‘My mother lives here for certain parts of the year,’ he said.
I filled my lungs with air. ‘Is she here now?’
‘No, you’ll never catch her in England in the winter.’
As we drove closer to the house I saw just how tall and imposing the thick front columns were.
‘So you inherited all this, huh?’
‘The house has been in the family since the eighteenth century, but almost the entire west wing and its contents were destroyed in a fire in 1995. There was no money to rebuild it so it remained that way until I inherited it. I was seventeen when it became mine and I remember coming here that first time and not only the west wing was a burnt shell, but the whole place was in a terrible state of disrepair.’
He shook his head with the memory.
‘I was advised to turn it into a trust building, but I refused. It took me ten years to return it to its former glory. You are looking at the only classical Greek revival stately home in all of Buckinghamshire,’ he said with quiet pride.
‘If your father couldn’t afford to rebuild it, where did you get the money from?’ I asked curiously.
‘Well, I took a big risk. I knew there were billions to be made in the emerging property market in China, so I mortgaged everything I had and invested every penny I had. I could have lost everything.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘No, I didn’t. You know all those images of ghost cities that are on the net?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I helped build some of them.’
I frowned. ‘How did you make money building those? Aren’t they supposed to be failures? Years later and nobody is living in them.’
He smiled and shook his head slowly. ‘No. They are the opposite of ghost cities. A ghost town is one that is abandoned when the town’s fortunes decline and the people move away. These are the opposite. The people have not come in to occupy them yet. The Chinese are long-term planners. They can defer pleasure for years in the pursuit of a cherished goal.’
‘So you must be a real catch. What are you, like Britain’s most eligible millionaire or something?’ I clapped my hands over my mouth.
‘Billionaire,’ he corrected.
‘Sometimes you need a billion dollars,’ I quipped.
‘That’s truer than you realize,’ he said. ‘There’s almost nothing to beat the feeling of being so completely and utterly financially solvent.’
I looked at him and for the first time I felt as if I was seeing the real him. I felt a sense of peace spring up between us and I felt connected to him. We didn’t have much in common but we had this. We didn’t try to pretend that money was not important. We both knew it was. Without it this world was a cruel place indeed.
I knew what it was to have nothing, not even a roof over my head, and it was the scariest, most horrible feeling in the world. I will never be able to scratch from my mind the sensation that felt as if my stomach was slowly digesting itself, and how that hunger robbed my spirit. I don’t care what anybody says: hunger butchers love.
When Robert took me under his wing and said, ‘From now on until the day you die you’ll be able to afford anything you want,’ I cried with relief.
I looked into Ivan’s crazy-assed, silver eyes and that nameless thing between us started crackling again. If I had carried on looking at him the atmosphere in the car would have changed. The peace would have dissipated. Electricity and an aching longing would have taken over and I would be under his spell again, boneless, unable to do anything but what his body demanded of mine. I didn’t want that. Not now when I just found a real connection to him.
‘Oh my God!’ I cried in a mock-horrified voice. ‘The tabloids will have a field day. I can just see the headlines now.’ I zipped my hand in the air to punctuate every word that followed. ‘Greedy American Widow Steals Britain’s Most Eligible Billionaire.’
‘No, they’ll say, “Lucky bastard marries breathlessly beautiful, leggy blonde.”
I swallowed. If only it could always be like this between us. ‘No they won’t,’ I croaked. ‘They’ll hate me. I don’t have the right accent.’
He opened his mouth to speak but I interrupted him.
‘But don’t you worry about nothin’. I’ll be darling at being a billionaire’s bride.’
He threw his head back and laughed, the first real laugh since I knew him, and that made me smile. Sometimes, I decided, I really liked Ivan de Greystoke.
Ivan parked the car on the vast gravel car park and we got out. A white delivery van drove in after us and drove around the back. We were walking towards the imposing frontage when a man in a cream sweater and white slacks ran out, his face wreathed in a large smile. He might have been gay. He flapped his hands expressively.
