"So what"s he like then, this Kit fellow?" I yelled, taking a lump of hair out of my gawping mouth.
"Lovely chap. Bit older than me, I suppose, late forties, but full of energy. Just as well, really. When he bought that house some years ago it was in a terrible state. He did it up himself."
"So it"s fully restored now?"
"More or less. It was a h.e.l.l of a project, and I think he slightly lost interest at the end when his wife ran off with the plumber." He grinned.
"Oh G.o.d, how awful! Poor guy."
He shrugged. "Probably just as well. She was undoubtedly that type. Had a very roving eye. It would have happened sooner or later, and probably better for Kit that it was sooner. Gave him some time to get on with his life."
"And has he? Got on with his life?"
He hesitated. "Well, he adored her, so he was some time getting over it, but that"s when he started selling the antiques, and it"s been a huge success. But if you mean, Get Over It, as in, is there another woman, then no."
"Ah. Children?"
"Two boys - nice boys actually - almost finishing school. One may even be at university now, not sure." He grinned. Glanced across at me. "You like to know, don"t you?"
"Sorry?"
"About people. Get the low down"
"Oh." I reddened. "Yes, I suppose I do. I certainly think it helps if you can fill in the background before you meet someone. Find out what makes them tick."
There was a silence. I"d wanted to ask about him, about what made him tick, about his family even, but I felt I couldn"t now. Not now I"d been ousted as a nosy parker.
"And you?" he asked, glancing across. "Have you got on with your life since your husband died?"
"Oh. Well for years, no. No, I was pathetic. I mean, not too pathetic, I held down a job and looked after the children and didn"t go to pieces in the supermarket or anything, but in private ... well. It hit me pretty hard. Took a while. I"m muchbetter now though," I said brightly. "I"ve - you know, moved on. Moved down here, made a break from the past, from the life I had with him. With Ned. Had to really. I was just hanging on. Clinging to the wreckage, as they say."
He nodded. "One does. Sometimes it"s all one can do"
I narrowed my eyes in the wind, tucked back my hair. "You know?"
"Yes, in a slightly different way. Similar, but different. We had another child. A boy, Nicholas, a year older than my daughter Ellen. He was killed four years ago."
"Oh G.o.d, how awful!" My hand flew to my mouth. "How did he- no. Sony."
"No no, it"s fine. He was walking home from school. Just the little village one across the road from where we live. My wife was with him, saw him across. But he still got knocked over. He was four."
"Oh how ghastly!" Four. I thought of Max now, Ben, at that age. Divine. Running out of school, socks round their ankles, grubby knees, proudly clutching wet paintings, brand new book bags with first reading books, ready to show me.
"How appalling," I breathed inadequately. "You must have been devastated. All of you."
"Totally. But one copes. Life goes on and all the other old cliches. Has to. Particularly when there are other children." "But how did you cope?"
"Cope? Well, I threw myself into my work. Tapped away at my computer at all hours. Bought the flat in London in order to do it. To escape" He shot me a wry look. "Grief doesn"t do much for one"s marriage, as I"m sure you can imagine. In fact I read somewhere that only one per cent of marriages survive the death of a child. That doesn"t surprise me at all." He sighed. "No, I bought the flat so we could have some s.p.a.ce from each other. Sometimes we couldn"t bear to be in the same room, let alone the same house, so yes. That worked, in a sense" He paused. Considered. "Of course I haven"t coped, not completely. I"ve just got by."
"And," I took a very deep breath, "your wife?" There. I"d said it.
"My wife? She found solace with someone else."
"Oh! You mean . .
"Yes, there are three of us in this marriage, Lucy, as Princess Diana once famously said" He smiled. "But not another man."
I stared, horrified. "Good grief! You mean-"
"Oh no, she"s not a lessy either. No, my rival is G.o.d." "G.o.d!"
"Yes." He smiled. "You see, Miranda was saved. Lucky devil. That"s how she coped. She saw the light, found salvation. Came home from Waitrose one day, dumped the shopping bags down in the middle of the kitchen floor and said she"d been reborn."
"Christ. In Waitrose!"
He shrugged. "Apparently. Somewhere between the cheese counter and the bog rolls. Marvellous really."
"Oh. Yes, of course"
"And much better than drugs, or booze, or anti-depressants as all her new, born-again chums kept earnestly telling me. Absolutely b.l.o.o.d.y marvellous. But awfully difficult to live with, none the less"
"What because she"s quite committed?"
"Quite committed. Ha!" He gave an explosive laugh. "Just a bit. And not just for herself. She"s frightfully keen for me, too. It"s her mission, you see, what G.o.d put her on this earth to do. To recruit. No, no, Miranda won"t be really happy until I"m coming out of the water in a white shroud with a heavenly smile on my face, or walking naked across a desert with a burning cross in my hands, and since I"m something of an unbeliever, a sceptic even, we"ve reached a bit of an impa.s.se. Got a stalemate on our hands. Jesus wants me for a sunbeam, and frankly, I ain"t feeling shiny."
He stopped at some red lights. Frowned down at the steering wheel. "How bizarre"
"What?"
