The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan

by Jenny O'Brien

  ‘Leaning across the desk she bent her head and pressed a brief kiss on his papery cheek. ‘You’re a very clever man, Mr Pidgeon. You’ll work something out.’

  ‘This is all a bit brown isn’t it, my love.’ Pauline was struggling not to laugh as she wandered around the lounge, fingering the large lumps of bronze apparently worth hundreds of thousands each. There was a stack of unopened post on the dark mahogany sideboard waiting to be forwarded on to Sarah, mostly from auction and art houses along the East Coast wanting to purchase an original Popsy Cosgrave.

  ‘But have you seen the view,’ Cara strolled across to the large picture windows that almost filled the wall and, pulling the drapes, heaved a sigh at the sight of Gramercy Park, just visible in the fading twilight. ‘Most evenings I just sit here with the curtains only half closed, watching determined dog walkers jostling with joggers for their little patch of green,’ she added, letting the curtain fall back before heading into the kitchen. ‘So, what do you want for supper or do you want to go out? There’s a really good hotel just around the corner.’

  Pauline raised her eyebrows before joining her in the brown space, awash with dark cupboards and tiles all in muted shades of beige and nutmeg. ‘I’m actually quite tired, my love. How about I raid your cupboards and fridge, I should be able to come up with something to add to what we’ve just bought?’ Her eyes on the paper sack full of fresh crusty bread, eggs and milk. She reached out a hand and, placing it on Cara’s shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘How about you have a rest, you look tired. Is your hand…?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ even though it wasn’t. She’d forgotten just how cold New York was, even though England was cold enough. It was the biting wind as soon as she’d stepped onto the tarmac at the airport that had done the damage. She’d forgotten about the wind.

  ‘I’ll take you up on that. I remember the lovely dishes you used to rustle up out of thin air. We used to hate it when you were at one of your WI meetings because it was beans or… beans.’

  ‘Beans are good for you.’

  ‘Not the way dad used to do them. He’d heat them up in the microwave until they exploded and then used to leave me to clean up the mess.’

  ‘Ha, that would be your father.’

  Cara wrapped her good arm around her neck, pulling her into a stranglehold hug.

  ‘I’m pleased he met you, you know. You made him happy and, if I’m being honest, I was jealous. I had him to myself all those years and...’

  ‘It’s alright. We understood, you know. Your father always hoped you’d realise how much you meant to us both.’ She smoothed her hair off her face. ‘He was very proud of you. Your music and then what you did in Mallorca; very proud.’

  ‘I didn’t know he knew about…’

  ‘Oh yes, I told him as soon as I heard you were alright.’ She pulled back a little and Cara saw the tears hovering. ‘I didn’t tell him about Aaron, he was too ill for that, but I told him he had a hero for a daughter. He pulled that funny little half smile of his and squeezed my hand, so he knew. But all this serious talk isn’t getting supper cooked, now is it. If I can’t get you to rest, how about a long hot bath, that’s if there’s any hot water,’ she added, frowning at the electric hob, in a delightful shade of cowpat brown. ‘That’s where the Aga comes into its own, the water’s always boiling.’

  ‘There’s a gas boiler so I’ll be fine.’

  She paused in the doorway, watching as Pauline opened the egg box and started cracking their shells against the edge of one of the dishes she’d found in the bottom cupboard. It felt right somehow, her being there, if for nothing else than the company. She’d only realised just how lonely she’d been now she had someone rustling about breaking what would have been an oppressive silence with a soft off-key rendition of ‘Where did she go my lovely.’ Turning towards her bedroom, she grabbed a pair of old joggers and one of Aaron’s fleecy sweatshirts before making her way to the uninspiring bathroom, clad in wall to floor varnished pine tongue and groove, circa 1960. At least Aunty Popsy had liked a bath, her one fear when she’d arrived had been the possibility that there’d only be a shower. She couldn’t manage balancing and washing with one hand, the last time she’d tried she’d ended up with her face smashed against the tiles and her bottom in the air like a drunken duck.

