‘It’s lovely to see you too,’ I told her, hyperventilating.
Apart from anything else, I’d barely brushed my teeth this morning. Certainly not my hair, and I didn’t have a scrap of make-up on. Had literally just fallen out of bed at sparrow’s fart, piled up the car with easels, canvases, paints, a battered suitcase, popped a key under a pot for the Airbnb girl and beetled over to Celia’s, where she’d done the same. I hadn’t even glanced in the rear-view mirror, damn it.
‘And Tommy, of course, you know,’ Belinda was saying, sweeping me on to where the permanently amused Tommy, looking even more of a rake than usual, his auburn hair swept back off his forehead, greying somewhat at the temples now, was getting languidly to his feet. His face was thinner than I remembered, and as I determinedly kissed the air to either side of it without touching, it was all he could do to keep from laughing.
‘Flora, what a surprise,’ he drawled.
‘Oh no, it’s all mine, Tommy. I had literally no idea any of you were going to be here. I imagined I was just coming down to paint Roger, but instead I find a cast of thousands. This is my friend Celia, by the way.’ Celia was already leaning in, hand extended with a beaming smile. She was loving this. A rangy, attractive-looking blonde woman with a lot of lipstick got up from the chair beside Tommy.
‘Janey Karachin,’ she said in dry, East Coast tones one felt Nora Ephron might well have employed. ‘Along for the ride. I’m what you might call a freeloader.’ She winked. ‘Luckily the Bellingdons haven’t sussed me yet and turned me out.’
‘Oh, me too,’ agreed Celia, shaking the bejewelled hand she was offered. ‘I’m firmly in the waif and stray camp. But I’m afraid a summer in Cornwall was too good to pass up.’
‘I couldn’t agree more. And isn’t it heavenly? We were out on the ocean this morning in the most adorable little boat, darting up creeks and gullies – I felt like I was in a Du Maurier novel. “Where’s the Frenchman,” I asked Tommy, “in his tight breeches?”’ She leaned in confidentially. ‘Frankly, that’s all I require, and then I’m never going home.’
‘And where’s that?’ asked Celia.
‘New York City. Hot as hell and twice as dirty at this time of year. Mostly I love it, but not in July. As a matter of fact, I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. Hello there,’ she said to me, together with a wide smile. ‘I gather from Iris you’re the rider.’
I took her hand. ‘Actually she said the same about you.’
‘Iris is obviously on uncharacteristically flattering form,’ observed Belinda caustically. ‘Now, lunch everyone. Come along, sit down.’
‘Quite!’ boomed Roger, rubbing his hands. ‘Enough chat, I’m starving. Children, sit yourselves down.’
‘We were sitting, Grandpa, but nothing happened.’
‘Yes, well it will happen now, you’ll see. Ibby, here. Theo, over there,’ he pointed.
Hugo’s twins – ‘IVF, I bet,’ Celia would always say darkly – clearly bored with waiting, had got down to play with Truffle and Flurry the Border terrier, but now dutifully returned to the table. I went round to say hello and shake their ten-year-old hands. Their eyes were wide at this rare sighting of their adored elder brother’s mother. The bad one. Peter had once laughingly told me that when they were younger, he’d read them Snow White, and Ibby had pointed at the Wicked Queen and asked if it was me.
‘You see!’ I’d gasped in horror. ‘That’s what they tell them!’
‘No, Mum, it’s not,’ he’d insisted. ‘It’s because you won’t ever let them be around.’
‘Be around? What d’you mean – be around?’
‘Well, they’re my brother and sister. They’d like to see my school, where I live, that sort of thing.’
I’d had to clutch the furniture and breathe.
Obviously it was me. Obviously. Clearly I should be able to play happy, disparate families: have them all to lunch, go to Christmas parties with them, and perhaps, it occurred to me now, as I felt their fascinated blue gazes, so like Hugo’s, rest upon me, perhaps Peter had even engineered this? Or, at least, been sparing with the truth. Not informing me of the sudden change in his father’s plans. Of the revised guest list for my summer. I wanted to be furious with him, to ring him right now, protest in the strongest possible terms, but I knew the fault lay with me. Instead, I sat dumbly between Roger and Janey and opposite Hugo and prepared to behave. Hugo leaned across to chat and I even managed to commiserate with him over his cancelled trip: listened, as he told me that of course, if they’d booked a house in France, say, or Italy, it would have been fine, but sailing around the Ionian did not guarantee good Wi-Fi, or indeed any Wi-Fi at all. He knew it would be a stressful trip, trying to respond to emails and phone calls.
