by Adele Geras
Of course, if her father had lived, he might have tried hard to suggest something more sensible, but Rilla was willing to bet that her mother would have carried the day as she usually did. Peter Simmonds, Rilla’s father, had died in a car accident six months before she was born. Rilla knew it was quite irrational, but she’d always felt faintly guilty, as though she herself were to blame somehow. Both she and Gwen grew up with stories about the relationship that had existed between their parents. By all accounts, this love was like something out of a fairytale: transcendent, immutable and deeper by far than the rather ordinary passions experienced by other people. Certainly it took Leonora some years to recover from her husband’s death. Rilla thought she recalled the house being quiet, and her mother in black weeping at the breakfast table, but didn’t know whether the silence and sadness in her head were truly memories or only stories that had been told to her later by Leonora and which she was imagining. Photographs of her father, a tall, rather military-looking man with reddish hair and an unsmiling gaze, were there in albums which were hardly ever looked at these days.
‘What for do you look so sour, beloved Rilla?’ came Ivan’s lazy tones, husky partly from last night’s cigarettes but mostly from well-rehearsed affectation.
‘Nothing,’ said Rilla, ‘only it’s going to take a hell of a lot of slap to reconstruct something resembling my face.’ She kept her voice light, so that Ivan shouldn’t know her true feelings. She had no intention of trying to explain the fear in her heart at the prospect of the days ahead.
‘You are beautiful, my darling,’ said Ivan. ‘You have a twilight beauty.’
‘And you are full of shit,’ said Rilla, laughing, applying rather more foundation than Monsieur (or possibly Madame) Lancôme would have recommended to her cheeks and forehead, and making sure to blend in thoroughly around the neck and chin line.
That was one thing you could say about working (or in Rilla’s case most often not working) in the movies and the theatre. It did teach you all about the possibilities, the magic, the transforming power of make-up. Everyone was busy constructing selves that they thought might appeal to others. Ivan, for instance, had a really rather remarkable resemblance to a vampire and played it for all it was worth. He was foreign, he was tall and skinny, he had lots of teeth and very pale skin and eyes he himself described as ‘hypnotic’. He went in for Hammer Horror decor in his flat, which Rilla tried to avoid as much as she possibly could by managing to contrive that they always ended up here. She smiled again at her own reflection in the mirror. Her house was not exactly Ideal Home, but even if it was as flamboyant as Ivan’s, it was also cosy and there was nothing remotely Gothic about it.
‘You are happy now,’ he said. ‘You are remembering last night.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself, sweetie,’ Rilla said sharply, and instantly regretted it. He wasn’t the best lover in the world, but he was better than nothing. ‘I’m sorry, Ivan. It’s just that I’m a bundle of nerves about going back to my mother’s house. I can’t help it.’
‘You smile,’ Ivan continued, ‘while I am weeping. What will I do without you? How will I bear it? How will I live?’
‘Oh, do grow up, darling, honestly! It’s only a few days. There’s no need to be melodramatic about it.’
‘You do not love me. You could not speak so if you had love in your heart.’
She couldn’t deny it. She didn’t love him, of course she didn’t, but it was quite sharp of him to have spotted it. Rilla thought she put on a reasonable show of affection and certainly she was always wholehearted about the sex, but her heart, well, that was foreign territory, and had been out of bounds for years. It was sometimes hard to square the way she was now with how she’d been in the days of Hugh Kenworthy, her first love. Months would go by and Hugh would simply never enter her mind, but when she did turn her thoughts to that time (sixteen years old, feeling everything so passionately that it seemed as though her skin were missing) she experienced something like a flood washing through her, a mixture of that old desire that made it hard for her to catch her breath. Rilla pulled her thoughts round to the present.
‘It’s nothing to do with love,’ she explained patiently. ‘I’ve told you all about it. Mother’s seventy-fifth birthday party is strictly a family affair, otherwise of course I’d take you. You know that.’
