by Harriet Lane
I leave Nevers later that morning. Selma and Charlotte have already departed, and both women’s farewells to me were warm, considerably more than cordial. Selma is in the bag, and Charlotte is nearly there. Somehow I think Charlotte is not going to be a problem.
Laurence does not appear to see me off. His study door stays firmly shut. ‘Give my best to your father,’ I remark to Polly and Teddy as we say our goodbyes outside the house. ‘Tell him how much I enjoyed being here.’
As my car passes through the olive-green gate I raise my fingers in a final acknowledgement, but I see in the rear-view mirror that Teddy’s and Polly’s hands are falling to their sides and they’re turning away, walking off towards the archway leading to the back lawn. I know they are already thinking about something else: a game of tennis, perhaps, or whether they can be bothered to walk to the village for a pub lunch.
I carry on driving down the rough track leading along the side of the meadow, and then I turn on to the road that heads through Biddenbrooke. A few listless children hang around the climbing frame on the green. There’s a chalked board outside the King’s Arms, drumming up interest for a hog roast.
My parents are expecting me for lunch. The roads are quiet, so I make good time. On the outskirts of my parents’ village, just past my old primary school, I stop at a red light. While I’m waiting I reach over into the passenger seat to unzip my bag. There it is, tucked in at the side: the grey shawl that belonged to Alys, the one that used to hang on a peg in the hall. It’s such a pretty colour, and it’s so soft: cashmere, of course. I hold it to my face, and I think I just catch a faint memory of her scent caught up in its fibres: the fresh, lively scent that made me think of morning.
I wrap it around my shoulders as the lights change, and then I drive on.
My parents have set up a picnic table in the garden. ‘Isn’t this glorious?’ my mother says, unpopping foldable chairs and disregarding the rather stiff breeze that is sending the paper napkins fluttering like giant yellow butterflies into the euphorbias. I imagine this al fresco lunch was sketched out in some detail a few days ago, and the improvisation needed to revise and relocate it proved too daunting. So here we sit, a little cold, under a jaunty striped parasol that lifts and strains in its moorings, offering each other coleslaw and cherry tomatoes and slices of baguette and triangles of quiche Lorraine.
‘Just some people I know,’ I say, when they ask about the friends I’ve been visiting in Biddenbrooke. ‘It turned into a bit of a house party. We went to the beach a few times, but mostly we just stayed at the house. There was a pool,’ I add, despising myself for the boast.
‘Lovely!’ says my mother, who cannot swim.
Of course, they know Biddenbrooke quite well. I probably remember the Howards, don’t I? Brian and Maggie? Their son Mark? He’s on the radio a fair bit nowadays, something to do with the Office of Fair Trading. Only last week he turned up on one of those consumer programmes, talking about extended warranties.
I sit there, holding my face perfectly still, waiting for her to get to the point.
‘Mill House,’ my father says gently, spooning out Branston pickle. ‘Biddenbrooke.’
That’s right. Mill House. Biddenbrooke. Oh, it’s such a shame about all that, my mother says, adopting a sorrowful expression. I can see her sails filling with a sort of gloomy superstitious triumph, as if other people’s misfortune means there’s likely to be less of it in general circulation. Less for her.
The Howards bought Mill House – when was it, Robert? Five, six years ago? Such a pretty spot. Anyway, they’ve just put it on the market. It’s too much for them now. Gas bills are getting to be a real worry. Maggie says in winter the hot air just flows out through those old sash windows like a river. And though Brian has almost completely recovered from his stroke, the stairs weren’t getting any easier. They’re looking at something much smaller. Easier to manage. There’s a new development outside Fulbury Norton which they’re considering. It sounds rather swish, she concludes, and with that word all sorts of reservations are economically conveyed.
Handy for the golf club, my father says, wistfully.
‘Brie or Boursin, dear?’ she asks, passing me the cheese plate with its fussy little knife, the knife that forks at the end like a serpent’s tongue.
Mary is away from her desk – I can see her from here, she has been in Robin McAllfree’s fish tank for the last forty-five minutes – but her extension is ringing. It’s an internal call, so I pick up. ‘Mary’s phone,’ I say.
