing in common, and a number of reasons for disliking each other, the attraction made no sense at all.
Making polite conversation, she said, ‘Where were you born?’
‘In a hospital in London. I was their last shot at having a son…though any one of my sisters could have carried on the business if I hadn’t materialised.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Certainly. If Jenny hadn’t met Tom, she’d have ended up editing one of the nationals or a major provincial paper. They’re all first-class forward planners and great delegators which is mainly what top management is about.’
‘You said this morning that women were to blame for the breakdown of family life. What did you mean?’
‘My nieces would tell you “Don’t ask!”’ he said dryly. ‘At present they disapprove of my reactionary views, but they may change their minds when they’re thirty-somethings and single mums, or wedded to their careers.’
‘You don’t approve of women having careers?’ she asked, remembering what Rosemary had said about his father.
‘On the contrary. The western world would collapse if they didn’t.’
They had arrived at the entrance to Larchwood. He brought the car to a halt, waited for an oncoming car to pass, then drove through the gateway.
‘But stable relationships are the bedrock of any successful culture. Take them away and you have chaos…children who get their ideas from TV instead of their parents…teenagers given lavish pocket money instead of parental attention…the whole disastrous breakdown of a sensible society.’
‘And all that is women’s fault?’ said Lucia. ‘Fathers are parents too.’
He drove past the side of the house and parked the car next to his brother-in-law’s.
‘Sure, but it was women who destroyed men’s incentive to marry. For generations men married because that was the only way they could get regular sex. Then women started giving it away. What did they imagine would happen? I guess they thought they’d have fun and never mind the consequences.’
If prison had taught Lucia anything, it was to button her lip and stay out of trouble. At first it had gone against the grain to keep quiet when she wanted to argue or answer back. But, having seen what happened to people who did that, she had quickly learnt to lie low.
She said mildly, ‘I could understand your father or grandfather taking that view. I’m surprised that you do.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me: I’m not saying a woman’s place is in the home. If she has a brilliant brain and wants to use it…fine. That’s her right. But it’s been obvious for years that “having it all” isn’t possible. If a man wants a good marriage, he knows he can’t play the field the way he could when he was single. If a woman wants children, she should accept that a mother has obligations to be around when she’s needed, which is for the first ten years. If she doesn’t want to do that, she doesn’t have to. It’s one of life’s choices.’ He opened the driver’s door and swung his long body out of the car.
Lucia stayed where she was, knowing that his training would oblige him to come round and open her door for her. Forcing him to accord her the courtesy he gave willingly to women he liked was a small way of venting her irritation at his dogmatic attitude. It wasn’t his outlook that annoyed her as much as the way he expressed it…as if it were Holy Writ.
As he opened the door and she stepped out, she said, ‘Aren’t you ignoring the fact that even today a lot of children are conceived by chance rather than choice, and it’s virtually impossible for a family to live on a single income?’
Grey leaned an arm on the top of the door. ‘Not if they forget about keeping up with the Joneses. I have an elderly cleaner I don’t often meet. She comes in when I’m out. I only got to know her when I was down with flu and she insisted on making me a huge pan of her special soup, and talking my ear off,’ he added, with a faint smile. ‘She brought up five children on her husband’s pay as a milkman. Her daughter goes out to work to pay for designer trainers and other gear for the grandchildren, a fridge full of convenience foods and holidays abroad that involve long delays in airports and are more to impress the neighbours than for their enjoyment. As Mrs Botting says, “It don’t make sense, Mr C.” And she’s right.’
Lucia was suddenly exhausted. Being alone with him was a strain she wasn’t ready to handle yet. She said, ‘A lot of things don’t make sense. I expect it was always that way, and always will be. Thank you for taking me to the doctor.’
She walked quickly into the house and ran up the staircase, intending to stay in her room until all the visitors had gone.
An hour later she heard voices from the driveway and the sound of cars starting up and departing. Presently she went downstairs to find Mrs Calderwood in the drawing room working on a piece of needlepoint.
‘What lovely colours,’ she said, referring to the pile of embroidery wools in a cotton-lined shallow basket beside the older woman’s chair.
‘The design is a simplification of a photograph Grey took on one of his travels,’ said Rosemary. ‘Everything my mother worked was copied from an antique embroidery that had faded down to subdued shades. People forget—or don’t realise—that all the needlework women did in past centuries would have been startlingly colourful when it was new. I wonder if your generation will do this sort of thing when they’re older, or if there’ll be quite different pastimes in forty years’ time?’
‘Who knows?’ said Lucia vaguely. She still felt curiously drained by the hours in Grey’s company. He stirred up emotions she didn’t want to feel. Like someone just out of hospital, she needed a period of convalescence.