  Hair bundled up any old how, she emerged from the bathroom to the sound of laughter coming from the lounge, her worst fears realised as she pushed the door open.

  ‘I thought you’d fallen down the plughole, darling. I nearly sent Matti in to check on you, only because I’m watching the onions, mind.’

  Pauline’s face was turned away from her but she’d have had to be blind not to notice the shaking shoulders, shaking with laughter. Shaking with laughter no doubt at her expense as she took in Matti leaping out of his seat with a guilty smile ingrained on his face.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Cara,’ his hands spread wide in submission. ‘Pauline invited me after she heard Evelyn had arranged to go back to Stella’s for the night.’

  ‘Did I say a word?’ she questioned, walking past him with barely a glance before following Pauline back into the kitchen.

  ‘No, but that’s what you’re thinking.’

  He must have followed her and by the look of his elbow propping up the work surface, he wasn't going to let the conversation rest.

  ‘You have no idea what I’m thinking.’

  ‘I beg to differ, but now’s not the time,’ he added, tilting his head towards Pauline’s back. ‘’Can I tempt you with a glass of wine, I brought red and white?’

  ‘Whatever’s open will be fine,’ she said, even though it wasn't. She could see the bottle of white on the counter and if she drank it, she’d not only have a thumper of a headache in the morning but would probably spend the night puking up. It had always been the same, whichever type she tried, and over the years she’d tried them all. She’d finally decided to stick to red after a particularly embarrassing incident around at a friend’s apartment in the fourth arrondissement which had involved a particularly horrible German table wine and a particularly white sofa. She blushed as she remembered the row it had caused, not to mention the cleaning.

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘What?’ She looked across at him from where she was pinching ends of pepper from the pile Pauline had chopped. ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘No, neither do I,’ his look puzzled. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘Now hold on a moment,’ her hand engaging with her hip.

  ‘Nope, and I’m not going to give you any white wine,’ he said, stepping towards the rack and quickly pulling out the bottle of Burgundy, his eyes on her face.

  She laughed a bright genuine laugh that brought out her dimples. ‘Now that you mention it, I would prefer red.’

  ‘White makes her sick.’

  They both turned to Pauline who’d set down her knife and was leaning against the counter with a smile. ‘As sick as a dog that’s been up all night scavenging in the bins. I could tell you some stories, Matti, if you’d like? There was that time she pinched the keys to the basement and her and her best friend, Sarah, decided to have an impromptu drinks party, they were only about fifteen. We ended up having to hose the place down with bleach.’

  ‘Mother, please. You’re embarrassing me.’

  ‘No more than if you’d continued to be pig-headed enough to drink that wine, my love. We’ve all got faults, if being allergic to white is yours you’ve come off lightly.’

  ‘Oh she’s got a lot more wrong with her than that, Mrs…’

  ‘’Oh for heaven’s sake, call me Pauline,’ she interrupted.’ And for your information, I think she’s perfect,’ her eyes flashing a challenge.

  ‘Well, so do I actually,’ he added, his gaze flickering between them. ‘But us lawyers don’t like to lay all our cards on the table at the start.’

  ‘Hey, is that the onions burning?’ Cara pulled out a drawer
and selected knives and forks before backing out of the room. ‘I’ll leave you to it while I set the table.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  He wasn’t sure if she’d heard him and in a way he wished she hadn’t. In a way, he wished she’d suddenly lost all sense of feeling, just a temporary loss. A sudden aberration brought on by jet lag and the fact there was an exceedingly handsome man in the vicinity, as the grin of all grins split his face in two. He wished she hadn’t heard his reply because he as sure as hell regretted saying it the second the words left his mouth.

  She must have heard it, his look wary as he watched her retreating to the safety of the lounge, her back so straight it looked like she’d popped an ironing board under her jumper. Not her jumper, of course, as he took in the pulled neck and extra-long sleeves. Aaron must have been a giant of a man, his eyes on the hem that went well past her knees.