It’s Colin from the front desk. There’s someone here to see Mary, he says. ‘Lady called Julia Price? She has an appointment.’
I thank Colin and ask him to send her up.
God knows where Oliver has got to.
I stand by the elevators, checking myself in the stainless steel doors. I still have my healthy summer colour, and my new haircut suits me: it’s shorter, more definite-looking. I lean forward to inspect my eyes, my teeth.
The doors open and Julia Price is standing there, with a security pass clipped to her lapel.
‘Julia, hello,’ I say as she steps out. ‘I’m afraid Mary’s a bit tied up at the moment. She won’t be a moment. I’m Frances.’ We shake hands. Her palm is cool and dry. She’s wearing a blue and white seersucker jacket and espadrilles which tie with a ribbon at the ankle. A thin cotton scarf is knotted over the strap of her bag, just in case she wants to pull it around her throat later. The white flash in her hair shows up the absolute freshness of her face. It’s the perfect foil for her sort of attractiveness.
I walk back with her to the books desk and I sense people lifting their gaze from their terminals and noticing only one of us. There’s something about her, I can see that.
‘Would you like a drink? I can get you coffee or tea from the machine. Or some water,’ I say when I’ve found her a chair.
She says she’s fine. ‘Don’t let me hold you up,’ she says, giving me her huge white smile, and reaching for her phone. ‘I’m sure you’ve got things to do – really, Frances, I’m happy to wait.’
‘If you’re sure,’ I say. She starts inspecting her emails while I go back to Berenice’s review, but while I’m doing this I’m very aware of her presence behind me, her scent. Her tiny frustrated sighs and half-laughs as she works through her inbox. The sound of her swallowing.
A few moments later, Mary sails out of Robin’s office. ‘Julia,’ she calls as she approaches, and she actually does sound rather stricken: ‘I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. Crisis meeting,’ she adds, in a quieter tone. ‘You know the mess we’re in.’
They embrace, and then Julia is delving into her bag, producing two books, saying this is just a taster, there are more to come. Mary pulls her spectacles low on her nose and flicks through one of them, making complimentary noises: nice jacket design, where are they printed, who wrote the forewords. ‘Oh, I’m sure we can do something with these,’ she says, lingering for a moment or two on a page, and then closing the book with a decisive snap. Then she glances down at her watch. ‘Right, I’ve made us a reservation at Salvatore’s. Let’s take these and have a proper brainstorm over lunch.’
As she walks past my desk, Julia Price catches my eye and gives me a little jolly salute. ‘See you, Frances,’ she says, and I suspect it’s a technique she’s picked up somewhere: Remember people’s names. Use them to death. You never know who may come in useful in the future. ‘Take care,’ she adds, moving after Mary.
‘And you,’ I say, watching her go, and watching TV and Travel watching her go, too.
The eyes, the smile, the air of assurance. The whole package, I think. I imagine Julia Price never doubts herself. Probably she’s right not to.
A little while later, waiting for the lift, I look myself over again in the stainless steel elevator doors, and this time I’m not quite so pleased with what I see.
Selma Carmichael rings me about ten days later. We meet for a drink in a quiet little pub around the corner from
her office, and she makes me an offer. When she mentions a figure, I am careful not to react. She adds she thinks she can probably arrange a few extra grand, but that really would be it.
I say I’d like to think it over, if that’s OK, and she says of course, take a few days to let it sink in.
‘By the way, how was Bunny Nesbitt’s?’ I ask as we’re on the way out. She says it was fun, if rather exhausting. Ambrose Pritchett was there, full of doom and gloom about the Questioner. He had some tales to tell about Oliver Culpeper, related to a fight with Jez Shelf after the Spectator’s summer party. Oliver came off the loser, apparently.
Laurence drove over to Allwick one evening for dinner after Teddy and Polly had left for London. Selma said she didn’t like to think of him going back to Nevers afterwards: all alone in that huge house. Charlotte was quite bothered about him. But reading between the lines, he’s making progress with the book.
‘Do you think he’s OK?’ Selma asks me, softening her voice as if hoping for a revelation. I say I’m not sure, but I think so.