Rosemary said, ‘Grey says you have some things in storage. We can retrieve them on Wednesday when we go to London for this architectural exhibition that Tom is so keen on us seeing. He was delighted by your interest in his hero, Alexander Thomson. Such a nice man, dear Tom. I’m very lucky in all my sons-in-law.’
She re-threaded her blunt-tipped needle with a strand of honey-coloured wool. ‘But I think it’s usually an easier relationship than with a daughter-in-law. Not that there’s any sign of a daughter-in-law materialising. Grey’s generation are wary of committing themselves. They have seen so many of their friends make mistakes that have led to “being taken to the cleaners” as he puts it.’
Lucia didn’t want to talk about Grey. She said, ‘What is the exhibition?’
‘It’s at the Royal Academy…a show of drawings by an eighteenth-century perspectivist. I’m sure we’ll enjoy it, and af
terwards they want us to have dinner with them. So we’ll stay overnight with Grey. He has plenty of room.’
Lucia concealed her dismay at the thought of having to impose on Grey’s unwilling hospitality. She said, ‘It’s very kind of you…and of Jenny and her husband…to include me in the invitation. But I don’t think I should intrude in your family life more than is absolutely necessary. Perhaps, if you’re going in the car, I could go to London with you, and then take the Underground to fetch my belongings and come back here by bus or train.’
‘My dear, that would take you for ever. The village isn’t well-served by public transport. Besides I want to be able to discuss the exhibition with you afterwards. Before we come home, we’ll take in some other galleries and pick up inspiration for our first painting trip,’ Rosemary said firmly.
When Lucia attempted to argue, she became even firmer. Lucia was reminded of the way she had told her son, ‘From now on I shall do as I think best.’
It seemed she would have to fall in with Rosemary’s wishes, however reluctantly. Unless Grey, when he was apprised of the plan, vetoed it. He might adamantly refuse to give houseroom to a jailbird, especially one whose crime had been damaging to him.
Returning to London in the black limousine with Rosemary was a more enjoyable experience than the outward journey when she had been mystified and uneasy. At least it was until Mrs Calderwood, who was reading the morning paper, turned the page and gave a smothered exclamation of surprise.
‘Grey didn’t tell me he’d been interviewed. I knew about the project, of course. I suppose it’s bound to attract a lot of publicity.’
She held the page so that Lucia could read the headline across the top of it. ‘Calderwood unveils plans for billion-pound office blocks.’
Below the headline were photographs of two huge ultra-modern buildings and, between them, superimposed, a photograph of Grey looking rather balefully down at the photographer who, judging from the perspective, must have been crouched below him.
‘I’ll read it and then let you have it,’ said his mother.
A billion pounds was an unimaginable sum of money to Lucia. It made her even more nervous of the ordeal ahead. Larchwood was luxurious but it was also homely. What would his place be like? Even more luxurious and anything but homely, was how she imagined it. Perhaps a million-pound penthouse on the fashionable Isle of Dogs, equipped with every gadget known to electronics and stark minimalist furnishings chosen by a top interior designer. Wherever it was, she knew she would feel an interloper, a state of mind that Grey might take pleasure in exacerbating.
It was several minutes before Rosemary detached a sheet of four pages from the rest of the paper and passed them to Lucia.
London is facing a space crunch with few buildings available to house large financial concerns.
This week Calderwood, the property company, unveils two of the biggest developments ever seen in the City of London. Grey Calderwood, the group’s chief executive and grandson of the founder, has applied for planning permission to construct two showcase office buildings with a combined value of a billion pounds.
The piece went on to describe them in detail. It concluded:
Analysts say it will have a massive impact on the group’s net asset value. It is expected that Calderwood will sell the buildings once they are completed. It is likely they will both go to individual occupiers who want a statement headquarters building.
‘What do you think of them…as they’re visualised?’ asked Rosemary, when Lucia folded the paper and put it between them on the spacious back seat.
‘I like this one the best,’ said Lucia, pointing out the building marginally more pleasing to the eye than the other. Privately she thought them both eyesores, but perhaps it was impossible to make any building intended to house five thousand office workers look good to an artist’s eye.
Rosemary made no comment. Perhaps she thought the same, but loyalty to her son kept her silent on the subject.
She said, ‘Jackson is going to drop me off in Knightsbridge where I have some shopping to do. Then he’ll take you to pick up your things and bring you to Grey’s place. If I’m not there, he will be. He’s working at home today.’
‘What time do you expect to get there?’ Lucia asked. The last thing she wanted was to show up on his doorstep before his mother’s arrival.