‘Good morning, my Lord. How wonderful to see you again. Will your Lordship be staying? Should I get your room ready?’
‘No, I’m not staying, Lee. Just wanted to give my fiancée a tour.’
Lee’s eyebrows shot into his hairline.
‘Why, my Lord, I had no idea. Congratulations are in order.’ He turned his face towards me, his expressive brown eyes zig-zagging down my body and lingering one second longer on my cowboy boots. Yes, definitely gay. ‘Welcome to Foxgrove Hall, Mrs. Maxwell.’
I raised my eyebrows, surprised that he knew who I was, but I guess I was talk of the town.
‘Thank you, Lee,’ I said politely.
He smiled and turned towards Ivan. ‘Well, I can serve brunch or lunch if you prefer anytime you feel like it.’
‘Does Mrs. Kennedy know to make muffins?’ Ivan asked.
‘I only have to inform her.’
Ivan looked at me. ‘What flavor?’
‘Blueberries,’ I said.
‘Done,’ said Lee with a smirk.
Then Ivan put a possessive hand on the small of my back and led me up the grey stone stairs, and it was nothing like the polite one that Ralph had used to guide me across the road. This one said, this woman is fucking mine.
This was turning out to be a sweet day, but a surreal one.
In the tall stone hallway where the house branched into three parts, Ivan stopped. He said he had a few phone calls to make and asked if I wouldn’t mind doing a bit of exploring on my own for a bit.
‘Yeah, I can do that,’ I agreed.
He suggested we meet back in the breakfast room in an hour. He waved his hand down the corridor on the left. ‘It’s the last room at the end of that corridor.’
‘OK,’ I said casually and wandered towards the main part of the house. But as I wandered wide-eyed around that sumptuous, awe-inspiring edifice, I realized that Foxgrove should not be confused with being merely a house.
It was a blatant status symbol built to show the rest of the world in no uncertain terms that its occupants were superior, untouchable beings. It took me almost an hour to see just one room filled with sculptures and artifacts from around the world. The sensation I had was similar to walking into one of the rooms in the British Museum. All these amazing sculptures, no doubt some illegally brought back from their countries of origin to England.
I turned around and went back to the breakfast room. Foxgrove’s idea of a breakfast room was my idea of a palace. There were gilt moldings, ceilings painted with angels and people in robes. There was velvet and brocade and different types of marble on the walls and floors.
‘Hey,’ Ivan said from behind.
I turned around. ‘Nice home you have,’ I said politely.
‘Yes, it is nice. I sometimes forget.’
Lee came into the room, walked to the long table, and pulled out a chair for me on the nearest corner.
I took it and Ivan sat next to me so we had the table corner between us. The muffins were brought in. They were still warm and delicious. Lee disappeared and we started to talk. Cautiously. A bit about me, but I kept the conversation flowing mostly about him.
I learned that he had spent a few years in America. Mostly in New York,
a place that he loved and still went to a lot as he had a lot of business dealings there. He loved the fact that you could travel for hundreds of miles in America and still be in the same state. He thought America was one of the most beautiful countries in the world, but he hated the American prison for profit system.
Just as I was getting to know him, he got another phone call and we had to return to London. At my request he dropped me off outside One Turtle, and I didn’t see him again for the rest of the day.
CHAPTER 18
Tawny Maxwell
I opened my eyes the next morning and knew without a doubt that the wisest thing I could do was to go out and get myself a lick of space. Taking off to the island alone was the best option for me. Right after our wedding I should take off and get some perspective, figure my shit out. Because only a fool couldn’t see that I was blindly waltzing in the wrong direction.
Yesterday, I allowed myself to get too close to Ivan.
Yesterday, I started to think foolish nonsense about Ivan. Things I had absolutely no business thinkin’ about since it was obvious as hell that any feelings I developed for him would be doomed from the start.
Sure, the sexual thing was there in spades, but there was something else too. Something not right. A thing I couldn’t put my finger on. He was hiding a secret from me as sure as I was hiding a secret from him.
