‘Hello, hello!’ I exclaim, looking down into a small black whiskered face with a halo of dark fur, squashed up like a cushion that’s been sat on. ‘You must be De Havilland.’
He miaows again, showing me sharp white teeth and a little pink tongue.
I try to look about while the cat purrs frantically, rubbing himself hard against my legs, evidently pleased to see me. I’m inside a hall and I can see already that Celia has stayed true to the building’s 1930s aesthetic. The floor is tiled black and white, with a white cashmere rug in the middle. A jet-black console table sits beneath a large Art Deco mirror flanked by geometric chrome lights. On the console is a huge white silver-rimmed china bowl with vases on either side. Everything is elegant and quietly beautiful.
I haven’t expected anything else. My father has been irritatingly vague about his godmother’s flat, which he saw on the few occasions he visited London, but he’s always given me the impression that it is as glamorous as Celia herself. She started as a model in her teens and was very successful, making a lot of money, but later she gave it up and became a fashion journalist. She married once and divorced, and then again and was widowed. She never had children, which is perhaps why she’s managed to stay so young and vibrant, and she’s been a lackadaisical godmother to my father, swooping in and out of his life as it took her fancy. Sometimes he heard nothing from her for years, then she’d appear out of the blue loaded with gifts, always elegant and dressed in the height of fashion, smothering him with kisses and trying to make up for her neglect. I remember meeting her on a few occasions, when I was a shy, knock-kneed girl in shorts and a T-shirt, hair all over the place, who could never imagine being as polished and sophisticated as this woman in front of me, with her cropped silver hair, amazing clothes and splendid jewellery.
What am I saying? Even now, I can’t imagine being like her. Not for a moment.
And yet, here I am, in her apartment which is all mine for five weeks.
The phone call came without warning. I hadn’t paid attention until my father got off the phone, looking bemused and said to me, ‘Do you fancy a spell in London, Beth? Celia’s going away, she needs someone to look after her cat and she thought you might appreciate the chance to stay in her flat.’
‘Her flat?’ I’d echoed, looking up from my book. ‘Me?’
‘Yes. It’s somewhere rather posh, I think. Mayfair, Belgravia, somewhere like that. I’ve not been there for years.’ He shot a look at my mother, with his eyebrows raised. ‘Celia’s off on a retreat in the woods of Montana for five weeks. Apparently she needs to be spiritually renewed. As you do.’
‘Well, it keeps her young,’ my mother replied, wiping down the kitchen table. ‘It’s not every seventy-two-year-old who could even think of it.’ She stood up and stared at the scrubbed wood a little wistfully. ‘I think it sounds rather nice, I’d love to do something like that.’
She had a look on her face as if contemplating other paths she might have taken, other lives she might have lived. My father obviously wanted to say something jeering but stopped when he saw her expression. I was pleased about that: she’d given up her career when she married him, and devoted herself to looking after me and my brothers. She was entitled to her dreams, I guess.
My father turned to me. ‘So, what do you think, Beth? Are you interested?’
Mum looked at me and I saw it in her eyes at once. She wanted me to go. She knew it was the best thing possible under the circumstances. ‘You should do it,’ she said quietly. ‘It’ll be a new leaf for you after what’s happened.’
I almost shuddered. I couldn’t bear it to be spoken of. My face flushed with mortification. ‘Don’t,’ I whispered as tears filled my eyes. The wound was still so open and raw.
My parents exchanged looks and then my father said gruffly, ‘Perhaps your mother’s right. You could do with getting out and about.’
I’d hardly been out of the house for over a month. I couldn’t bear the idea of seeing them together. Adam and Hannah. The thought of it made my stomach swoop sickeningly towards my feet, and my head buzz as though I was going to faint.
‘Maybe,’ I said in a small voice. ‘I’ll think about it.’