Rilla outlined her mouth with a colour called Sepia Rose, and added lipgloss, believing that one couldn’t glitter and shine too much. She had no time at all for matte and beige and the whole less-is-more philosophy. Cream cakes, red wine and prawn Bhutans with extra naans were what she craved. She hadn’t been quite truthful about the family affair. Partners, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends were all invited, but Rilla never for a moment considered taking Ivan. She knew exactly how her mother would react to him. She’d be oh so polite, and smile the smile that made the Mona Lisa look positively open by comparison and say something like, Welcome to Willow Court, Mr Posnikov, but her greenish eyes would take in the slightly grubby fingernails, and her nostrils would dilate almost imperceptibly and her eyes would strip away all the pretences and discover who knew what awful truths about poor old Ivan. What would be made entirely clear to him, without so much as a word being spoken, was the feeling that he was not, in Leonora’s phrase, one of us.
‘Do get up, Ivan, please,’ said Rilla. ‘I have to decide what to take. I really want to get to Willow Court as soon as I can.’
She began to throw garments from the wardrobe on to the bed. Why was almost everything she owned either silky or satiny or feathered or beaded or somehow like a costume from a show? Whenever she visited Willow Court, she felt the need to find a disguise, a costume which wouldn’t instantly make Leonora wrinkle her mouth. Why couldn’t she manage neat skirts and crisp blouses? She would probably spill something on them if she did wear them.
‘I choose for you!’ Ivan declared. ‘I know what you need. I am dress designer, no?’
‘Okay,’ said Rilla. ‘Imagine you’re dressing me for a three-act play set in a country house. French windows, drinks on the terrace. You know the sort of thing.’
She moved to the chair by the window and sighed. ‘You can’t possibly do any worse than I did.’
With surprising care, Ivan picked up one garment at a time and laid most of them aside with the merest hint of a despairing sigh. Finally he said, ‘I think this will be enough, no?’
Rilla looked through what he’d chosen and saw that yes, indeed, the green chiffon might do nicely for a summer party, that the claret-coloured gypsy skirt could conceivably pass muster with the white linen blouse, that the black trousers and several silk jersey T-shirts might not be too hideous for morning strolls in the garden. Ivan added a couple of rather fine scarves (‘Georgina von Etzdorf …’ he breathed reverently as he laid them gently on the pillow) and then turned to choose a necklace from the ones looped over a corner of her dressing-table mirror.
‘This, I think,’ he said, picking out a long string of obviously fake pearls. ‘Never before have I seen this – pearls which are not round!’ He made the sound that was the nearest thing to a laugh he allowed himself.
‘Yes, I love those,’ Rilla said. ‘They’re from America. Square pearls! They’ll do.’
She closed her eyes, and let Ivan rummage around in her earring box. What did it matter, really, when it came down to it? However she was dressed, the whole visit was going to be excruciating. The one thing she tried every minute of her life not to think about, to thrust into the darkest, most secret corners of her heart, was known to everyone who was coming. What if they spoke of it? How would she bear that? Rilla closed her eyes and drew a deep breath to steady her thoughts. Willow Court. So many ghosts, so much pain, and her mother, Leonora Simmonds, monarch of all she surveyed, especially the paintings. Oh, my God, Rilla thought. What did we do to deserve those paintings in our family?
*
Rilla let the sound of Billie Holiday’s voice fill the car: blue and velvety
and freighted with pain. Sweet, but with an edge of darkness all around it, like a border. From time to time she joined in with the lyrics, filling the spaces in her head with the sound of her own voice. She knew that the landscape was streaming past the window, but she didn’t even glance at it. She’d seen it far too many times before, on her way back to Willow Court. Gwen’ll be walking round from room to room, she thought, checking that everyone has the right towels. She’ll have made sure the paintings are newly dusted. And I’ll be in the Blue Room, where Mother always puts me because it faces the back. No view of the lake. Rilla shivered in spite of the heat. She hadn’t been down there for years but in her worst dreams she still saw the water shimmering with a sort of fluorescence. No, think of Gwen. That’s safe. Tidy and organized Gwen, who wore well-cut trousers in proper material that cost a small fortune but nevertheless just looked like common-or-garden trousers. Her shirts, too, were the very best, and Rilla knew for a fact that each one cost an arm and a leg, but whatever was the point when the colours were so self-effacing? Apologetic pink, wishy-washy blue, and minimalism’s favourite shade, cream, which did nothing for Gwen, did she but know it.
