‘It’s owned by my family, or at least my husband’s family.’
‘That does surprise me.’ His eyes now on the liveried driver bedecked in bottle green right up to his peaked cap. ‘I thought it was part of Harrods’s with the colour and all?’
‘Most people think that, but The Squirrels came first.’
‘But it’s only been open a few years ago? Surely, I remember something about some prince or other opening it?’
‘That’s very true.’ Remembering the glorious June day when she’d been part of the crowd celebrating the new addition to the Bachmeire Empire. There’d been a media furore, not to mention a delicious masked ball attended by anyone that was “anyone”. But she hadn’t noticed. All she’d noticed was him. All she remembered was dancing the night away in his arms.
‘The Squirrels began from humble origins, way back at the start of the Nineteenth Century in Wengen.’ She caught his confused expression and laughed. ‘Believe me, I’d never heard of it either. It’s a little village in Switzerland, an unknown little village until Shelley and Byron decided to put it on the map with their scribblings and my husband’s great grandparents decided to cash in on the tourists. They became inn keepers by opening The Eichörnchen. That’s squirrel in German but you probably knew that, right?’
‘Yeah, right!’
‘So, you see, it’s not costing a penny. February in London isn’t the busiest of months and, as they had room…’
He turned sideways, his thigh pressing against hers although he didn’t seem to notice. She could either leave her leg where it was or shift it away, but she decided on the former; if he wasn’t bothered, then neither was she. At least on paper. In practice, she was bothered, very bothered: bothered in the hot flustered bothered that came from having a hunk press his flesh up next to hers, his warmth travelling though the thickness of her wool dress with a sensual familiarity.
It was a shock. It was a shock after the last couple of years to finally realise her feelings that were trapped behind a wall of grief weren’t actually trapped, just dormant. She was a hedgehog snuffling her way out from the weight of sorrow, fearful of what she’d find on the other side. Well now she knew and she wasn’t just fearful, she was bloody terrified.
She wasn’t the woman she used to be, her eyes lingering on her hands. She’d never be that woman again. She’d had both her heart and her body not just smashed, she’d had them annihilated. The only reason she was here now was by pure determination. But determination couldn’t restore either her mind or her body to their former glory. Determination couldn’t bring Aaron back to her and, despite how many operations; it couldn’t heal her broken hands.
Would this man be strong enough to help her? Her heart jumped in her chest at the feel of his fingers as they lifted her left hand onto his lap. If she allowed him to scale the chink in her crumbling defences would he be man enough to handle it or should she just pull her hand back and let him walk away?
‘So you’re good at languages then, being married to a Swiss and living in Paris?’
‘Only four.’
‘What’s the fourth?’
‘Well there’s French, German, English of course, and then American.’
‘American’s not a language,’ his voice echoing her laughter.
‘You’re joking! Us English can’t even order our breakfast over there without a dictionary. Why can’t you be normal and just have fried, boiled or scrambled? But oh no, you have to make it difficult with your “sunny side’s up” and your “over easy’s”. I sort of get your Eggs Benedict but what the hell are Huevos Rancheros?’
‘Okay, okay, so you can speak American, but you’re not quite fluent – I get that. Now changing the subject slightly, I was a bit worried back there at customs and the, er, you know,’ his eyes wandering across to the two girls sitting opposite from them.
There was a pause while she considered her options but, in truth, after what she’d been through, there was only one option. If he didn’t like it, tough.
‘I suffer from chronic pain, so it’s necessary to carry a drug cabinet around,’ her voice whisper soft because of twitching ears. ‘I have a letter from my doctor and a copy of my prescription, which I showed to the officer.’
His eyes were kind, too kind; kind in the pity kind of kind she’d become used to. She didn’t like it. She was pity adverse.
She felt his hands on her wrist now, the wrist of her bad hand. Oh yes, there was a good hand and a bad hand, but at least it was her left. If it had been her right she probably wouldn’t be back in employment. She’d probably be living at home like some Eighteenth Century spinster waiting for death.