‘It’s so sad. Alys was such a wonderful woman,’ she sighs, and I feel a flash of annoyance.
‘Mmm,’ I say. ‘Of course, I never really met her. Well, only the once.’ She looks at me then, a quick sideways glance, as if I’ve shocked her, and I lower my eyes. Briefly she lays a hand on my sleeve. And then we say goodbye and walk off, heading in opposite directions.
I take Mary aside and tell her I’ve been offered a job by Selma Carmichael and I think I’m going to accept it.
‘I feel that would be a mistake,’ she says, inspecting me over her spectacles. ‘I know Selma, and frankly I think you can do considerably better.’
‘Really?’ I say, not sure what she means.
‘Really.’ She spins around on her chair, picks up her turquoise diary, and flicks through it. ‘I’m clear for lunch today. Do you have plans?’
And that’s how I find myself sitting in the window at Salvatore’s, ordering the linguine alle vongole and being offered a promotion. Deputy books editor. Mary’s deputy. Oliver’s job.
‘But it’s Oliver’s job,’ I say.
Mary snaps a grissini in two. ‘Don’t be dim, darling,’ she says, breezily. ‘Oliver’s on the way out. He doesn’t know it yet, and I’d be grateful if you could keep it quiet for the time being, but as you’re aware we’re under pressure to make cutbacks. I’ve been talking to Robin about restructuring, and we’re in agreement. I need a deputy who can write, edit, commission and sub across all platforms, plus all that dreadful blogging and tweeting he’s so keen on. On top of that, I do need someone who can behave in public. The whole kit and caboodle. I think you’ll be perfect. How do you feel?’
‘What about the money?’ I say.
Mary says she can match Selma’s offer. Maybe slightly improve on it.
Salvatore carries over our plates. While he fusses around with the pepper grinder, I look out at the street: cycle couriers, black cabs, a girl with white cords trailing out of her ears waiting listlessly for the lights to change.
‘Do you know, I’m not feeling very patient,’ says Mary, twiddling a fork through her pasta. ‘I need your answer straight away.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Thanks. I accept.’
Mary says I have to wait until Oliver is told the news before I can turn down Selma’s offer. Otherwise there’s a chance she might let the cat out of the bag.
They were going to announce the editorial redundancies on Friday, but after Mary has spoken with Robin and HuRe, it’s all brought forward a day or two.
I feel just a bit sick, sitting at my desk, waiting for the news to break.
Oliver is in good and early, as is usual these days. He offers me an apple Danish, which I refuse, and perches on the edge of my desk drinking his coffee and telling me about the party he went to last night, marking the publication of some new biography or other. He has become quite confiding in recent months; keeping his enemies close, I suppose.
‘Julia Price was there,’ he says. ‘She said Mary’s interested in her new publishing venture. We might be doing something, apparently.’
‘Oh?’ I say, looking encouraging. I’ll never pass up an opportunity to hear news of Julia Price. ‘Was she with anyone?’
‘Julia Price is always on her own,’ says Oliver. ‘I used to think she was involved with someone unsuitable – she seems the type, if you know what I mean – but I see her around more now, I think it must be over. Oh, here’s Mary.’ And he scoots off to his desk, dusting flakes of Danish from his shirt front.
Just after 10.30, Oliver’s extension rings. He picks up and says, ‘Yup?’ and then suddenly he’s very still, entirely focused on what he’s hearing, like a stag catching the sound of a foot on a twig. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Sure. I’ll come through now.’ Then he replaces the handset and stands up and walks down the aisle between the banks of desks, into Robin McAllfree’s fish tank, where Robin is waiting, seated at the perspex table along with Mary and the managing editor and the top brass from HuRe.
He’s not in there for very long, and as soon as they’re opening the door for him and letting him go, Robin McAllfree’s PA is picking up the phone and calling in the next poor sod.
Oliver comes back down the carpeted aisle. He has got himself together, I see: he’s pale, but he’s sauntering. Sasha from Fashion is rising to her feet, mouthing, ‘What the fuck?’ and in answer he makes a pistol out of his fingers and fires it at his head.
