It’s true, Maggie realises; she has never seen Lillian with bare legs, though she always assumed it was a certain sense of decorum that had driven the older lady to cover up with stockings, even in the warmer months.
‘Besides,’ adds Lillian, ‘I don’t recall any other occasion when you’ve had cause to help me bathe?’
‘True.’ Maggie rises quickly from the floor, remembering. ‘Oh hell. The bath water. Hang on.’
She knows from the thin, firm line her grandmother’s mouth has settled into that she isn’t going to get anything else out of her on the matter, but she is still thinking of those strange twisted marks on Lillian’s legs as she rushes back into the bathroom. The water in the bath is deep and warm. She turns the hot tap off easily, but the cold tap twists round and round endlessly in her hand as the water continues to gush into the bath. ‘Shit.’ The washer must have gone – or the thread has broken – and the bath water continues to rise.
‘Is Will still here?’ she asks, running back to where her grandmother sits, half-dressed.
‘I think so. Yes. I heard him outside putting the mower away.’
‘Quick, put this on.’ She thrusts a dressing gown at Lillian and then she runs.
She finds him outside, closing up the doors to the barn. ‘I need some help,’ she gasps, ‘. . . it’s the tap . . . upstairs bathroom.’
He doesn’t seem to need her to explain further. He nods and runs into the house, Maggie following a little way behind.
In the bathroom Will tries the cold tap. ‘It won’t turn off,’ says Maggie, frustrated to see him repeating her efforts. It twists round in his hand just as it did for her. Will rolls up his sleeve and pulls out the plug – of course, why hadn’t she thought to do that? – before tugging at the tap again. Maggie watches as the whole thing lifts off in his hand.
‘Uh-oh.’ Will stares at it for a moment, a useless lump of china, as the water continues to pour into the bath. He tries to twist it back onto the metal prong, but it won’t gain any purchase and suddenly there is water spraying everywhere, jets squeezing out the top of the thread like a high-pressure sprinkler. ‘Fuck!’
Maggie squeals as the cold water blasts her full in the face. Will swears again and tries to twist the thread of the tap with his bare hands, water continuing to spray at crazy angles through his fists, drenching them both.
‘Is everything all right in there?’ Lillian’s voice drifts through the open doorway.
‘We need to turn the main water supply off,’ Will shouts to Maggie. ‘Where’s the valve?’
‘I don’t know!’ shrieks Maggie.
Lillian appears in the doorway, a safe distance from the water spray. Her gaze takes in the drenched bathroom and the two of them soaked to the skin, water still shooting out from between Will’s hands. ‘The main valve is in a box, in the flower room downstairs,’ she says, her voice calm but the amused smile on her face obvious to them both.
Maggie thunders away down the stairs again, finds the valve in a wooden box in the room opposite the kitchen and turns the main water supply off. When she arrives back in the bathroom, the fountain from the tap has stopped and Lillian is handing Will a towel from a wooden rail. All is silent except for the dripping sound of water falling from the ceiling into the draining bath.
‘I thought I was the one supposed to be taking the bath?’ says Lillian.
‘Ha ha,’ says Maggie, rolling her eyes at Will. His sodden T-shirt clings to his body. She looks down at herself, her jeans and T-shirt soaked through, her hair plastered to her face, and she can’t help the bubble of laughter that rises up from her throat. Will stares at her, and then he is laughing too, both of them falling about until tears leak from their eyes.
‘If only you’d asked me,’ says Lillian slyly, watching them both, ‘I could have told you where the main valve was right away.’
Maggie throws a towel half-heartedly at Lillian. ‘You’re a devil woman, Lillian Oberon.’
Ten minutes later, with Lillian settled back downstairs in the drawing room and her own damp clothes changed, Maggie goes to the kitchen. Will is leaning against the sink, shivering slightly in his wet T-shirt. ‘Here.’ She throws him an old sweatshirt she has pulled from her drawers. ‘It should fit. I liked them baggy back then.’
He glances at the top, which features the name and tour dates of a favourite band.