‘May I?’
She watched, enthralled, as he started easing the glove over her palm. She knew what he’d see; didn’t she have to see it every morning? She knew what he’d see and she knew what he’d think, and she couldn’t let that happen. Being pity adverse didn’t mean she didn’t have pride – on the contrary; it meant she had too much.
‘No, I,’ her right hand covering her left.
‘Please? I promise not to hurt you; I’d never want to hurt you.’
She turned away and concentrated on the scenery ahead. The rain splattering against the windscreen, the wipers working flat out. The other drivers’ headlights glaring and reflecting against the dripping tarmac.
She felt him pause, his hand hovering over hers before turning it over. She heard the sharp intake of breath and then she closed her eyes, blanking out all thought, all feeling, all sense. He spoke but she didn’t hear. He touched but she didn’t feel. She was back in her own little world, the same world she’d created all those years ago.
Working on auto-pilot had always come easily to her. Fixing a bright smile on her face became as routine as brushing her teeth and combing her hair. Apart from Sarah, she cared for no one other than her beloved father. And then came the music. The unexpected mind-blowing addiction for something she was actually good at. There’d been a grand piano in one of the smaller lounges gathering dust ever since she could remember. Like the rest of the inhabitants, she ignored it too. Peters, the gardener/handyman, occasionally ran a duster across the top and she could vaguely remember a display of silver framed photos on the highly polished top. But that was a very long time ago. Peters must be seventy, and the photos. She had no idea where they’d disappeared to. One minute they were there and the next, just like her mother’s memory, they’d been shoved in some drawer or other never to be seen again.
She came across the piano one boring day, another boring day in the life of a lonely, only child with no mother to speak of and a father away all day doing what father’s did. She could remember like it was yesterday that first time her fingers touched the faded to yellow ivory keys and the sound of beauty filling the air. She was a natural, the most gifted young musician; so gifted that she gave her first performance at the age of ten. Going to The Sorbonne wasn’t really necessary. She knew more than the teachers and taught them a few things they didn’t know.
She was an instinctive player, practicing for hours but still knowing just how long to hold down a note, the exact rhythm and tempo for each particular arrangement. Those were things that couldn’t be learnt. She didn’t even know how she knew them, she just did. Music was her salvation. Now she had no music and no one to save her.
Reclaiming her glove she tugged it back over the scarred flesh, all the time not listening, not looking but most importantly not feeling. The coach was pulling to a stop outside the stretch of marble steps, the lights attracting her like an awkward welcome party. This was her second home, and yet now it wasn’t, her heart tightening at the sight of Aaron’s brother waiting on the top step to greet them; to greet her. For some perverse reason New York was now her home; New York with lights brighter than the brightest star. New Yorker’s with their up-front ways and gravelly accents were her family. These girls, clambering like young colts to climb out of their seats, her friends.
‘Eve
lyn, is that your coat you’ve left on the back of the seat? Who’s IPhone? Hello! Anyone left their copy of Hello?’ shouted Maggie, holding the pile of jumble the girls had presumably abandoned in their rush for the best bedrooms.
She felt a hand press down on her shoulder but, shaking him off, threw an ‘I can’t do this now.’ in his general direction before joining Maggie and Mavis in a final scour of the seats and overhead racks.
‘These girls will be the death of me,’ moaned Mavis, cradling a pile of empty crisp packets and chocolate wrappers. ‘Where they put it all is beyond me. I develop an extra wobble every time I just look at a chocolate bar.’
‘And me,’ joined in Maggie, holding up what looked to be a size 2 sweatshirt. ‘This wouldn’t even fit my knee let alone my left boob and as for my right.’
Cara blushed at the forthright comments from her colleagues, her eyes on the bemused face of the coach driver and well aware of the silence from the man following her, but she needn’t have worried.