Even though I was dying for my morning coffee, I waited in my room until I heard him leave the apartment before I opened my door. After a strong coffee and a quick breakfast, I took a cab to the One Turtle Foundation’s office. I had only managed to clear a tiny amount of work yesterday, and there was actually quite a lot of stuff that needed my attention. I threw myself into it gratefully. For a while I even forgot to think of Ivan.
The proper return back to work was also nice because one of the first islands that Robert had turned into a sanctuary had just been gifted to the locals to manage on their own, and they had sent lovely thank you cards with pictures of baby turtles enclosed. There were also many unopened condolence messages waiting for me. I replied to all of them.
By the time I looked up from my desk it was already lunchtime.
After a hearty meal at a Moroccan deli with Angela and two other girls from the office, I went out to the shops to buy a few more bits and pieces that I would need for my holiday. Mosquito repellent and all the other stuff that was essential on an island.
Although I planned to go barefoot most of the time, I bought two pairs of flip-flops because the monkeys are always stealing them. I also bought lots of boxes of chocolates and biscuits for the volunteers who crave chocolates made in the West. Local chocolates simply didn’t taste as good as they had to be made with palm oil to stop them from melting in the heat.
It was nearly four by the time I let myself into the apartment, and I was dropping my shopping bags on my bed when the doorbell rang.
Curiously I went to answer it. It was Chloe.
‘Hello,’ she said, miraculously managing to make a harmless word sound like an insult.
‘Ivan’s not in,’ I said.
‘I know. I’m not actually here to see him. I left something in his bedroom and I’ve come to collect it.’
‘Oh, OK.’
I opened the door wider and she sailed in. She was wearing a beautifully cut navy blue coat. She undid the buttons. Under it she was wearing a blue dress. Someone should have told her that just because it zips up doesn’t mean it fits.
I moved back. ‘Well, you know where everything is,’ I said noncommittally, and began to walk towards the kitchen. I stood in the middle of the kitchen and heard her enter Ivan’s bedroom and close the door.
I looked around the spotless space. My stomach felt funny and there was a vicious taste in my mouth. I didn’t know why I had gone in there. I was not hungry and I was not thirsty. I went to the cupboard and opened it. My fingers were gripping the knob of the cupboard so hard my knuckles were bone white.
I really did need that holiday.
I stood staring at the contents in the cupboard. I swallowed hard. I should bake something. Good idea, Tawny. Bake something. I blinked blankly at the canned food and condiments on the shelves.
Cornbread.
That’s what I should do. Make a show stealing, rich, tender, moist, flavorful, crunchy-edged, buttery tin of cornbread.
Bitch.
I turned away from the cupboard and went to the fridge. The first and most important ingredient: unsalted butter. I placed it on the counter. Deep breath. Nothing to do with you. Don’t you be minding other people’s business, young lady. Right. OK. Fine.
I closed the fridge and opened the cupboard where all the dry ingredients were kept. Brown sugar, corn flour, all-purpose flour, baking powder. I started pulling the ingredients I needed out, unconsciously slamming each one on the counter.
The last one penetrated my fog of fury.
I stopped and took a hold of myself. I had no right to be angry. Ivan and I were getting married, but it was a fake marriage. He didn’t belong to me. Besides, it was my idea to not drag sex into the equation. So really he could sleep with as many slutty Chloe clones as he wanted. I heard a noise behind me and whirled around.
Chloe was standing at the door, well posing, actually.
‘Found it,’ she announced with a smile and waved something in the air. ‘My butt plug.’
My expression must have betrayed my thoughts because she frowned and came towards me.
‘I know you. Don’t get ideas about Ivan. He’s no Robert Maxwell. He’s a man who needs things you know nothing about. You haven’t got the slightest clue how to keep him satisfied. Do you know how I met him? I met him in a club called The Dirty Aristocrat. Do you know what he was doing? He was finger-fucking a random woman on the dance floor.’