She nods. ‘I got it at that Brixton gig the three of us went to.’ She can’t help a quick glance at his lean torso as he peels off his wet T-shirt, more muscular and brown than she ever remembers seeing him.
He pulls the sweatshirt over his head. ‘Thanks.’
She holds his gaze, the smile still playing on her lips. There are droplets of water caught in his hair. One spills onto his cheek and she has to fight the urge to reach out and catch it on her fingertip. ‘I think we’ve both earned a drink after that drama.’ She goes to the fridge and opens the door. ‘There are some cold beers in here. Want one?’
She pops her head up over the fridge door and meets Will’s solemn gaze, but the light in his eyes from just moments ago seems to have extinguished. His mouth is set in a tight line. He shakes his head.
She doesn’t know what she has said or done to make his mood change so suddenly, but it’s as if a shutter has been pulled down. ‘Just one? For old time’s sake?’ she tries gently.
‘I’d best be off,’ he says, his voice gruff, his eyes not quite meeting hers.
And it’s then, looking at him standing there across the kitchen from her in her old sweatshirt, that she fully understands how much she has missed him, how much she has lost, and how desperately she wishes she could find a way to get their friendship back on track. ‘Please?’ she tries.
But Will, oblivious to her rising emotion, shakes his head. ‘I’ve got to go. Busy day tomorrow.’
Before she can say another word, he has spun on his heel and left the kitchen, the dull sound of the back door echoing back at her.
Maggie stands in the empty kitchen, wondering if she imagined that small, singular moment of connection, wondering if she will ever be able to break through the barriers she has put between them.
Chapter 13
It’s Albie who suggests the game of Mahjong, coming to find her in the library where she sits reading on the velvet sofa. Lillian agrees without thinking, lifting her head from the book in her lap. ‘Of course I’ll play. Let me finish this page and I’ll be right there.’
‘Good. I’m setting it up in the drawing room. Don’t be long.’
She finds him minutes later, though to her consternation, Albie isn’t alone.
‘Mr Fincher,’ she says, greeting him with a nod. ‘I didn’t realise you were joining us.’
‘I should be painting, but Albie here was most persuasive.’
‘We can easily play with three,’ says Albie, juggling the tiles in his hands. ‘We just remove some of the bamboo tiles.’
‘Right,’ says Lillian, silently cursing her luck, moving across the room to settle herself at the card table beside Albie. ‘I’m glad you know what we’re doing.’
She glances up at Jack and finds he is watching her, a small smile playing on his lips. She wonders if he is at all alarmed to find himself in such close proximity to her after their shared encounter in the clearing the day before.
‘You’ll have to go gently with me,’ he says to Albie, his eyes still on Lillian. ‘This is all rather new to me.’
Lillian blushes and stares down at the wall of tiles laid out on the table before them. ‘Albie is the expert. You should know that neither of us stands a chance against him.’
‘I’m lost already,’ he says quietly. ‘My concentration is completely off today.’
Lillian swallows.
‘You’ll be fine,’ says Albie.
Over the next hour or so, Albie runs rings around them both, dominating the game and winning his hands easily. Lillian struggles to keep her attention on the game, her thoughts frequently dri
fting away from the small ivory tiles stacked in front of her and sliding back to the shimmering green clearing beyond the house. Jack’s close proximity has her breathless and tense. The warm timbre of his voice. The light smattering of hairs on his forearms, working their way up into the folds of his shirt sleeves. The hollow at the dip of his neck. The kiss they shared just twenty-four hours earlier playing over and over on repeat in her head.
She has kissed Jack Fincher. She, a respectable, married woman, has thrown herself at a virtual stranger. She cannot fool herself; there had been no coercion, no persuasion. She had wanted to kiss him and met him willingly in the heat of the moment. The evidence was there in the way she had gripped his hand, the way she had leaned in to him, the way she had sighed as his hands had held her face and his fingers had combed through her hair, the way her lips had parted.