"Well, I"ve only known you ten minutes and already I"ve told you all that. Some of my best friends don"t know the extent of Miranda"s zeal, how it affects us." He glanced across at me. "Why have I just blurted all that out? We appear to have cut the c.r.a.p, cut the small talk. I wonder why?"
I stared back and felt my mouth go dry. I held his gaze... until we were tooted from behind. The lights had changed. He shifted into gear and we took off again. We were silent for a while.
"I saw her outside your house," I said suddenly, above the roar of the engine.
"Who?"
"Your wife. Or I a.s.sume it was. When I was posting my letter. She was coming out of the drive."
He shook his head. "I don"t remember."
"Blonde? Slim? Blue Jeep?"
He nodded. "That"d be it."
"Didn"t look much like a born-again Christian to me." "That"d be it, too."
We drove the rest of the way in silence. I was lost in heady thought. She was a religious maniac, a zealot. The marriage was unhappy, they made it work for the child. "Quite right, quite right," I muttered feverishly to myself, "admirable actually," and yet ... to live an empty life like that? To endure such a hollow marriage? And all to keep up appearances. Surely it was better to be honest with each other. To come clean. And wouldn"t she be better off in a nunnery or something? With other like-minded souls around her, praying and I don"t know playing harps together? Threading rosary beads? "The Hills are Alive ...?"
"Here we are," he said suddenly.
He swung the car around some towering gate-posts and we swept up a gravel drive. A beautiful, stone manor house unfurled, Gothic and splendid, with arched, mullion windows. On either side of the huge oak door, two enormous stone dragons kept sentinel.
"Oh! It"s lovely," I breathed.
"Isn"t it just," he agreed, coming to a halt. "Rather wonderful inside, too. Come and take a peek."
We got out and walked up the drive together, circling a moss-encrusted fountain. Someone I knew would have been salivating all down her Puffa by now.
"Has he met Lavinia?" I asked innocently.
Charlie stopped dead in the drive. His mouth twitched. "Best not to mention that name in this household," he said soberly.
"Oh? Why?"
"Kit came home one night to find her waiting for him in his bed. Naked, naturally, but comatose too, having drunk his whisky bottle dry. There were scented candles burning rather dangerously everywhere, rose petals strewn all over the bed, and she still had a rose clenched between her teeth. Actually that was the problem. She"d eaten the rose in her stupor, and as he came into the room, she raised herself up on one elbow, smiled seductively, and threw up all down her t.i.ts. Terribly s.e.xy. Kit then had a really fun evening dressing a roaring drunk female and I mean roaring and cleaning up rose-scented puke."
"Oh G.o.d," I giggled. "Poor Lavinia. She does have a terrible time."
"Yes, and she doesn"t do herself any favours, either," he said drily. "Ah look, it"s open. We"ll just push on through."
We did just that and entered a lobby, which via another pair of Victorian gla.s.s doors led us into a hall about the size of a football pitch. A vast stone fireplace took up most of one wall. Positioned on either side of it, and sitting on a beautiful old Aubusson carpet were two supremely elegant sofas, lavishly carved, with curled backs, and upholstered in faded gold. Two Georgian sofa tables stood behind each one, crowded with photographs. On the walls were paintings, drawings, silhouettes and old plates, whilst up the sweeping staircase, a set of Ackermann military prints marched up to a gallery.
"Oh." I was surprised. "It"s not a shop at all. It"s like a home."
"It is a home," agreed Charlie. "Kit lives here, you see. It"s just that everything is for sale. Ah, the man himself!" I glanced up, as down the sweeping oak staircase, his hand lightly brushing the bannister rail, came a tall, elegant man. His swept-back hair looked faintly pre-war, and he had a thin, intelligent face. It broke into a radiant grin when he saw Charlie.
"Charlie! Good to see you. I was expecting you a little earlier actually, thought you"d forgotten. How"ve you been?"
"Really well, and sorry we"re a bit late." Charlie pumped Kit"s outstretched hand enthusiastically.
"Not at all." He glanced at me. "Lucy?"
"That"s it."
"Lucy Fellowes," grinned Charlie. "And Lucy, this is Kit Alexander."
"Delighted," he beamed as we shook hands. "Charlie told me all about you on the phone. Well, a bit about you, don"t think he knows that much himself!"
"I"ve been admiring your house," I said shyly. "It"s beautiful. All these lovely things" I gazed around.
"Thank you." He scratched his chin sheepishly. "Yes, they are lovely, although I suppose I notice them less these days. It used to be a bit of an obsession. I was forever shifting things around and trying to get it absolutely right, but now I"m a bit less a.n.a.l about it. Just sort of live in it, as Charlie"s probably told you."
"But that"s what"s so wonderful. It makes it so un-commercial. And if something sells ...?"
He shrugged. "I just replace it. We got through five dining tables recently, and that was a little wearing, I must say. I felt like shouting, "Stop! That"s enough. I"ve nowhere to eat my b.l.o.o.d.y supper." " He grinned. "But most of the time business is slow enough for me to replace at leisure. Go abroad and findunusual things, which is what I like to do."