We didn’t decide that evening. I was finding it hard enough just to get up in the morning, let alone take a big decision like that. My confidence in myself was so shot, I wasn’t sure that I could make the right choice about what to have for lunch let alone whether I should accept Celia’s offer. After all, I’d chosen Adam, and trusted him and look how that had turned out. The next day my mother called Celia and talked through some of the practical aspects, and that evening I called her myself. Just listening to her strong voice, full of enthusiasm and confidence, made me feel better.
‘You’ll be doing me a favour, Beth,’ she said firmly, ‘but I think you’ll enjoy yourself too. It’s time you got out of that dead-end place and saw something of the world.’
Celia was an independent woman, living her life on her own terms and if she believed I could do it, then surely I could. So I said yes. Even though, as the time to leave home came closer, I wilted and began to wonder if I could pull out somehow, I knew I had to do it. If I could pack my bags and go alone to one of the biggest cities in the world, then maybe there was hope for me. I loved the little Norfolk town where I’d grown up, but if all I could do was huddle at home, unable to face the world because of what Adam had done, then I ought to give up and sign out right now. And what did I have to keep me there? There was my part-time job in a local cafe that I’d been doing since I was fifteen, only stopping when I went off to university and then picking it up again when I got back, still wondering what I was going to do with my life. My parents? Hardly. They didn’t want me living in my old room and moping about. They dreamed of more for me than that.
The truth was that I’d come back because of Adam. My university friends were off travelling before they started exciting new jobs or moved to other countries. I’d listened to all the adventures waiting for them, knowing that my future was waiting for me back home. Adam was the centre of my world, the only man I’d ever loved, and there had been no question of doing anything but being with him. Adam worked, as he had since school, for his father’s building company that he expected one day to own himself, and he was happy enough to contemplate living for the rest of his life in the same place he’d grown up. I didn’t know if that was for me, but I did know that I loved Adam and I could put my own desires to travel and explore on hold for a while so that we could be together.
Except that now I didn’t have any choice.
De Havilland yowls at my ankles and gives one a gentle nip to remind me that he’s there.
‘Sorry, puss,’ I say apologetically, and put my bag down. ‘Are you hungry?’
The cat stays twined around my legs as I try and find the kitchen, opening the door to a coat cupboard and another to a loo before discovering a small galley kitchen, with the cat’s bowls neatly placed under the window at the far end. They’re licked completely clean and De Havilland is obviously eager for his next meal. On the small white dining table at the other end, just big enough for two, I see some packets of cat biscuits and a sheaf of paper. On top is a note written in large scrawling handwriting.
Darling, hello!
You made it. Good. Here is De Havilland’s food. Feed him twice a day, just fill the little bowl with his biscuits as if you were putting out cocktail snacks, lucky De H. He’ll need nice clean water to go with it. All other instructions in the useful little pack below, but really, darling, there are no rules. Enjoy yourself.
See you in five weeks,
C xx
Beneath are typed pages with all the necessary information about the cat’s litter tray, the workings of the appliances, where to find the boiler and the first aid kit, and who to talk to if I have any problems. The porter downstairs looks like my first port of call. My porter of call. Hey, if I’m making jokes, even weak ones, then maybe this trip is working already.
De Havilland is miaowing in a constant rolling squeak, his little pink tongue quivering as he stares up at me with his dark yellow eyes.
‘Dinner coming up,’ I say.
When De Havilland is happily crunching away, his water bowl refreshed, I look around the rest of the flat, admiring the black-and-white bathroom with its chrome and Bakelite fittings, and taking in the gorgeous bedroom: the silver four-poster bed with a snowy cover piled high with white cushions, and the ornate chinoiserie wallpaper where brightly plumaged parrots observe each other through blossomed cherry tree branches. A vast silver gilt mirror hangs over the fireplace and an antique mirrored dressing table stands by the window, next to a purple velvet button-back armchair.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say out loud. Maybe here I’ll absorb some of Celia’s chic and acquire some style myself.