‘I wouldn’t worry ladies, us men prefer a little something extra to cuddle up to, especially in this cold weather, don’t we, mate?’
‘That’s what I keeps telling the wife, Sir. Give me a nice set of dumplings to play with any day and I’m in clover.’
The coach went silent for a minute. Mavis and Maggie, with scarlet cheeks, took the conversation lull as an opportunity to hurry down the steps with a brief thank you. Cara, trying not to laugh, managed to pause long enough to add her thanks while Matti, pausing behind her clapped him on the back while stuffing a wad of notes into his hand. ‘Thanks, mate, for backing me up. Can’t have these ladies feel like they go unappreciated.’
‘That we can’t, I appreciates mine any time I gets,’ his raucous laughter following them down the steps.
Filling the bath to the brim, she added a handful of the sweet smelling bath crystals from the green and gold embellished jar by the sink before bundling up her hair under a shower cap. She couldn’t afford to get her hair wet. Hair washing was the one thing she couldn’t really do with one hand and getting her hair washed was her one necessity, and therefore not a luxury. She should get it cut short. She’d be able to manage one handed if it was shorter like one of those pixie bobs but something always stopped her from making that appointment. The something wasn’t pride or vanity but a memory, a memory of all the times Aaron had run his hands through her hair, begging her never to cut it.
‘What, even when I’m an old lady and it’s sweeping the floor like some new age alternative mop?’ she’d giggled.
‘Even when you’re old and wrinkled. Even when your hands are curled up into arthritic balls. Even if it falls to me to wash and brush it – even then, just for me, my beautiful, darling wife,’ his hands reaching up to run his fingers through her hair before easing her dressing gown off her shoulders.
Her long locks remained; she’d never cut them.
She let her clothes drop behind her before stepping into the water and sinking up to her neck. She didn’t have long. She didn’t have enough time for the bath. She was meant to be unpacking and then joining them for a pre-dinner drink but this was more important than any drink, her mind wandering back to the coach and the touch of his hand on hers. He’d been so gentle, too gentle as he’d eased off the glove, his fingers tracing over her palm and where her life line, her heart line had disappeared into the mangled scar of flesh that remained. It had been two years now, two years since the accident. Yet in two years, she still hadn’t gotten used to it, as she raised her right hand in comparison. This too had been burned, its skin still retaining the faint marks but, flexing her fingers she could still use it. She could still write and play the piano with it, but who’d ever heard of a one handed pianist; her expression as grim as her thoughts, silent tears dripping and then mingling with the water.
Chapter Eight
‘We missed you last night,’ was the chorus that greeted her when she finally made it into the dining room for breakfast.
‘Oh really? I thought I’d catch up with my brother-in-law and I was too tired for anything afterwards. I’m not as young as you lot,’ her gaze focussing in on the girls sharing one end of the table before heading to the only space left, which, of course had to be next to him.
He stood up and pulled her chair out for her, a little curtesy that deserved a brief thanks but that was all.
‘Did you sleep well Mavis, Maggie?’
‘Like a local. The rooms must be soundproofed,’ Mavis added, twisting to look out across the view of Leicester Square, bumper to bumper with cars, taxis and buses.
‘And you, Mr Bianchi,’ her head tilting in the direction of the girls with a smile.
‘I slept like a baby, Mrs Bachmeire,’ he replied, handing her the menu. ‘Although you probably know the choices by heart.’
‘Far from it,’ setting the menu back down without a glance. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a cooked breakfast. Aaron was into the healthy lifestyle and breakfast had ended up being homemade muesli with fresh fruit and perhaps a dribble of honey. Since moving to New York she’d gotten into the habit of something quick and easy on a toasted bagel, so it must have been a good two years since she’d been presented with a plateful of good old artery clogging bacon and eggs but she wasn’t about to start now. Looking at the loaded plates in front of most of the party, she’d nearly commit murder for the perfect mouthful. For her, the perfect mouthful was a thin slice of sausage, cut from the middle, and a sliver of crispy bacon dipped into runny egg yolk. But for that to happen, she’d have to be able to use a knife in one hand while at the same time spearing the sausage in the other and she’d embarrassed herself enough on that score. She couldn’t even manage toast unless it was dry.