  She missed him, he knew she missed him, just as he knew there was something about the wine, as he lifted his own glass to his lips and let the liquid wander across his tongue as an explosion of taste hit the back of his palate. He knew she missed her husband, but he wasn't sure how much. Would she always miss him, his heart twisting in his chest as the intense flavours turned from aromatic to bitter in the blink of an eye.

  Setting his glass back with an abnormally steady hand, he wondered if theirs had been the perfect relationship, if there was such a thing? He thought about the great romances but they seemed few and far between. There was his parents and then his grandparents of course. Both their marriages had been built on a foundation of hard work and not much money but there’d been an abundance of love and laughter all the same. If his mother or his father had died, would the other one have been able to replace them? Would they even try? He knew instinctively that with marriages, good marriages like theirs, there was no next step. And yet, who knew what the future held for any of them? Would he even be here today if he hadn’t spotted her alone and lonely in Gramercy? His attention focussed on Pauline as she tipped an assortment of vegetables in the pan before adding in beaten eggs and his thoughts followed suit. Her father had found new love after tragedy struck. He’d found a new love but not straight away, as he struggled to remember how old she’d been. Wasn’t it around eight or so? So he’d struggled on for eight years until fate stuck out her foot and tripped him up. He knew Pauline had loved him to distraction, a love he was pretty sure had been reciprocated. He smiled. He’d just answered his own question.

  ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘Am I? Just thinking things through.’

  He felt her hand on his arm and then her fingers as she squeezed before returning to the sizzling pan.

  ‘She just needs time to get used to the possibility of a second Happy Ever After. They were the perfect couple with everything going for them. Everyone looked up to them; these two bright, beautiful, talented people with the world at their feet and then poof,’ her hands flying up into the air. ‘Then it was all gone, torn away from her. She lost everything except the one thing she wasn't bothered about…’

  ‘What are you doing in there; I’m dying of hunger here.’ Cara’s voice shouting at them through the closed door.

  She plonked a basket of bread in his hands. ‘Come on, I’ll tell you later. She always was an early bird.’

  There was no later. He knew she was tired, tired and most likely in pain by the tight pull of her lips in a face paler than the antique Irish linen tablecloth she’d flung across the table with a careless hand. But that didn’t mean she was going to leave him alone with Pauline as thoughts of limpets came to mind, or should that be Evelyn, his mind tracing back through the years to when she’d been a tiny baby, a tiny baby whose mother had walked out on her: Evelyn, who used to scream the house down for no other reason than she could. He always used to make sure she was fed and changed but whatever he tried, and he’d tried everything from old wives tales to quack purchases over the net, he couldn’t get her to sleep. The cops in Woods Hole got so used to seeing him driving around the village in the small hours that they used to add in an extra flask of coffee just to ensure he wouldn’t drop off at the wheel.

  It was ten o’clock now. The coffee pot was empty and for the last half hour, Cara had pointedly looked at the clock every five minutes or so.

  He winked across at Pauline before getting to his feet and grabbing his coat from where he’d left it on the back of one of the dining room chairs.

  ‘No, you stay there. Cara can see me to the door,’ he said, bending down and placing a kiss on her cheek while he whispered. ‘Tomorrow.’

  The hall was cold, now they’d escaped the comfort of the velour soft furnishings and the warmth of the wood burning stove stuffed to the gills with logs.

  ‘Well, er, thanks again for…’

  ‘You have no need to thank me, Cara.’ He paused, his fingers curling in his palm as he tried to work out what she meant. ‘For what exactly? I seem to remember Evelyn and I have been nothing but trouble; the pain thing and then the helicopter, which,’ his gaze fixed. ‘I still need to pay you for.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ her voice suddenly weary. ‘Look, I’m tired, all right. I’m not very good with late nights and,’ rubbing her hand over the back of her neck before lifting her eyes to his. ‘And flying.’