‘I’m not sure. I have quite a long list. Which reminds me…you will need some money. We haven’t discussed your salary, but here is something on account.’ She opened her bag, took out a sealed envelope and put it on Lucia’s lap. ‘Perhaps you have something in your luggage that is suitable to wear tonight, or you may want to buy something new. Do you like shopping for clothes? When my daughters were your age, they thought of nothing else.’
‘Before Dad was ill, I spent most of my salary on painting things and books about art,’ said Lucia. ‘I had a few good clothes for work and the rest of the time I wore trousers and T-shirts. Will a silk shirt and a black skirt be all right for tonight?’
‘Perfect,’ Rosemary assured her.
At that moment Grey was standing, naked, in his bathroom, shaving.
Normally he was an early riser, arriving in his office a couple of hours before his staff began their day. But he had been working until the small hours and was up late because he needed at least six hours’ sleep to re-charge his batteries.
The mirror behind the white washbasin set in a black marble counter reflected a torso that being naturally olive-skinned, and regularly exposed to the sun during the brief ‘escapes’ that followed most of his business trips, never lost its light amber tan.
The movements of his right arm, as he drew the razor over the taut skin that covered the clearly defined bone structure of his face, indicated that between his shoulder and wrist there were powerful muscles that, if exerted more strenuously, would swell to a formidable size.
His chest, too, was that of a man as active physically as he was mentally, his midriff and stomach still as hard as they had been ten years earlier in his middle twenties. This was not because he was ascetic in his habits, never indulging in expensive lunches in London’s leading restaurants. But when he attended such occasions, he was selective in his choices from the menu and, though he never declined the vintage wines that accompanied the gourmet food, he drank rather less than his corpulent, high-complexioned, jowly colleagues.
As one journalist, specialising in profiles of top businessmen, had written of him:
The term ‘fat-cat industralist’ can never be applied to Grey Calderwood. Images of the cat family do come to mind when talking to him, but they are of other felines; lions, leopards and cheetahs. Although urbane in manner and, according to several women I spoke to, a charmer when he chooses, Calderwood, like the late newspaper tycoon, Lord Beaverbrook, is ‘the cat that walks alone’.
From the hips down, Grey’s body was hidden from the mirror by the counter. But he wasn’t studying his reflection. He was thinking, with extreme displeasure, about the arrival of ‘that bloody girl’ as he had mentally tagged Lucia.
He liked having his mother using his home as her London base. He liked taking her to places where a woman of her age wouldn’t normally go, such as the popular Japanese restaurant where everyone sat on benches at long refectory-style tables and most people chatted to their neighbours as well as to the person they were with. He sometimes went there on his own. The young who frequented it kept him in touch with the world of crowded commuter trains, money worries and other realities of life from which he himself was free. Which was not to say he didn’t have burdens of his own, no less onerous for not being the common causes of stress.
He finished shaving, bent to sluice his face with cold water, then stepped into the shower compartment, closed the glass door and reached for a tube of shampoo. Washing his hair, as he did every morning, he tried to erase from his mind the irritation of having to play host to that girl.
It was an impossible situation. His mother was determi
ned to befriend her and he was equally determined to get shot of her. But how?
Even Jenny, whom he had hoped would support him, had taken to the girl. Jenny seemed to find the situation amusing rather than annoying. But then all his sisters had always had a perverse sense of humour.
The insights he had gleaned from them about the workings of the female mind should have put him off women for life. It hadn’t. But it had made him wary of the so-called weaker sex. The truth was that most women were ten times as tough as men. If it were not for their biology, and the limitations it imposed on them, they would have been running the world since the dawn of time.
After lathering the rest of his body, he turned on the power-shower and closed his eyes against the downpour of warm water. The first hot shower of the day—he usually had another in the evening when he got back from the office—was a pleasure he took time to enjoy, in the same way that he relished a good breakfast.
This morning his enjoyment was marred by the memory of that girl lying full-length in the bath at Larchwood. Tonight, she would be using the shower in one of his guest rooms. As he thought of her nude figure standing in the steamy warmth of an identical glass cubicle, his annoyance was exacerbated by finding his body responding to the mental image. He could visualise her sleek wet skin, her head thrown back in the attitude of a woman surrendering to a sensual experience.
As his erection intensified, so did his anger. Cursing, he changed the shower’s setting, hoping the deluge of cold water would rapidly kill off his unwanted ardour. Maddeningly, it didn’t. His over-heated imagination now presented him with another scenario: the two of them sharing this shower, her mouth and body warm against his despite the cold raining down on them.
And then it came to him…a sure-fire way to get rid of her. All he had to do was to make a heavy pass. That would change her mind about staying.
