by Hilary Boyd
‘Beer?’ Nicky asked his friend, reaching for the six-pack he’d brought along.
‘Thanks, that’d be good.’ Travis held the bottle by the neck, swinging it to and fro by his side.
Jo was putting the finishing touches to the supper, frying brown bread croutons in garlic olive oil for the Caesar salad.
‘Anything I can do, Mum?’
‘Umm . . . no, I think it’s under control.’ She tipped the croutons on to a paper towel to drain and began tossing the salad in the dressing, then sprinkled parmesan shavings and finally the croutons on top. ‘If you could take this outside,’ she handed Nicky the salad bowl, ‘and I’ll bring the chicken.’ She hadn’t known what to cook. It was so long since she had made a meal for more than just herself, she felt almost nervous presenting the food.
‘These too?’ Travis had picked up the salt and pepper mills and some blue-and-white cotton napkins from the worktop.
‘Oh, yes, please.’
She realized it wasn’t that warm once she’d sat down at the wrought iron table. But the men seemed fine, even though both were in T-shirts, so she didn’t suggest they move. There was a pause as they all settled, and she detected a slight tension between them, perhaps based on Nicky telling his friend something along the lines of ‘You don’t know, I didn’t say a word, remember? But I’m sure Mum’ll go for it if she likes you.’
‘Nicky said you plan to stay over here for a while . . . after the play?’ Jo felt compelled to fill the awkward silence. ‘By the way, congratulations on that.’
Travis grinned his lopsided smile. ‘Yeah, uh, thanks . . . I kinda like it here.’
‘I hear you had quite a success in New York with a play?’
The American glanced at his friend. ‘It was an off-off-Broadway, so not the big time, but yeah, I got a bit of heat.’
‘Great.’ Jo wished her son would contribute a bit more instead of sitting there hunched over his drink. It was going to be a long evening.
‘But I’m back and forth across the pond,’ Travis was saying. ‘Like a tart I go where the money is.’
‘Not true,’ Nicky laughed. ‘You go where the part is. If you were after money you’d camp out at the gates of Warner Bros and wait to be discovered.’
‘Wouldn’t take long,’ Jo observed, almost to herself, then was embarrassed when Travis caught her glance.
‘I love British theatre. Best in the world. If I could get stuff here . . .’
‘But neither of us’d say no to a starring role in a film or a mini-series, right?’
Travis laughed. ‘Right.’
Jo handed round the sliced roast chicken, the salad and poured herself a glass of white wine. Nicky had lit the two fat red candles on the table, which competed with the glow from the open kitchen door.
For a while they talked about theatre. Jo and Lawrence had been avid theatre goers, although she realized their trips had fallen off in the months before he left. The last play they’d seen had been a new one, a two-hander in the West End, months ago. They’d both hated it, despite all their friends saying it was a must-see. In the interval, she remembered, they had stood sipping their drinks in the crowded bar.
‘Not sure I can take much more,’ Jo whispered.
‘Do you think something incredible happens in the second half?’ Lawrence asked.
‘Maybe, but do we care?’
‘It’s had such brilliant reviews . . .’
Jo pulled a face and for a moment they both hesitated. They very rarely walked out of a show, not least because the tickets cost so much.
‘Sure?’ he asked.
‘I am. Are you?’
He nodded. Without another word they knocked back their wine, put their glasses down on the varnished wooden ledge against the wall, and swiftly made for the exit. By the time they reached the street they were giggling like guilty school kids bunking off.
Now she felt dull and inadequate as the conversation between the two men sparked back and forth, each with strong opinions about recent productions, although she noticed Travis took a more generous view of some of his peers – Nicky’s appraisals could be excoriating.
‘I’ve got to catch up,’ she said. ‘Make the effort.’
‘Mom took a long time getting her life together after Dad passed. It must be hard for you right now.’ She saw alarm flash across Nicky’s face and assumed a surreptitious kick under the table.