"Beautiful things," I enthused, stroking one of the camel-back chaises reverently.
"Ah yes, terribly lucky with that," he agreed. "Found it in a skip in the backstreets of Montmartre. Some Madame had clearly had enough of it. Couldn"t believe my luck when I found the matching twin underneath"
"And all those Biedermeier chairs!" I marvelled, peering into the next room. "I"ve never actually seen a complete collection before, just ogled them in catalogues"
"Hence the price," he warned. "Yes, I can"t exactly nip out and replace those guys at the drop of a hat, but no one can afford them anyway, so that"s fine. They stay put. Come on, come and have a proper look."
He ushered us through the little Biedermeier room, and then into the drawing room. It was panelled, but painted a cool, discreet grey and decorated unashamedly in the style of a French chateau. The windows were ornate with heavy silk drapes, and gesso moulded mirrors with cherub sconces reflected back at each other from either end of the room; love-seats and Louis Quinze needlepoint chairs were grouped around delicate, tripod tables. Marie Antoinette could have fanned herself by the fire without anyone batting an eyelid.
"How do you keep it like this?" I said, swinging around in wonder. "I mean, if you live in it? If I had the contents of my house up for sale I"d be frantic. It would be a tip!"
"Ah, but then I live alone. And actually, I"m not an untidy chap, so it works. And frankly, if there is the odd coffee cup or magazine lying around, so what? No one seems to mind. And of course I don"t have a young family any more. It certainly wouldn"t work with Nintendos and Game Boys all over the place."
"And you sleep here? I mean, in a bedroom upstairs?"
"No," he grimaced, "that would be too invasive. I"m not sure I could cope with people peering at my dressing gown or my tatty slippers, so I have a flat up in the attic. There"s a bedroom for me, a kitchen, and two rooms for the boys when they come and stay. That, I can a.s.sure you, is a tip."
"But in the evening, you don"t watch telly in the flat?"
"No, I come down here and put my feet up in this rather pretty sitting room, through here" He led the way into a smaller, cosier room. "It gets the sun in the morning, but at night, with the curtains drawn, it"s a very cosy retreat. I light the fire and watch one of Charlie"s latest epics, surrounded by beautiful things." He looked at me directly for a moment. "I"m a great believer in being surrounded by beautiful things. I mean, why live up in the garret when I can be down here? And of course when the boys were young it was a family home, but turning it into a shop was the only way I could keep it going, really. Keeps me going, too, otherwise I"d stagnate."
"I think it"s a marvellous idea," I enthused. "And you sell . I hesitated. "Well, surely not to pa.s.sing trade?"
He laughed. "No, quite right, I wouldn"t survive! Much too pricey. No, it"s mostly interior decorators from London or New York who come by appointment. But actually there is a little pa.s.sing trade, generally American tourists, which is why I have to stay open, and why, my dear, I"m looking for help. Can"t stay here seven days a week, I"d go quietly off my trolley, and Charlie did say you"d be keen to do a couple of days, maybe?"
"Oh I"d love to!" I thrilled. "This is far better than I ever imagined. I mean, I just thought - well, that you had a shop," I said hastily.
"Tudor Antiques? With a tinkly little bell over the door?" He grinned.
"But - " I stroked a delicate little Pembroke table, "nothing has a price tag on?"
"No, because I don"t want to live surrounded by tags, so I have an inventory, and if someone is interested in - say, that, for instance," he pointed above the fireplace, "I simply go to the list, look under "sitting room", and then look up." He paused.
"Early eighteenth-century delft figurine?" I suggested. "Exactly, or?" He pointed.
"William and Mary balloon-back chair, Hepplewhite, or possibly earlier?"
"Spot on," he grinned. "And I"m sorry to test you like that, you clearly know your onions, it"s just I have to be a wee bit careful. I once, out of desperation, employed a girl called Mich.e.l.le from the village. Remember Mich.e.l.le, Charlie?"
"Do I," he groaned.
"Mich.e.l.le swore blind she knew all about antiques ""cos she had a CSE in Ashray Fart" - turned out to be History of Art - "and "cos her nan had loads of them Coronation mugs". Well naturally we had the utterly predictable problems of her thinking barley twist was a stick of rock, and Bernini was an Italian restaurant, but things really came to a head one day when I was in the flat and she was down here on her own. She bellowed up the stairs, "Oy, Kit! "Ow much d"you want for the brown chair in the hall?" "Which particular brown chair in the hall, Mich.e.l.le?" I"d called back, head in hands.
" "You know, the big brown one. Wiv the hole in it. The one you p.i.s.s in."
"Before I could scamper downstairs and a.s.sure my American clients that the commode chair my a.s.sistant was referring to was not something I personally relieved myself into, they"d naturally taken to their heels and scarpered."
"Oh G.o.d," I giggled. "A bit of a liability, then."
"Quite. And not something I can see you being. Would it suit you, Lucy? A couple of days a week? So I can escape these four walls and go on my treasure hunts for a bit?"