It wasn’t that her sister wasn’t attractive. She was. She had the figure of a young girl, and not a chubby young girl either. Her dark hair had greyed to the kind of elegant salt-and-pepper others paid a fortune for in salons, and her skin was like ivory. Rilla longed to put her in burgundy and peacock and old gold, but Gwen wouldn’t hear of it. Perhaps all her poor brother-in-law had been looking for when he’d pursued other women during the early years of their marriage was a bit of colour. Rilla felt a pang of shame even thinking such a disloyal thought, but that didn’t stop it being at least a possibility. James Rivera, who’d probably started life as Jaime, was wasted on her sister. He was handsome and dashing and just Spanish enough to have an exotic surname, but educated in this country, so not foreign enough to scare the horses.
She hardly ever thought about this any more, but in the old days one of the main items of family gossip, whenever two or three of them got together away from Willow Court, was, does Gwen know? Almost from the day her sister married, Rilla could tell James was unfaithful to her. He was always ‘up in London’, or ‘away for the night’, and there was the occasion, which Rilla had never spoken of to anyone, when she’d seen him and – what was her name? Milly? Molly? Something like that – one of the young girls employed to help with the children in any case, looking flushed and dishevelled, coming out of the gazebo holding hands with James. And he’d seen her seeing them. Milly, or Molly, didn’t last long after that. Gwen must know, Rilla thought. She can’t not know. How typical of her to say nothing. Rocking the boat was not her thing. Her stoicism appeared to have paid off. Nowadays, James seemed to be as good as gold, though he was rather too fond of alcohol, and Rilla had often noticed her sister’s worried frown and pursed lips as her husband helped himself to yet another drink. Order, that’s what Gwen was interested in. Order and the Walsh Collection. Thank heavens Leonora had at least one of her daughters to carry on after she’d gone. Being stuck in that enormous pile surrounded by more spooky pictures than you can shake a stick at was Rilla’s idea of hell.
And then she was there, at Willow Court. The wrought-iron gates were standing open. The leaves of the scarlet oaks leading up to the house were still green. Rilla’s mouth suddenly felt dry. She slowed the car right down. She knew that Leonora and Gwen would have been looking out for her and would be waiting for her on the front steps, and sure enough, there they were, like figures in a tableau. She could see them from quite a long way away: Leonora upright and self-possessed, standing one step above Gwen. Rilla stopped the car and got out as elegantly as she could, conscious of her mother’s eyes on her. She ran up the steps to kiss her sister.
‘Darling,’ she said, and threw her arms around Gwen, suddenly filled with affection. Perhaps she ought to make more effort to see Gwen on her own. Maybe she should invite her up to London to stay? ‘How super to see you! I’m early, aren’t I? Hardly any traffic at all, amazingly enough.’
She went up to the next level to embrace her mother.
‘Rilla!’ Leonora was smiling, but she stood quite still as her younger daughter kissed her. Powder smelling like icing sugar, Rilla thought, and soft skin, and somewhere in her core something that doesn’t want to bend, to relax. Something frozen.
‘Mother, you look wonderful. As usual.’ And it was true. Leonora’s skin was hardly wrinkled at all, and her green eyes undimmed, it seemed. As for the bone structure, well, as Ivan was forever telling her, there was no better basis for beauty than good bones. Rilla knew that any bones she had were rather too well covered, and she waited for her mother to make some sort of allusion to any weight she might have put on since the last time, but no, on this occasion Leonora said only, ‘You look lovely, too, Rilla darling. It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you. I’ve missed you, so I’m very pleased you’ve come down a little early.’ Leonora paused, and scrutinized her daughter more carefully. ‘And you do look a little tired, too. Never mind. You can have a nice long rest now that you’re here.’