‘You shouldn’t be so indispensable,’ I told him with a smile.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I think it’s more about being around for moral support for the managers. It doesn’t look great to say, “Sorry, folks, can’t talk, I’m on a yacht for the summer.” And anyway, I never spend enough time down here.’
‘And don’t you dare add with the aged P’s! Who aren’t getting any younger!’ interjected Roger.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Pa. And anyway, you’re a million miles from being decrepit. I saw you leaning out on your boat this morning. Very agile.’ Hugo smiled, his eyes disappearing like Peter’s. I had to look away.
Poached salmon arrived, with warm new potatoes in chives, and a delicious tomato salad of all shapes and colours – from the greenhouse, we were told by our hostess. I ate in a trance, my tummy clenching with every mouthful. It was followed by a pear sorbet of such sophisticated taste and style it took a while for anyone to determine its flavour.
‘That’s it! Sweet William, from the south wall,’ cried Belinda happily, when Christina finally identified it.
Everything was from the kitchen garden, of course. And the salmon was farmed locally. It was all desperately ethical, and I felt grubby, full of London grime. I curled my ancient trainers under the table and wished I wasn’t in short dungarees. I did manage to answer all the polite questions about my practice, though, ran through my commissions, and even tried to look thrilled when Christina told me she was sure their neighbours would adore to have their children painted, although she tactfully didn’t go so far as to suggest her own, for which I was grateful. Because there was no bloody way I was staring at Hugo’s offspring for hours. Everyone persisted in taking an interest until I felt so like the poor relation everyone was being kind to I wanted to scream – Actually, I’m doing the Queen and Prince Philip next! And I’m getting a knighthood!
‘Damehood,’ Celia corrected me later, as I seethed to her in the car, finally on our way to the cottage.
‘Did you not feel their pity? Their charity?’ I spat. ‘Or is it me?’
She hesitated. ‘Yes, it is you. I mean, I did feel it, a bit, but I think you’re overdoing it. So what if they’re being kind? I’m inclined to lap up kindness these days. Take a bit more, if necessary. I thought they were sweet, actually.’
I gripped the steering wheel as we bounced down the track, my knuckles white. ‘It’s different for you,’ I muttered eventually. ‘You don’t have the baggage.’
‘Of course it’s different. All I’m saying is, now that we’re here – and I hate to say it but I did warn you – but now that we are here, be smart. Play along. Don’t dig your heels in, because actually, this arrangement, this inclusiveness, will help you to move on. If you get used to it here, it’ll be much more natural to carry on at home. I thought Tommy and his bird were nice,’ she said quickly, changing the subject as my face turned to stone.
Carry on at home? I took my time to reply. ‘She was,’ I managed to agree, at length. ‘In an upfront, no-nonsense sort of way.’
‘Quite. I like that.’
‘But he’s devious. A snake,’ I hissed. Celia blinked. She looked alarmed. ‘And a smart alec. Quieter than usual, today, I admit. Usually he
likes the sound of his own voice.’
Celia was silent. She knew I was angry and probably guessed, as I did, that I’d been outmanoeuvred by Peter, and didn’t necessarily disagree with him. I’d felt Tommy’s eyes on me at lunch, watching in a how-the-mighty-have-fallen sort of way. Look what you’re reduced to. Working for your ex. Admittedly he’d been more serious than usual, chatting to Roger about sailing, in an effort, I felt, to impress Janey, who was wiser than him, a commissioning editor at a famous publishing house. A cool job, surely? Although she’d assured me darkly it had its moments.
‘Now and again you get an author who’s written precisely one novel and thinks he’s the next John Grisham. It’s my job to gently inform him every thriller writer thinks that. A friend of Tommy’s was one, it won’t surprise you to know,’ she said wickedly. ‘That’s how we met. This guy was doing a reading down at Barnes and Noble, and to my horror, he didn’t just stop at one page as agreed, he went on and on like he was going to finish the book. I tried to interrupt but he wouldn’t shut up. Eventually Tommy started clapping loudly at the back, and everyone joined in, which finally stopped him in his tracks. When I thanked Tommy afterwards, he told me the warm white wine I was serving was undrinkable and we should repair to the Monkey Bar forthwith. Naturally he worked his magic.’ Her hazel eyes had sparkled at me.
