The Forever House: A feel-good summer page-turner

by Veronica Henry

  ‘I’m sure.’

  She swallowed, suddenly feeling the need to defend what she wrote. ‘It gives them an escape.’

  ‘Not really.’ He stared, his pupils boring into her. They were very small and very black. ‘It gives them the illusion of escape, which is a very different thing.’

  ‘Different from what?’ Margot felt her indignation rise.

  ‘From writing something they can relate to.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘You’re an intelligent woman. Why don’t you write something about how women really feel? What they are really going through?’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  She stood in front of him, hands on hips, outraged. Like one of her own heroines, she thought, and felt foolish. He made her feel foolish.

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘I’m writing a screenplay. About three women who work in a knicker factory.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was quite nonplussed.

  ‘There’s a single mother, a widow, and the boss’s wife. They kidnap the boss, then give all the women better pay and working conditions and start making the kind of underwear they want to wear.’

  ‘How very enlightened.’

  ‘It is.’ He smiled. ‘I love women. I want to write things that help them make their lives better.’

  He was smug. Patronising. He was goading her.

  She felt flustered.

  In less than two minutes he’d managed to hone in on her greatest insecurity (and she was particularly riddled with them at the moment): that what she wrote was trite and meaningless.

  ‘Well, good for you,’ she managed finally. ‘But I know what I write makes women’s lives better, because they write and tell me. I get sacks of fan mail. Sacks.’

  She realised her voice was getting higher.

  He looked at his watch and looked at the door.

  ‘I think I’ve done my bit here,’ he said. ‘I’m off. Very nice to meet you.’

  He put his hands in his pockets and loped off. Margot didn’t think this had ever happened to her before. Men never voluntarily walked off and left her standing there. It was a new experience and not one she liked. Had she lost her touch? Was the orange dress too much? Or did he not like women full stop? Was he off to some nefarious Soho den to pick up young boys?

  She looked around the room. She actually wished Dai was here and they could slink off to her favourite Italian for dinner. She wished she hadn’t been quite so horrid to him.

  She was finding him difficult these days, though, if not impossible. She never knew what mood he was going to be in. He went from introverted, almost inert, to being the life and soul of the party, with no apparent reason. Some days he wouldn’t get out of bed at all. He would sleep and sleep, right around the clock, and she couldn’t tell him to get up because he would only ask what was he getting up for? And she couldn’t answer that. He kept the curtains shut all day and by the time it came for her to go to bed, the sheets were wrinkled and the room smelled airless. Those were the days when she wished she had a day bed in her study she could escape to, but she knew if she did she would be tempted to have little naps whenever she couldn’t write, and that would be the beginning of the end.

  He was occupied in the winter, because he was in with all the gamekeepers who went drinking at the White Horse, and he loaded guns for the local shoot, which would keep him busy from dawn until well after dusk, as they all went off and drank themselves stupid in the pub afterwards. Margot didn’t think it was a very constructive way of spending his time, but she didn’t say anything. He seemed to enjoy being out in the elements.

  The downside of that was he knew everyone there was to know around Peasebrook and would invite them back to the house at the drop of a hat. Often Margot would come in from her study and find a curious mixture of landed gentry and local bits of rough in the kitchen, music blaring. Dai would be mixing cocktails – they might run out of food but they never ran out of drink – and he would end up on the kitchen table reciting Dylan Thomas. There was no fear of Dai going gently into a good night, or gently anywhere, but everyone lapped it up and there was uproarious applause and demands for more. At least, thought Margot, he wasn’t reading his own poetry.

  And as Dylan Thomas had said of himself, Dai had a beast, an angel, and a madman in him. Only the angel appeared less and less often these days . . . Dai needed a lot of attention, and Margot didn’t have enough time to humour him and write enough books to keep them in the manner to which they had become accustomed.