Turning to the waiter standing by her elbow with a fresh pot of tea, she smiled before asking for scrambled egg with an order of toast on the side; the easiest thing to eat on the menu apart from porridge, which she’d detested ever since school.
She picked up the glass of fresh orange juice and took a sip for something to do. The rest of the group were nearly finished now and probably only remaining to be polite.
‘So, what are you up to again, Cara? You could always join us if you’ve nothing better to do – the more the merrier, I always say.’
‘That’s very generous of you, Mavis, but, as I’m not really needed, I thought I’d take the opportunity to pop home. I’ll be back in plenty of time for the grand tour of the sights and to give you both a break.’ Her eyebrows rose at the sound of the hearty laughs coming from the end of the table.
‘Will you be joining us at the Royal Philharmonic for the workshop, Mr Bianchi? You know you’re more than welcome. It will be a great opportunity for you to appreciate all of the girls’ musical talents and not just your daughter’s,’ Mavis asked, her stare unblinking.
‘Well, like Mrs Bachmeire, I do have to visit my client but just during the day if you wouldn’t mind Evelyn tagging along? I’ll happily take her off your hands for the rest of the time though,’ sending her a smile that made the colour creep up her cheeks.
‘Where’s this client of yours again, Mr Bianchi?’ Cara said, starting to work her way through her plate of fluffy scrambled eggs with one hand, well aware he was watching every mouthful with a frown.
‘I didn’t.’
Lifting her eyes, mid-chew she could almost hear the sound of her swallow as she forced down her final mouthful before placing her fork neatly in the middle of her plate and adding the unused knife beside it. ‘I was only going to offer you a lift but if you’d rather make your own way there’s a tube at the end of the road.’
‘That’s very kind but I wouldn’t want to put you out. I can easily catch the train.’
‘And you might still have to.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I’m not prepared to take you hours out of my way, only drop you off somewhere.’
‘Berkshire.’
‘Excuse me? Was that a cough?’
He joined
her in a laugh, gathering together their jackets and, in his case, a smart leather satchel.
‘We have lots of unusual sounding place names that sound worse than a cough,’ she added. ‘What about we stop for lunch in Dirty Gutter or Tomtits Bottom, although I’ve heard they do a mean Ploughman’s across at Shitlington Crags but it’s a bit out of our way.’
‘You’re kidding,’ he said, starting to laugh.
‘Actually I’m not, why would I kid?’
She watched his expression change from amusement to astonished in an instant.
‘What’s a Ploughman’s anyway,’ his voice now full of caution. ‘A plate of soil, a basket of hay…? I’m not sure I’d be better off on the train – us lawyer types like to get all the facts.’
And us musician types are happy to let you lawyer types get them if it allows me to take in your many lawyerly attributes like the breadth of your shoulder and those tawny brown eyes. Oh yes, indeedy, there was nothing wrong with having a little law in your life.
Her gaze threw a professional look over his plain grey suit and conservative blue striped tie with what looked like a half Windsor knot; complicated but not flash. Aaron was very much of the ‘if it was on the floor and sort of clean’ opinion with regards to dress. He favoured brown chinos and usually a pullover with the shirt collar poking through, but rarely a tie. He said they constricted his neck so she let him off for there were a lot more important things to a relationship than clothes, a myriad of memories flickered across her vision, none of which included clothes at all.
She felt his eyebrows lift, and raising her head saw the frown. Just how she could know he was worrying about her was another thing; one she’d sit down later and think about but now… Now she had to try to remember the question she was meant to be answering.
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 41