My mouth dropped open.
‘Yeah, I thought so. He’s wild. Like me.’
I snapped my mouth shut.
‘So here’s some good advice. Stay away from him. He’s mine.’
My skin bristled and the hairs on my body stood on end. I felt like one of those cats you see with their backs arched, their fur ruffled, their heads thrust forward, and their mouths opened in a threatening hiss. Then she made her first big mistake. She reached out and poked me in the chest with her forefinger. I forgot to say, I’m a bit fussy about who touches me.
I grabbed her finger so suddenly her head snapped back. I turned it upwards while I watched her eyes widen with shock and her mouth open in an inelegant (but extremely satisfying for me) grimace of pain. She tried to pull her finger out of my grasp, but I was the stronger of the two of us and I had no problem holding on.
‘Listen, honey,’ I said quietly. ‘I didn’t go to finishing school to learn how to eat a fourteen course meal in the proper way, but where I come from girls like me eat bitches like you for breakfast. Let this be your first and last warning. If you touch me again, it won’t be a butt plug being stuffed up your skinny ass, but my rolling pin.’
Her eyes bulged with fear. Her mama had obviously not told her to never corner someone meaner than herself.
I let go of her finger. ‘Now get out of my sight.’
She clasped both her hands together and took an unsteady step back from me.
‘What are you doing here, Chloe?’ Ivan asked from the doorway of the kitchen.
We were so engrossed in our little spat we had not heard Ivan come in the door. He had addressed her but he was looking at me with an odd expression on his face.
‘Chloe came for her butt plug,’ I said sweetly.
Ivan’s eyebrows flew upwards, and I swear, the beginning of an irritating smirk was starting to curve his mouth as he turned his eyes on her.
‘Oh good, you’re here. I was actually hoping to catch you,’ Chloe said, her voice quivering with relief.
‘Well, come into the living room then,’ he said, and turned his body sideways to make space for her. She practically ran out of the kitchen.
He loo
ked at me. ‘I won’t be too long,’ he said, and followed her wriggling plug-hungry butt.
I curled my fists into balls of frustration. Ugh! What the hell was I doing living in his house and being forced to endure such humiliating scenes? It was intolerable. I was so glad I was going off to the sun in a couple of days.
I switched on the oven and dialed it to 400 degrees. Next: melt the butter. I dumped the butter into a bowl and stuck it into the microwave. I found my fingers tapping the countertop as I waited. I forced my fingers to stop. I looked at my watch. Three minutes had passed since they went into the living room and closed the door.
Is that not enough time to fit a plug into an itchy bitch?
Obviously not.
I took the bowl of melted butter out and thumped it on the island surface to cool. A little bit slopped out of the sides and puddled on the granite.
Next: DIY Buttermilk. I put three teaspoons of white vinegar into a cup and added whole milk into it. Unlike me, that was going to need five minutes to sour. I greased a round pan, then stopped, and listened. There were no sounds at all coming from the living room. I glanced at my watch. Honestly.
I began measuring the dry ingredients. Indian head stone ground yellow cornmeal, flour, baking powder, salt. Next job: whisking the cooled butter, brown sugar and honey. I whisked the mixture so hard it began to froth. I poured in the buttermilk.
The bastard.
I whisked again. The door to the living room opened.
‘Bye, Tawny,’ the shameless slut called out in a fake-happy voice.
I didn’t answer.
Calm down, Tawny, I told myself as I mixed the dry and wet ingredients with a lot more violence than necessary.
Ivan arrived at the door. I glanced up indifferently. He seemed very indifferent too. I didn’t comment on the lipstick staining his cheek and squashed the urge to straighten his skewed tie. I even managed to ignore the smell of her perfume.
He walked to the fridge and took out a beer.
‘What are you making?’
Oh! the cheek of the man. ‘Cornbread.’ My voice sounded vinegary.
I threw a sideways glance at him and the sorry ass actually looked amused. I felt like smacking his head against the fridge.
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