  Although maybe what they needed was a holiday. They hadn’t been away together, just the two of them, for an age. Perhaps a little trip around Italy? She brightened at the idea. As soon as she’d finished this wretched book, she would organise it.

  She looked around the room. She didn’t think anyone would notice if she slipped away. She’d done her duty and there was no one here to amuse her, so she might as well get away and have a good night’s sleep. Then she could get up in the morning and start writing. Time was, after all, marching on and the deadline was getting nearer and nearer.

  ‘The thing is, I want my dresses to turn ordinary girls into extraordinary ones. Just for one night. I want to turn them into who they want to be.’

  Alexander and Phoebe had persuaded Sally into modelling for them so they could take some pictures. She had protested, but for some reason they seemed to think she was the perfect representative of the girl on the street.

  ‘We need a catalogue,’ explained Alexander. ‘I can’t cart the actual dresses around with me everywhere. If I’ve got pictures, with a real girl in them . . .’

  ‘A real girl,’ laughed Sally. ‘You make me sound like Pinocchio.’

  ‘But you are real,’ said Phoebe. ‘I don’t mean you’re not beautiful, because you absolutely are. But you’re not a freak, like me.’

  ‘You’re not a freak.’

  ‘I’ve got a gap in my teeth and my ears stick out. No one would want to look like me.’

  Sally frowned. She thought Phoebe was stunning. But then, she hadn’t met a girl yet who was happy with how she looked.

  ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ said Alexander.

  But his smile was so winning that ten minutes later she was standing on the table in the dining room, which they were using as a makeshift catwalk, in a white dress with hundreds of silver discs stitched on to it. It was far shorter than Sally would ever dare to wear. It would be no good for a night out in Knapford.

  ‘This is the perfect party dress for Christmas 1967,’ Phoebe was saying as if she was commentating a fashion show. ‘Silver and white – to represent snow and starlight.’

  ‘Snow and Starlight,’ said Alexander. ‘That’s what we’ll call the collection.’

  Sally struck what she thought was a model’s pose. She felt self-conscious. She was no Twiggy, she knew that. But she was eager to please.

  ‘It’s just too dark in here,’ complained Phoebe, fiddling with her camera.

  ‘Just keep taking pictures. You won’t know if they’re any good until we get them developed.’

  The door opened and Margot stood in the doorway.

  ‘Mum! You’re back early. Was the party no good?’

  ‘It was too boring for words. What are you three up to?’

  ‘Shooting our winter catalogue,’ grinned Alexander.

  ‘How very grand. Sally, you look out of this world.’

  ‘I feel a bit silly.’ She felt even more self-conscious now Margot was here.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘Gone to the White Horse.’

  Margot tutted. ‘Does he really find all those grubby gamekeeper types more interesting than me?’

  ‘No, Mum. It just meant he didn’t have to get changed. Or pretend to be something he wasn’t.’

  ‘Your father’s got more talent than most of the people at that party. He just won’t do anything about it.’ Margot put down her handbag. ‘You need some more light. Alexander, go
and get the lamps from the drawing room. And we need cocktails. You’ll never relax otherwise, Sally.’

  Sally had to admit to herself she was never going to relax under Alexander’s scrutiny. She felt self-conscious, because she cared terribly much what he was thinking but couldn’t tell at all by looking at his expression. But by the time she’d had two of the Snowballs Margot mixed, to get them in the Christmas spirit, she found all her inhibitions falling way. The creamy, sugary, boozy mixture was too delicious.

  When Margot threw herself into something, it came to life. She completely took over the shoot. She arranged the lighting, told Sally what to wear and how to stand, made Alexander go and fetch props and jewellery from her jewellery box.

  Dai looked in at one point and beat a hasty retreat. He could see straight away he couldn’t make a contribution.

  ‘Have a Snowball!’ Margot tried to lure him in.

  ‘You’re all right.’ He slunk off to bed.