‘Well, that’s me, then,’ Oliver says, coming back to Books and dropping into his swivel chair. ‘I’ve got the chop.’
‘Oh!’ I say. ‘I don’t believe it. You’re joking, right?’
He looks at me. For a brief moment I see something cold and contemptuous bright in his eyes and I think: He knows, he knows the whole story. And then his expression changes and he’s shrugging, managing to laugh a little as Sasha comes rushing over, her hands pressed to her mouth, while he says, ‘Fuck’s sake, people, it’s a sinking ship anyway, losing a few rats isn’t going to change that.’
The day after Oliver’s departure, two silent men come up from the basement and unplug his phone and computer terminal, and then his desk and chair are removed too. It’s really rather Soviet, as if he has never existed.
People keep asking me whether I know what’s going to happen on Books, but because nothing official has yet been said I just shake my head and say, ‘Search me.’
A few days later Robin McAllfree sends round an inter-office email, announcing – among other structural changes – that I’m to be Mary’s new deputy, a role I’ll combine with many of my current production responsibilities. There’s so much kerfuffle over the slew of redundancies and the redistribution of workload and the snazzy new contract handed out to Gemma Coke that my small elevation creates very little interest.
News gets around, though: Charlotte Black sends me a nice card, and so does Audrey Callum. Even Ambrose Pritchett, when I make my weekly call chasing up copy, says, ‘Oh, Frances, you are a dark horse.’
When I tell my parents on the phone, my father says, Well done, and The only surprise is that it took this long, which just shows how much he knows. I ring Hester, who sounds more impressed; but then Rufus knocks a lamp off a table, so she never gets a chance to congratulate me properly.
I’m walking down my street on my way to the tube one morning when I see a man in overalls carrying paint tins into number 18. A few days later I see the woman who lives there – Tina, I think her name is – buying cat food and courgettes at the corner shop. She says he’s doing a very good job, and he’s not that expensive either. So I ring him and book him to tackle the bookcases, and while he’s at it I’d like the sitting room and the bedroom repainted, too.
The sales are on, so I spend a Saturday morning wandering around furniture shops, and in one of the grander stores I place an order for a new sofa bed. I pay a bit extra to have it covered with a dull gold linen. The colour’s not dissimilar, I think, to th
at of the sofas in the living room at Nevers. The assistant taking my order commends my taste. ‘Good choice,’ she says, tapping away on her computer, organising a delivery date. ‘A little bit unusual.’
I leave the store and cross the road and I’m heading for the bus stop when I see a familiar figure approaching, flip-flops snick-snick-snicking along the pavement, a big jute bag hoiked over her shoulder. For a moment, I wonder whether we’re going to pretend we haven’t seen each other, whether we’re going to be too dazzled by the sunshine, and then it’s simply too late for the alternatives and we’re embracing, making astonished, delighted noises. ‘I wasn’t sure if it was you,’ Honor says, pushing her sunglasses on top of her head. ‘You look different: I like your hair. I’m going to get breakfast – do you have time for a coffee?’
At the organic grocery around the corner, lit to arctic brightness and air-conditioned accordingly, a girl in a penitential-looking grey apron finds us a space at the huge communal table in the in-house café. Honor orders granola and a soya latte. She lives nearby, in a mansion block in Marylebone. We talk a little about this and that – the holiday in Maine, work, a terrific French film she saw last night – and then I’m overcome with impatience and I say, ‘How’s Teddy?’
‘I was going to ask you,’ she says, lifting a crackle-glazed cup between brown fingers. ‘I haven’t seen him for weeks – not since Biddenbrooke.’
‘So that really was it? That scene at dinner? I can’t even remember what you argued about,’ I say, and it’s true: of course, it had been brewing for days, but the crisis itself came out of nowhere.
‘Oh, that was just the last straw,’ she says. ‘It hadn’t been working for a while.’
‘It’s a shame,’ I say. ‘I think Teddy was really into you.’
‘He’s a sweet boy,’ she says, rather remotely, as if talking of someone much younger than herself. ‘Too sweet, maybe that was the problem.’