‘Thanks, Travis, but it’s not the same. Lawrence isn’t remotely dead.’ Quite the reverse. He was very much alive – in love, damn him – even the burden of work removed from his shoulders. ‘No point in pretending it hasn’t happened,’ she added, addressing her son’s unease.
‘Don’t knock pretend, Mum. Everyone thinks I’m joking when I tell them.’ He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘How’s it going, Nicky?’ He adopted a higher, slightly affected voice. ‘Oh, things could be better, you know . . . Dad’s run off with a man.’ ‘Ha, ha . . . yeah, I always thought my mum had the hots for the school nurse back in the day.’
Jo and Travis couldn’t help laughing.
‘Funny in the telling maybe.’
For a moment they all avoided each other’s eye.
‘It’s nobody else’s business,’ Jo commented eventually. She turned to her guest. ‘Sorry you had to sit through the family cabaret when you just came round for a quiet supper.’
Travis shrugged. He didn’t seem at all embarrassed.
Later, as the men got up to go, Jo came to a sudden decision.
‘If you want to stay here while you’re doing the play, Travis, you’d be very welcome.’
She saw Nicky and Travis exchange surprised glances.
‘Yeah? Are you sure? I’ll pay of course.’
Jo shrugged. ‘We can talk about that another time. But if Nicky’s happy for you to go in his room . . .’
‘No problem.’
‘It’d be great for me . . . if you’re totally sure?’ The American’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Jo found herself smiling back. It would be a bit of money and he wouldn’t be here for more than a couple of months. He couldn’t be, not if the house sold. She remembered, guiltily, that she hadn’t told Nicky or Cassie about the fact that an estate agent was coming round in the morning to make a valuation, but decided now was not the time.
‘I am sure. You can move in whenever you like.’ Done deal. She liked Travis Rey.
*
‘Tina Brechin spelled B-R-E-C-H-I-N,’ said the estate agent from Foxtons, tagging this information on to her introduction – presumably because it was pronounced Breekin – as if it were one of those improbable multi-barrelled names the upper classes are so fond of. She was a brunette, tall and rather plain, in her thirties, classically dressed in slim black trousers and a white silk T-shirt, pearls and pumps and a huge diamond engagement ring on her manicured hand. She looked like something from a bygone era.
‘It’s a really lovely house, Mrs Meadows,’ she said, after she’d spent an hour peering into every room, gazing from the windows, opening cupboards, standing silently in the garden, perhaps checking for noise levels. She jotted down details as she went along in her brown leather notebook, sucking the end of her Mont Blanc biro as she contemplated the selling potential of the house that had been Jo and Lawrence’s sanctuary for close to thirty years. Now she packed her book and pen back into her large Mulberry bag and took the chair that Jo indicated on the other side of the kitchen table.
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you wanting to sell quickly? Do you already have somewhere else in mind?’ Her accent was clipped and business-like. When Jo hesitated, trying to decide how to answer and only succeeding in panicking, Tina breezed on, ‘Because obviously this will affect our decision about the asking price. I don’t imagine we’ll have any trouble selling – the market is buoyant in London at the moment, as I’m sure you know; all those foreign buyers. I’d say the only downside of the property is that there’s no ensuite in the master bedroom. Peo
ple expect one at this price. And the downstairs rooms could do with brightening up – nothing major – especially in here, if you want to sell at the top of the market.’ She looked around the kitchen, her gaze settling on the garden. ‘Lovely mature garden. That counts for a lot. And the glass doors . . . very stylish.’
‘We had them done last year.’
Tina nodded, waiting for Jo to answer some of her questions.
‘Are you saying we should paint the place before we put it on the market?’
‘It’s up to you, of course. But people have very little imagination, I’m afraid. First impressions count. If this room and the sitting room were smartened up a bit, fresh flowers, tidy away all the mess . . . well, not mess, but you know what I mean. You want maximum impact as soon as the buyer steps through the door.’
Jo tried to see her home as others might see it. ‘It’s quite a while since we had it painted,’ she conceded.