  It was three o’clock in the morning before they finished taking the photos. Phoebe had used up several rolls of film.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Margot. ‘I wanted an early night.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’d have given up hours ago if it wasn’t for you.’

  On the landing, before she went up the next set of stairs to her little attic room, Alexander stopped Sally.

  ‘Thanks for being a good sport.’

  ‘It was fun.’

  ‘I know it wasn’t part of the deal. But I think the photos will make a lot of difference. You looked really beautiful.’

  Sally blushed. She wasn’t at all sure if he meant it. She blushed even more when he gave her a hug. She felt an extraordinary warmth rush through her. But then he was gone, disappearing down the corridor to his own room, leaving her somewhat bedazzled.

  She didn’t think the hug meant anything. Alexander was just being kind, and that was one of the things she liked best about him, even though she thought he might be a bit of a monkey where girls were concerned. It was a very confusing combination.

  As she climbed up the stairs to her bedroom, she realised she felt happy for the first time in a long while. Properly, deep-down happy, not just the momentary happiness that a new lipstick or a bag of chips brought you. The ball of sadness she had been carrying around with her felt less heavy. It would never go all together – how could it? – but at least she could bear it now.

  For the first time since it happened, she slept a dreamless sleep. No nightmares. No waking up drenched in sweat or crying. No reminders at all of that terrible day.

  15

  Leo woke at exactly the same time he always did – 6.15 – even though it was Saturday and his alarm wasn’t programmed to go off. He stretched for a moment and thought about what to do. It was the first time he had been able to give thought to the fact he had a free weekend. Work had been full on, which was great, except it meant he had to put all the things he wanted to do with his life on hold.

  So he was going to do some of them today. He was going to go to the gym, get a proper workout followed by a swim and a sauna. Although he ran every other morning it wasn’t enough. His body needed attention. Especially when so much temptation was put in his way on an hourly basis. He was far from running to fat – Leo had inherited his father’s lean physique – but it could creep up on you if you didn’t take care.

  Then he was going to drive down to Peasebrook and see his mum and dad. He decided he would surprise them, because if he phoned to tell them his mum would go into overdrive and start cooking and he didn’t want that. In fact, he was going to cook for them. He could stop in Peasebrook and do the shopping. It would be fun, sourcing everything in the high street. There was a fantastic cheese shop, for a start. And no doubt there would be new places open since he last shopped there. Peasebrook was flourishing.

  Maybe he could get a few more Cotswold clients? He had Honeycote Ales already, with their gastropubs and the delicatessen and café they’d opened in the converted brewery. There was lots of other foodie businesses springing up in the area. If he got a few more contracts down there he could spend more time at home – he still considered Hunter’s Moon his home even thought he’d had his flat over five years – and keep an eye on his parents. His dad had definitely been off colour the last time he had seen him, more than three weeks ago now, and although they had spoken on the phone, Leo still felt guilty. A visit was long overdue.

  He jumped out of bed, galvanised by the prospect. He might as well admit it. The relentless hubbub and competitiveness of London was starting to pall. He didn’t want to go out five nights a week any more and have the same old conversations over and over again. He’d much rather loll about in the countryside. Go to the pub, have a nice walk, potter about. He needn’t go back to London until Monday morning if he didn’t feel like it. He could have Sunday lunch and snooze it off. What absolute bloody bliss.

  He laughed at himself. You’re getting old, Leo, mate, he thought, as he stuffed a few things into a leather holdall and put on his gym kit. It was true. He’d even turned down a trip to Ibiza with his mates. They went every summer but he couldn’t face all that eternal sunshine and clubbing and the wretched infinity pool with the girls in their impossibly small bikinis. He wanted something more . . . nourishing.

  Outside, he could see it was a perfect spring day. Hunter’s Moon would be looking at its best. He slung his bag over his shoulder and grabbed his car keys. He couldn’t wait.

  There were fourteen interested parties booked in for the open house.