She blushes as she remembers how she pressed herself close, all heat and desire, only pulling apart when the sudden crack of a twig startled them both from the moment, Lillian staring wild-eyed about the clearing and relaxing only when Jack pointed to the peacock strutting out from a leafy bank of bracken. The spell had been broken. She had stood, adjusted her skirt and smoothed her hair. ‘I should . . . we should . . . I need to get back.’
She had walked several paces ahead of him as they retraced their path through the woods, feeling dazed – hot – a little dizzy – as if she’d sat for too long in the sun; and yet somehow also more alert and aware of herself, conscious of Jack’s eyes following her across the meadow, of the flittering mayflies rising up from the tall grass, of the brush of her skirt moving against her legs, of the blood rushing too fast through her veins.
‘Lillian,’ he’d started, back on the terrace outside the French doors to the house, ‘I hope—’
But she had cut him off, unable to bear whatever apologies or excuses he had been about to offer. ‘Excuse me,’ she’d said. ‘I really must find Mrs Hill. She’s expecting me.’
‘I don’t think you two have even tried to beat me,’ says Albie with obvious dissatisfaction as he declares ‘Mahjong’ for a final time and reveals his winning hand.
‘Sorry, Albie,’ she says. ‘It just wasn’t going my way today. Well done.’ She reaches across the table and begins to stack the tiles to pack them away, her hand accidently brushing against Jack’s as he simultaneously returns his pieces to the centre of the table. She glances at him, wondering if he too felt the surge of energy pass between them.
‘I’d like a rematch,’ says Jack, his eyes fixed firmly on Lillian’s. ‘I feel sure I can only improve my performance with practice.’
‘Any time you like,’ says Albie eagerly.
Lillian stands so quickly she jostles the table, several tiles falling to the floor. ‘I’m sorry. There’s something I must see to. You’ll pack away, won’t you, Albie?’ And with that she turns and leaves the room.
Standing in front of the long gilt-framed mirror in her bedroom that evening, it’s as if she is seeing herself for the first time. She runs a finger over her lips, then turns slightly, scrutinising her face, marvelling at how her physical appearance can remain so unchanged when inside she feels so stirred, so altered. What is wrong with her? Why can’t she stop thinking of him?
Is it visible on her face, she wonders? Is it there in her eyes, a glint of wickedness she has perhaps always known she held somewhere inside her? She stares again at her reflection, notices the flush on her cheeks and puts a hand to her forehead. No fever. This is a different kind of sickness. Madness, perhaps?
Why would he have kissed her like that? She knew so very little about him but the brushing of their hands that afternoon . . . the suggestion of a ‘rematch’. Surely she hadn’t imagined the meaning behind his words.
A creeping dread begins to unfurl in her gut. Perhaps this sort of behaviour is de rigueur for such a man? Jack would be accustomed to moving in very different circles from her. A bohemian artist’s world might be full of casual encounters. She remembers the sight of him surrounded by adoring ladies at the cricket match. He must have women throwing themselves at him wherever he goes. Maybe she is just another conquest.
Of course she can’t rule out that he might be some kind of charlatan. Or opportunist. She doesn’t know him at all. What could he do with such a hold over her? What if he has more malicious intent, to use her moment of indiscretion against her – bribery or blackmail? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
The very worst thing of all is that Jack will be here for weeks yet. She’d like to bury her head in the sand and pretend the kiss never happened, but she knows now, after their excruciating afternoon game, that whatever has passed between them must be addressed. And buried. Immediately. It must be recognised as the silly mistake it was. She must make it clear that it will never happen again; and she must tell him, right away.
If he is surprised to find her standing outside the door to the old nursery he hides it well.
‘I have to talk to you,’ she says.
He glances behind her into the corridor.
‘Not here. Can I come in?’ His discomfort is obvious but she presses. ‘It’s important.’
He looks back into the room, then nods and opens the door a little wider, standing aside to allow her to enter.