‘You’d get back the small outlay ten-fold in the asking price.’
‘OK . . . I’ll think about it.’
‘The other thing is timescale. I don’t think we should put it on the market before the second or third week of September. Let everyone get back from the Med and the children back to school. This is a family house.’
‘No, that’s fine. There’s no hurry, we’re just downsizing.’ Which is essentially true, she told herself, slightly ashamed of the equivocation. But Tina-whatever-her-name-was didn’t need to hear the sordid details. Part of her, she knew, was still hoping that something would happen – the horse might talk – and she wouldn’t have to sell after all. It seemed impossible that she would no longer wake up in, come home to, this house.
Tina talked on, estate-agent speak about photographs, online presence, Foxtons percentage, most of which Jo tuned out, her mind on the past, not the future.
‘Right, fine.’ Tina seemed to have finished. ‘So why don’t you let me know when you’ve done the paint job, and I’ll have Mike come over and do the photos. And if there are any other questions . . .’ She handed Jo her card.
When Jo closed the door on Miss Brechin, she went and curled up on the sofa, drawing the soft tartan-wool rug close around her body, up to her chin, and wept silent tears of loss.
*
The following day, Travis moved in. He and Nicky arrived around five in the afternoon, with one small wheelie case. And Jo was surprisingly glad to see them.
‘Is that it? Or is this the advanced guard?’ Jo asked, indicating his luggage.
‘Nope, this is it. I travel light.’
‘I’ll take him up,’ Nicky said, grabbing the bag.
‘Will you both stay for supper?’ she asked, when the two men came down half an hour later. Nicky shook his head.
‘Thanks, Mum, but I’m meeting someone at seven.’
Travis looked awkward suddenly. ‘I . . . thought . . . if it’s OK with you, that I’d stay in, sorta settle myself. But you don’t need to do dinner for me, Mrs Meadows. I can pick up something round the corner.’
‘Jo or Joanna, please. If you’re going to stay here, you can’t call me Mrs Meadows,’ Jo said. ‘House rule.’ And it came to her that in truth she no longer was Mrs Meadows. She’d kept her maiden name for her books: Joanna Hamilton. Maybe she should call herself that in future.
Travis grinned. ‘Jo . . . OK.’
‘And I’ve got food, if you want to join me. It’d be a good time to discuss all the arrangements.’
The American nodded. ‘Yeah, great, if it’s not any trouble.’
‘Right, guys. I’m off. I’ll leave you to it,’ Nicky declared, with the slightly smug air of having accomplished his goal.
In a way, despite Jo’s sudden nervousness at being left alone with a virtual stranger who would not be going home, she was glad when Nicky left, forcing her to bite the bullet and get used to Travis one-to-one.
‘Hot date.’ Travis nodded his head towards Nicky’s departing figure.
‘Really? I’m just his mother. I know nothing.’
‘Seems pretty intense about her. But he hasn’t introduced us yet.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Nicky rarely brought his girlfriends home. Jo knew that when he did it would be serious. She handed Travis a beer. ‘You can have wine if you’d prefer?’
‘Yeah . . . wine’d be good . . . only if you’re having some.’
Jo poured him some red and then they caught each other’s eye and both laughed.
‘We’ve got to stop being so polite to each other. It’ll exhaust us.’
‘Hey, I come from the have-a-nice-day culture . . . I can’t do anything else.’
They carried their glasses to the table, where they sat opposite each other.
‘Yes, but I like that American courteousness . . . for instance the way characters in films often say “Ma’am” or “Sir”.’
Travis smiled. ‘Sorta old fashioned, I guess.’
‘It’s respect. We seem to have completely lost it over here.’ She suddenly heard what she’d said and shook herself. ‘Christ, I sound like Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells.’
The allusion was lost on Travis, who just raised a puzzled eyebrow.
‘It’s the prim middle classes expressing moral outrage. I promise I’m not really that kind of person.’