  That was without a single advert in the papers or any display of the particulars in the window, although Belinda and Bruce had put together a stunning brochure which they’d released discreetly to interested parties. So considering they had done no publicity, the response had been overwhelming.

  In the end, the only thing Belinda hadn’t had any control over was the weather, but the morning dawned pearly bright. It was the kind of day that inspired poets to pick up their pencils and artists to rush outside with their brushes. The kind of day that put a smile on the face of even the most curmudgeonly.

  Belinda and Cathy arrived at seven o’clock to find Alexander and Sally, with Teddy on a lead, ready to set off for the day.

  ‘I feel awful hounding you out of your own home,’ Belinda said.

  ‘We’re looking forward to a day out,’ said Sally.

  ‘I’ll come and see you in the morning,’ said Belinda. ‘Midday?’

  ‘Oh gosh – that’s beyond the call of duty on a Sunday.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. You’ll want to know how things have gone.’

  ‘Why don’t you come for lunch?’ said Sally. ‘Or is that blurring the edges?’

  Belinda laughed. ‘I’d love that. I never have Sunday lunch. It’s far too much effort for one person. Thank you.’

  In the car, Sally worried she’d stepped over a line.

  ‘Do you think I was wrong to ask her for lunch?’ she asked Alexander.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘If this bloody disease has taught me anything, it’s to spend more time with people you like. She’s definitely gone the extra mile for us.’

  ‘It’s a pity—’ Sally began, then stopped. ‘No, never mind.’

  ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking,’ said Alexander. ‘And I thought the same.’

  Sally started the car. They’d booked in for lunch at a restaurant they’d heard good things about, then they were going to call in on friends later in the afternoon. She was worried that Alexander would be tired. It had been a tough couple of weeks. They had started going through the house and chucking things away. It was good to declutter for the open house, but they’d also need to get rid of a lot of stuff before they moved, so it was an opportunity to make a start.

  Going through everything was exhausting, though. Not so much physically, but emotionally. So many memories. And it was hard deciding whether to throw things away or keep them. They were both attached to so many different
things for so many different reasons. But there wasn’t going to be room at Digby Hall for even half of their clutter.

  There was decades of junk. All Alexander’s records, heaps and heaps of Phoebe’s clothes – ones she’d bought and ones she’d made and piles of stuff she’d collected – scraps of fur, and old hats and scarves and buttons. And of course Margot’s books. She couldn’t even begin to count them. She wondered if the new owners would like them as part of the house’s history. Probaby not. It wasn’t as if Margot was Jane Austen or one of the Bronte sisters.

  Leo and Jess might want some of the stuff, but even so they had a monumental task ahead of them. And if things went quickly, they might not have long to sort it all out. If Belinda found them a good buyer, it could take less than six weeks.

  Sally gulped. She wasn’t sure if she was ready.

  She put the car into drive and drove off. She caught Alexander’s gaze in the rear-view mirror, looking back at the house. She put her hand down to hold his, but for the first time ever his fingers didn’t close around hers. How thoughtless of me, she thought. She left her hand there as long as she could, before she needed to put her hand back on the wheel, but she didn’t draw attention to the incident. She wasn’t going to dignify the disease with any recognition of what it had done. Not today.

  16

  The Willoughbys had left Hunter’s Moon immaculate. They’d had help, using a cleaning service and a gardener recommended by Belinda, because Alexander certainly wasn’t up to it, and Sally had found overseeing things was a job in itself, as Belinda had given her an exhaustive list of chores to be accomplished to a higher level than most people’s housekeeping standards. Not least to double dose the fabric conditioner on the bed linen so everything smelled sweet.

  The house was gleaming. Outside, every weed had been pulled out of the chippings. The edges of the flowerbeds were sharp. The grass was cut to velvet perfection, with immaculate stripes.

  And now Belinda and Cathy had just over two hours to dress Hunter’s Moon before the viewers started arriving at ten.