Rilla only just stopped herself from saying, Fat chance! Leonora did love her, she realized with the familiar pang of guilt she felt whenever she had to remind herself of this fact. She just found it hard to communicate her affection in a normal way, that was all. Rilla mumbled something about getting her bags out of the boot and taking them upstairs.
‘You’re in the Blue Room, darling,’ said Leonora. ‘I know you feel comfortable in there. Gwen will help you settle down, and then you’ve got plenty of time to change for dinner. I shall be dealing with letters in the conservatory, but do come down when you’re ready. I’m longing to have a chat, if you’re not too tired after such a long drive.’ She smiled at Rilla, then turned and went inside, walking as she always did – slowly, and as though people were looking at her. Which, Rilla reflected, they very often were.
She walked to the back of the car with Gwen. Together they took out the luggage and went into the house carrying one bag each. Tangles of television cable snaked over the black and white tiles of the hall.
‘They’re here already, then, are they? The TV people?’ Rilla said as she followed Gwen upstairs.
‘Sean Everard – he’s the director – is coming tomorrow,’ said Gwen, turning her head to talk over her shoulder, ‘but the rest of the crew’s here. They’re doing what they call “establishing shots”. They’re very good, really. We hardly know they’re around most of the time. They’re staying down at the Fox and Goose, and they have all their meals there too.’
She almost bumped into a man squatting on the landing with a camera over his shoulder.
‘Oh, gosh, Ken!’ Gwen said. ‘I didn’t notice you there. And I’m very sorry, but I thought it was understood that this part of the landing is out of bounds. I discussed it all with Sean and I’m sure I mentioned it to you.’
Ken said, ‘Sorry, sorry. I was looking for Mrs Simmonds’s bedroom. There’s a picture in there of some swans, I believe …’
‘Oh!’ Gwen relaxed a little. It was obvious to Rilla that if Leonora had said he could be up here, that was different. ‘That’s fine, then. Only it’s along the other corridor. You turned right instead of left at the top of the staircase. It’s easily done.’
‘Right!’ said Ken and wandered away. Rilla noticed that they were outside the old nursery.
‘The dolls’ house is still in there, isn’t it?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes. But Mother’s absolutely adamant that they mustn’t film that.’ She strode along the corridor to the Blue Room with Rilla close behind her. Nothing in it had changed since the last time she’d visited, but Gwen had put buff-coloured roses in a vase on the table by the window.
‘Lovely Buff Beauty, Gwennie, thank you so much.’
Gwen blushed at the childish nickname. ‘You like the ones that go on flowering all through the summer, I know …’ she murmur
ed and put down the bag she was carrying. She turned to go, started saying something like ‘I’ll see you later,’ but Rilla interrupted her.
‘I’m going to have a look at it. At the dolls’ house. Come with me, Gwen, go on. Surely there’s time? You don’t have anything to do exactly now this minute, do you?’
Gwen hesitated, then said, ‘Oh, all right, then. But only for a moment.’
‘Good.’ Rilla stepped out of the Blue Room and looked along the corridor. ‘I’ll make sure no one catches us.’
‘Stop teasing, Rilla.’ Gwen laughed and sounded all at once much younger. ‘We’re allowed in the nursery. It’s just the TV people Mother wants to keep out.’
‘Can’t imagine why … has she said? The dolls’ house was Ethan Walsh’s crowning achievement if you ask me.’
‘She likes to keep it to herself for some reason,’ Gwen said. ‘She’s always adored it, and of course it brings back memories for her. I can’t stay long, I’m afraid. James will be back from the wine merchant very soon and you’re supposed to be unpacking.’