‘Oh those guys! We have them too . . . whole swathes of the Midwest. But I’m from the west coast. We’re mostly laid back surfer-dudes. Nothing prim about a Californian.’
As supper went on, Jo realized she was enjoying herself. Travis was charming, well-read and interested in a wide range of subjects. He made her laugh too, a rare commodity in recent months. When they finally cleared the table and made their way up to bed, she realized it was after eleven.
*
‘Oh . . . my . . . God. That boy is so super-cute. He sort of reminds me of that gorgeous actor . . . Chiwetel Ejitor. You know, the guy in that brilliant slave movie.’ Donna had dropped in for coffee and met Travis on his way out for a run. He’d shaken Donna’s hand and said, with a totally straight face, ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’ Then flashed an innocent grin at Joanna, who couldn’t help laughing.
‘Ejiofor. Chiwetel Ejiofor.’
‘That’s him.’
‘You think Travis is cute?’
‘Umm, yes.’ Her friend eyed her for a moment. ‘You mean you hadn’t noticed?’
‘He’s Nicky’s friend.’
‘So?’
‘So . . . well, you don’t see your son’s friends in that light.’
‘Darling, I see all men in that light. Friends of whoever. Men are men, and they’re either cute or not cute. And that boy is cute.’
Jo held her hands up. ‘OK, I hear you. Can we drop the subject?’
‘No need to be touchy. I was just making an observation.’
‘I’m not being touchy . . . OK, well maybe I am a little. But he’s a nice guy and it’s helpful having him here . . . bringing in a bit of cash. I just don’t want to complicate things with you hitting on him, that’s all.’
Donna pouted. ‘I’d never do that . . . without your permission that is.’
They both laughed. ‘He’s almost young enough to be your son,’ Jo pointed out.
‘And yours.’
‘Yes, but I realize that. I’m not sure you do.’
Her friend gave an amused shrug. ‘Age shall not wither us, nor the years condemn.’
‘You’re muddling up Cleopatra with Laurence Binyon. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.’
‘Whatever. But I refuse to be withered or wearied by age or anyone else for that matter. Not under any circumstances.’
Donna took a sip of the coffee Jo had made, pulling a face at the weediness of the brew as she always did.
‘So how long’s he staying?’
‘Until the play’s over I suppose. A couple of months?’
‘Right. So . . .’ Donna hesitated. ‘Did the agent come round? I saw Foxtons-type totty hovering on the patio yesterday
morning,’
‘I wouldn’t call her “totty” exactly, but yes. She says I’ve got to paint the kitchen and sitting room.’
Donna groaned. ‘They always say that. Are you going to?’
‘I want to get the most I can . . . not being greedy, but if we’re both going to get a flat and have some left over to live on—’
‘You can’t be more than five minutes from me, remember?’ Donna dropped her head in her hands. ‘Christ, I can’t believe you’re not going to be next door any more. What will I do?’
‘Don’t.’
‘Are you totally positive that you can’t keep it? Just for the time being. I mean, isn’t it poor diddums’ problem if he can’t afford to rent a flat?’
‘It is . . . but I suppose it’s mine too.’
‘Yes, but you’re not responsible for Lawrence’s finances any more. Obviously he’ll get half in the end, but not before he’s filed for divorce and gone through the courts. That could take years. Why are you kow-towing to him like this? Hasn’t he done enough to ruin your life without uprooting you from your beloved home as well?’
There was silence in the room. Jo winced at the word ‘divorce’, although she realized that was what it would come to eventually.
‘I don’t want to fight with him.’
‘Doesn’t have to be hostile. But if he wants half of the house, you should make him work for it. That’ll take for ever, by which time things might have changed for you. You could have the hots for a millionaire toyboy with a yacht in Monte Carlo and not give a fig about the house by then.’
Jo laughed. ‘I wish.’ Although she didn’t. The thought of some perma-tanned euro smoothie tossing his money about in a yachting blazer and pressed white jeans wasn’t doing it for her. She wanted her husband back.