As I walk through the hallway into the sitting room I realise that it’s better than I dreamed it could be. I imagined a smart place that reflected the life of a well-off, independent woman but this is something else, like no home I’ve ever seen before. The sitting room is a large room decorated in cool calm colours of pale green and stone, with accents of black, white and silver. The era of the thirties is wonderfully evoked in the shapes of the furniture, the low armchairs with large curving arms, the long sofa piled with white cushions, the clean line of a swooping chrome reading lamp and the sharp edges of a modern coffee table in jet-black lacquer. The far wall is dominated by a vast built-in white bookcase filled with volumes and ornaments including wonderful pieces of jade and Chinese sculpture. The long wall that faces the window is painted in that serene pale green broken up by panels of silver lacquer etched with delicate willows, the shiny surfaces acting almost like mirrors. Between the panels are wall lights with shades of frosted white glass and on the parquet floor is a huge antique zebra-skin rug.
I’m enchanted at this delightful evocation of an age of elegance. I love everything I see from the crystal vases made to hold the thick dark stems and ivory trumpets of lilies to the matching Chinese ginger pots on either side of the shining chrome fireplace, above which is a huge and important-looking piece of modern art that, on closer inspection, I see is a Patrick Heron: great slashes of colour – scarlet, burnt orange, umber and vermillion – creating wonderful hectic drama in that oasis of cool grassy green and white.
I stare around, open-mouthed. I had no idea people actually created rooms like this to live in, full of beautiful things and immaculately kept. It’s not like home, which is comforting and lovely but always full of mess and piles of things we’ve discarded.
My eye is drawn to the window that stretches across the length of the room. There are old-style venetian blinds that normally look old-fashioned, but are just right here. Apart from that, the windows are bare, which surprises me as they look directly out towards another block of flats. I go over and look out. Yes, hardly any distance away is another identical mansion block.
How strange. They’re so close! Why have they built them like this?
I peer out, trying to get my bearings. Then I begin to understand. The building has been constructed in a U shape around a large garden. Is this the garden of Randolph Gardens? I can see it below me and to the left, a large green square full of bright flower beds, bordered by plants and trees in the full flush of summer. There are gravel paths, a tennis court, benches and a fountain as well as a plain stretch of grass where a few people are sitting, enjoying the last of the day’s heat. The building stretches around three sides of the garden so that most of the inhabitants get a garden view. But the U shape has a small narrow corridor that connects the garden sides of the U to the one that fronts the road, and the single column of flats on each side of it face directly into each other. There are seven altogether and Celia’s is on the fifth floor, looking straight into its opposite number, closer than they would be if they were divided by a street.
Was the flat cheaper because of this? I think idly, looking over at the window opposite. No wonder there are all these pale colours and the reflecting silver panels: the flat definitely has its light quota reduced being close to the others. But then, it’s all about location, right? It’s still Mayfair.
The last of the sunshine has vanished from this side of the building and the room has sunk into a warm darkness. I go towards one of the lamps to turn it on, and my eye is caught by a glowing golden square through the window. It’s the flat opposite, where the lights are on and the interior is brightly illuminated like the screen in a small cinema or the stage in the theatre. I can see across quite clearly, and I stop short, drawing in my breath. There is a man in the room that is exactly across from this one. That’s not so strange, maybe, but the fact that he is naked to the waist, wearing only a pair of dark trousers, grabs my attention. I realise I’m standing stock still as I notice that he is talking on a telephone while he walks languidly about his sitting room, unwittingly displaying an impressive torso. Although I can’t make out his features all that clearly, I can see that he is good looking too, with thick black hair and a classically symmetrical face with strong dark brows. I can see that he has broad shoulders, muscled arms, a well-defined chest and abs, and that he is tanned as though just back from somewhere hot.
I stare, feeling awkward. Does this man know I can see into his apartment like this while he walks about half naked? But I guess that as mine is in shadow, he has no way of knowing there’s anyone home to observe him. That makes me relax a little and just enjoy the sight. He’s so well built and so beautifully put together that he’s almost unreal. It’s like watching an actor on the television as he moves around in the glowing box opposite, a delicious vision that I can enjoy from a distance. I laugh suddenly. Celia really does have it all – this must be very life-enhancing, having a view like this.