‘Naturally. And what a suitable-sounding venue.’
‘Wasn’t it just?’
I glanced at Tommy who was obviously listening and loving every minute of this. More tales of derring-do. More rake’s progress. An involuntary mouth twitch gave him away as he purported to listen to Roger, and Janey winked at him, letting him know she’d seen. I could tell she had his measure. I was just surprised he had hers. I also had a sudden feeling they’d just had sex. They had that recently showered, bedroom-eyed look about them.
‘Hey, is this it?’ Celia broke into my reverie as I stopped the car. ‘This isn’t too shabby, is it?’
I came to. She was gazing delightedly at the cottage I’d parked in front of. Belinda had wanted to drive us down here, but I knew exactly which cottage she had in mind. It was right at the bottom of the track, before the lane plunged into the sea: squat, white, small and comforting, the very last house before the dunes. No rambling rose or clematis snaked up these white walls; the stiff sea breeze saw to that. Instead, flaming banks of crocosmia and tough sea grasses blew defiantly about it. The front of the house gave on to the lane, but the back, aside from a few rocks, almost merged with the beach, just a little picket fence dividing it. Even in my deranged mental state I could see it was idyllic.
Celia was open-mouthed with wonder. Even more so than she’d been up at the house.
‘Oh Flora, this is fab,’ she breathed. ‘I’ll be as happy as a sand girl down here with my easel. Is that seriously the beach? Shit. Look at the dunes. Aren’t we getting out? Don’t tell me this is some kind of tease?’
I roused myself wearily, knowing I was being the worst possible version of myself. Knowing we were bloody lucky to be here, away from London. Away, too, from Trewarren. And in a cottage they usually rented out to holidaymakers, so super kind. I detected Roger’s hand in this. Yet still I felt sick to my stomach. I was sure I’d made the most catastrophic mistake. Why hadn’t I listened to Celia in London? Why had I ever embarked on this?
‘Who’s that?’ asked Celia, as I finally got out of the car and went round to join her by the boot. As we hauled our luggage out, I turned and followed her gaze. A slight, solitary figure in a royal-blue swimming costume was sitting on a rock, at the edge of the beach, but also, in our back garden. Her skinny brown back was to us, and her fair curls blew in the wind. I felt my heart rise and settle into its more natural position. My stomach unclenched and relaxed slightly. Suddenly I felt better than I had done all day.
‘Oh, she’s lovely,’ I said happily. ‘That’s Babs Trewellyn. She’s Roger’s mistress.’
3
‘His mistress? You mean Roger Roger?’
‘The very same. Rogering Roger, in fact.’ I giggled. First laugh of the day, it seemed to me.
Babs had turned at the sound of our voices. She got to her feet and waved extravagantly, both arms windmilling about as if she were bringing in a light aircraft. ‘Helloo! Darl-ing!’ she cried.
‘Babs!’ I shouted back, waving.
Grinning broadly, I nipped through the front garden, around to the back, and down the rocks to greet her, still as nimble as ever on this slippery, hazardous terrain, I was pleased to see. ‘Did you know we were coming?’ I called as I approached.
‘Of course I did, I know everything. And I was reasonably sure you’d want to tootle down here on your own, so I thought I’d be your welcoming committee.’ She was slipping a short white towelling poncho over her swimsuit which I remembered from years ago, when she’d gone through a phase of making and selling them to loyal friends, complete with matching towelling turbans.
‘Mum’s still got one of those,’ I told her as we kissed, and as her little Yorkshire terrier, Piggy, climbed up my leg, wagging. I picked her up and petted her.
‘I know, we modelled them on the beach the last time she was here, a couple of old bags still trying to drum up business. How is she?’
‘She’s well.’ I put Piggy down. ‘And she sends her love, although you’ve probably spoken to her even more recently than I have.’ Mum and Babs were constantly on the phone.