Lillian isn’t sure what she’s been expecting, but it certainly isn’t the perfectly blank room she enters. Looking around, she notices the old desk standing in the centre, the rows of pristine brushes and unopened tins of paint; in one corner a pile of neatly folded dust sheets and scaffolding lie beside two tall ladders; and all around are the empty cream walls – not a hint of paint to be seen, except on one small patch of wall near the fireplace where a series of jewel-coloured strokes have been daubed, like the first splashes of colour on an artist’s palette.
She turns back to him, confused. ‘You . . . you . . .’
‘. . . haven’t even started?’ he finishes for her, hanging his head so that he doesn’t have to meet her eye. ‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
He shrugs. ‘It seems I can’t turn inspiration on and off like a tap. I suppose you might call it a “creative block”.’
Lillian stares at him, stunned. ‘Does Charles know?’
Jack shakes his head. ‘Why do you think I’ve been so adamant about keeping the door locked?’
‘Oh.’
‘So,’ he says, ‘now you know my terrible secret.’
She doesn’t know what to say.
‘Lillian, if this is about what happened in the woods—’
She has been thrown off course by the unexpected revelation, but Jack’s change of subject jolts her back to the reason she is standing there. ‘I’m a married woman, Mr Fincher,’ she says, cutting him off, wanting to take control of the conversation and say the words she has rehearsed all the way to the room. ‘I’m devoted to Charles and Albie. What happened yesterday was a – was a . . .’ He is staring at her with those intense charcoal eyes. ‘It was an indiscretion on my part. It never should have happened. I want to make it clear, in no uncertain terms, that it will not happen again.’
Jack doesn’t say anything but there is something about the twitch at the corners of his mouth that suggests that he might be trying to conceal a smile.
She does sound a little prim, but the thought that he might be amused at her distress, or think her to be blowing things out of proportion angers her. ‘These sorts of occurrences may be commonplace for a man of your . . . profession,’ she says in her grandest voice, ‘but I can assure you that I am a loyal wife.’ She draws herself up. ‘I can’t think what came over me. It was a mistake,’ she adds more forcefully, ‘and not one I shall be repeating.’
She is relieved to see him nod. ‘It was a mistake,’ he agrees. ‘A terrible mistake.’
‘I’m a good wife,’ she adds, trying not to feel stung at his unnecessary addition of the word ‘terrible’. ‘I think it would be for the best if we both pretend yesterday afternoon – in the woods – it ne
ver happened. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘I would.’ He takes a step closer, his eyes still locked on hers. He is no longer smiling.
‘And I think we should avoid any future situations that put us in close proximity to each other.’
‘Like this one?’
‘Yes.’
Jack nods, still holding her eye, and she tries hard to control the rise of blood to her face as a fragment of something from the woods comes back to her – the sensation of his fingers running down the curve of her collarbone, his mouth against her neck.
‘Good.’ She clears her throat. ‘I’m glad we understand each other.’
‘We do.’ He takes another step towards her, so close now that she wonders if it is the breeze through the open window she can feel on her skin, or his warm breath. ‘I think that is our problem, Lillian. We understand each other. You and I, we seem to share something.’
Lillian can hear her heart beating in her ribcage.
‘I felt it that first moment I saw you . . . at the party.’
Lillian swallows.
‘You feel it too, don’t you?’ he asks.
The sun, now low in the sky, filters through the trees outside in the arboretum, casting them both in a burnished glow. She knows she must go. She knows she must turn and leave the room, but something in his eyes holds her fixed to the spot.
‘Tell me that it’s not just me, that I’m not imagining this,’ he says in a low voice.
There is a stillness in the room, as if they both await the next breath, the next word.
She swallows. ‘I feel it, too.’
She isn’t sure who takes the next step but it doesn’t really matter; she is in his arms again and he is kissing her, pulling her close and all reason and rational thought – all the jumbled arguments she has agonised over – fly away like a flock of birds startled from the branches of a tree. Her arms are wrapped around his waist and his hands are on her face and in her hair as they stumble backwards. She meets the edge of the desk, and then he is lifting her onto its surface, several brushes clattering to the floor as he presses against her.
The Peacock Summer Page 13