  ‘And your hand, don’t forget your hand,’ lifting it from where she held it across her stomach and raising it to his lips his eyes never leaving her face. Still clutching her palm, he cradled her head, his fingers reaching into her hair to grip her scalp before pressing the gentlest whisper of a kiss against her lips. ‘Spend the day with me tomorrow.’ His mouth murmured against hers, the words vibrating between them like a long forgotten melody.

  ‘But Evelyn?’

  ‘Evelyn is away with Stella until late afternoon,’ he said, pressing another kiss against her mouth.

  ‘What about Pauline?’

  ‘Pauline will be good; it’s me you need to worry about,’ his lips punctuating each word against her mouth.

  ‘Really?’ Her eyes suddenly fixed on his. ‘Are you sure about that?’ Her hand snaking around his neck as she pulled his head down and, opening her mouth, let him in.

  The kiss, at first the sweet gentle kiss of new friends quickly intensified to hot and passionate as skin met skin and teeth knocked against teeth until they found their way in this unknown land. She pushed him against the wall, leading, taking, giving and finally withdrawing; eyes wide, pupils dilated and lips bruised.

  They’d only touched with their lips, nothing else, but their lips were all that it took. Something had changed, everything had changed and suddenly he was as scared as she was because here was a woman, here was the woman he could never escape from. He didn’t speak except with his eyes. He didn’t touch except with his soul. He didn’t hear except with his heart, and his heart was shouting loud and clear.

  This is your woman, your time, your life. This is right, so grab it.

  But he didn’t, he couldn’t, even when she started to speak the words he’d hoped for late into the night when his dreams had taken control of his common sense and tricked him into believing he’d ever have a chance, that he’d ever have a chance with her. Words he’d never thought he’d hear her say.

  ‘You could stay the night? Pauline wouldn’t mind.’

  His mouth went dry at the thought of her and what she’d just offered. But instead of joy, of desire, of need, he felt let down all of a sudden. Staring at her, the wealth of emotion infusing his heart almost had him running out the door. To say he couldn’t care less about the sex on offer was an understatement because in truth, she hadn’t offered him anything of any importance. She’d only offered him sex: a passing emotion at best, forgotten almost as soon as it was over. She’d only offered him a few fleeting moments of fake togetherness, which for him would culminate in a lifetime of despair and loneliness.

  She wouldn’t understand, even now her eyes were narrowing as she assessed the change in mood from p
assionate to passionless. She wouldn’t understand how insulted her words had made him feel. Was that what she was like? Was this the real Cara? Did she offer herself so freely as the image of her nakedness suddenly appeared in front of his eyes. She’d told him she’d been a wild child. Wild children turned into wild adults. Now he wondered just how wild she’d been.

  ‘I could but I won’t.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘You haven’t asked why Cara?’

  ‘I can guess why,’ she replied, pulling the door open and waiting for him to leave.

  ‘Well, whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.’ He buttoned his jacket and wrapped his scarf around his neck before dragging his gloves from his pocket.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  God, why was he even bothering, his eyes back on her face. What she needed was to be placed over his knee and...and perhaps not, another image superimposing itself onto his consciousness leaving him warm from the tips of his toes to the top of his head.

  ‘See you tomorrow, 10 am and I’m not taking no for an answer,’ he added, placing a firm but brief kiss against her lips before closing the door behind him.

  ‘So, why are we here again?’ she asked as the cab dropped them off at Hell’s Kitchen.

  ‘What, you call yourself a New Yorker, albeit an expat one, and you’ve never been to the Market on West 25th?’

  ‘But it’s a bit out of my way and I try and shop local you know. There’s some great grocery stores around Gramercy, or aren’t they good enough for you Posh Lawyer Types?’

  ‘I’m not talking groceries here, Cara. When I say market I mean flea as in Petticoat Lane or, what’s that other one Stella was going on about stealing the girls away to? That is until the hats stopped them.’

  ‘Camden Market, and I do wish you’d stop calling them that,’ she added on a laugh. ‘I’ll do it and then where will I be: in New York without a job!’