‘Oh, you know.’ She gave a secret smile and looked beyond me to Celia, who was picking her way much more cautiously across the rocks, arms outstretched for balance. Babs’ green, cat-like eyes were alive with interest.
‘So this is Celia, who your mother tells me is rather out of my mould.’
‘Lordy, did she?’
Babs gave her famous gin-and-fags cackle then coughed violently. ‘You mean you don’t entirely approve of the comparison? Hello there.’ She extended a slim brown hand adorned with unusual chunky rings and red nails as Celia approached. ‘I’m Babs. I expect you’ve heard the most terrible things about me.’
‘Do you know, I haven’t,’ said Celia, clearly most put out. ‘I’m rather disgruntled. We’ve had five hours in the car and billions of years in the studio – wouldn’t you think?’
‘Ah, but our Flora’s discreet. Still harbours secret hopes in a certain person’s direction, you see. Doesn’t want to be the one dishing the dirt on his parents in case she’s accused of saying anything that can later be used in evidence against her. She protects herself. No disloyalty to “The Family”.’ She made quotation marks with her fingers in the air.
‘Ignore Babs,’ I told Celia. ‘She makes mischief.’
‘What else is there to do down here, darling?’ enquired Babs, lighting a cigarette.
‘Bloody hell, does everyone here smoke?’ Celia boggled.
‘Like I say, what else is there,’ said Babs. ‘Apart from sex, of course, there’s masses of that. Do you want to see the house?’
‘Yes, dying to,’ I said, although I could see Celia was riveted by Babs, with her wicked green eyes and fabulous indiscretion, and could cheerfully have stayed out here for hours. She was certainly very beautiful and in her day had constantly been snapped getting on and off planes by the local papers, national ones too: model Babs Trewellyn, back from Paris, dressed in Dior – although it never was, she told me confidentially; always a copy, they never checked. An It Girl, I suppose, of her day. The camera loved those startling high cheekbones, slanting eyes and long blonde hair, streaked with grey now, but still with a good bust and skinny figure. Not that she cared. Babs didn’t seem to give two hoots what she looked like. Oh, it was fun dressing up, and there were lots of shots of her and Mum posing in their youth, drinks in hands, arms around their boyfriends, always in pursuit of fun – but she didn’t work at it. It was a lark. Iris was in the pictures too sometimes, but Iris would be smiling more sardonically in the background, even then a sphinx-like creature with a grip on reality. Someone
had to have one, Mum would remark; left to her and Babs it was a shrieking melee of beach parties, camp fires, dancing by moonlight and – well. Not my mother, so much. She’d got her own grip when she met Dad. But Babs had been unlucky.
‘I saw Iris,’ I told her as we went up the garden towards the cottage. ‘On splendid, caustic form as usual, but she didn’t come in for lunch.’
‘She rarely does these days, and I can’t say I blame her.’
‘Why would she come for lunch?’ Celia asked, surprised, as we ducked under the low oak beam above the front porch.
‘She’s Roger’s sister,’ I said, turning to her. ‘Didn’t I say?’
‘Roger’s sister.’ She stopped, flabbergasted. ‘I thought she worked in the stables!’
Babs and I laughed.
‘Well, she does,’ I told her. ‘Although she doesn’t get paid – or perhaps she does these days. But you’re right, that’s her life, always has been. She lives above them in the coach house.’
‘Right.’ Celia was trying to absorb this. ‘So – you, and Iris, and Flora’s mum, Maggie—’
‘Were all at school together,’ Babs said simply. ‘Boarding, in Dorset, at the convent. There’s nothing round here so they sent us all away. The boys too, of course. The Scarlet Virgins, they called us, bright red uniforms.’
‘And Belinda?’
‘Oh God, no.’ Babs took a drag of her cigarette and turned to her, eyes dancing, in the doorway. ‘She’s frightfully common. Local comp, I expect.’
‘Like me,’ I told her cheerfully.
‘Oh yes, why not? Nothing wrong with it. Just don’t pretend you’re Lady Muck, which you certainly don’t.’ She turned back to the house. ‘Got terrible taste, hasn’t she?’
We walked through the long, low living room. Two smaller rooms had been knocked together to make a sitting area at one end and a kitchen at the other with French doors to the garden, which were extravagantly swagged and draped.
A Cornish Summer Page 3