I watch for a while longer as the man across the way chats into his phone, and wanders about. Then he turns and disappears out of the room.
Maybe he’s gone to put some clothes on, I think, and feel vaguely disappointed. Now he’s gone, I turn on the lamp and the room is flooded with soft apricot light. It looks beautiful all over again, the electric light bringing out new effects, dappling the silver lacquer panels and giving the jade ornaments a rosy hue. De Havilland comes padding in and jumps on to the sofa, looking up at me hopefully. I go over and sit down and he climbs onto my lap, purring loudly like a little engine as he circles a few times and then settles down. I stroke his soft fur, burying my fingers in it and finding comfort in his warmth.
I realise I’m still picturing the man across the way. He was startlingly attractive and moved with such unconscious grace and utter ease in himself. He was alone, but seemed anything but lonely. Perhaps he was talking to his girlfriend on the phone. Or perhaps it was someone else, and his girlfriend is waiting for him in the bedroom and he’s gone through there now to take off the rest of his clothes, lie beside her and drop his mouth to hers. She’ll be opening her embrace to him, pulling that perfect torso close, wrapping her arms across the smooth back . . .
Stop it. You’re making it all worse.
My head droops down. Adam comes sharply into my mind and I can see him just as he used to be, smiling broadly at me. It was his smile that always got me, the reason why I’d fallen in love with him in the first place. It was lopsided and made dimples appear in his cheeks, and his blue eyes sparkle with fun. We’d fallen in love the summer I was sixteen, during the long lazy days with no school and only ourselves to please. I’d go and meet him in the grounds of the ruined abbey and we’d spend long hours together, mooching about, talking and then kissing. We hadn’t been able to get enough of one another. Adam had been a skinny teenager, just a lad, while I was still getting used to having men look at my chest when I walked by them on the street. A year later, when we’d slept together, it had been the first time for both of us – an awkward, fumbling experience that had been beautiful because we’d loved each other, even though we were both utterly clueless about how to do it r
ight. We’d got better, though, and I couldn’t imagine ever doing it with anyone else. How could it be so sweet and loving except with Adam? I loved it when he kissed me and held me in his arms and told me he loved me best of all. I’d never even looked at another man.
Don’t do this to yourself, Beth! Don’t remember. Don’t let him keep on hurting you.
I don’t want the image but it pierces my mind anyway. I see it, just the way I did on that awful night. I was babysitting next door and had expected to be there until well after midnight, but the neighbours came back early because the wife had developed a bad headache. I was free, it was only ten o’clock and they’d paid me for a full night anyway.
I’ll surprise Adam, I decided gleefully. He lived in his brother Jimmy’s house, paying cheap rent for the spare room. Jimmy was away so Adam planned to have a few mates round, drink some beers and watch a movie. He’d seemed disappointed when I said I couldn’t join him, so he’d be delighted when I turned up unexpectedly.
The memory is so vivid it’s like I’m living it all over again, walking through the darkened house, surprised that no one is there, wondering where the boys have got to. The television is off, no one is lounging on the sofa, cracking open cans of beer or making smart remarks at the screen. My surprise is going to fall flat, I realise. Maybe Adam is feeling ill and has gone straight to bed. I walk along the hallway towards his bedroom door; it’s so familiar, it might as well be my own house.
I’m turning the handle of the door, saying, ‘Adam?’ in a quiet voice, in case he’s sleeping already. I’ll go in anyway, and if he’s asleep, I’ll just look at his face, the one I love so much, and wonder what he’s dreaming about, maybe press a kiss on his cheek, curl up beside him . . .
I push the door open. A lamp is on, the one he likes to drape in a red scarf when we’re making love so that we’re lit by shadows – in fact, it’s glowing darkly scarlet right now, so perhaps he’s not asleep. I blink in the semi-darkness; the duvet is humped and moving. What’s he doing there?
Promises After Dark (After Dark Book 3) Page 27