by Lulu Taylor
‘Writing isn’t easy, Olivia,’ he said one hot afternoon on the estancia when she asked after his progress. They were lying in their bed in the villa while the twins were out playing with their grandmother in the garden. They’d taken the opportunity to retire to their bedroom and make love: intense, rather sweaty and rapid, as it had been since the babies had arrived. They seemed to have lost the knack of leisurely pleasure, but no doubt it would come back as the children granted them more time to themselves. ‘Creative writing is particularly demanding. It needs time and nurturing.’
She prickled a little at the implication that her writing was easy but then, maybe it was. She could no more write a play than she could fly, but she found plenty to say about the habits of hardy annuals or the best kinds of shade-loving bedding plants. Making things up must be harder.
She said, ‘So surely living rent-free at Renniston is the perfect solution. You can carry on writing and we don’t have to worry about earning more money right away, with what we have left over from the flat rental.’
‘I don’t know,’ he answered, frowning. ‘Is it worth all the upheaval of moving there and getting ourselves settled in a part of the world we don’t know?’
‘But it’s a great offer,’ Olivia countered. ‘I’ve looked up the primary school and it really does seem just what I’d hoped for. Outstanding, according to Ofsted. The pressure would be off for a couple of years at least.’
‘The play won’t take me that long,’ Dan replied, his hands tucked behind his head, his elbows pointed out like a pair of bony wings on either side. She could see the feathery fronds of hair in his stretched armpit. It made her think of a woodlouse on its back, its many legs in the air. Dan’s chest, shoulders and torso were resolutely white but the rest of him had tanned to a light brown in the Argentinian sun. He looked healthier than he had in London, where he’d had the pallor of the office worker, and his eyes shone bluer against his darker skin. She turned over to him and ran a finger lightly over his chest and circled one of his nipples.
‘Of course it won’t. But I like the idea of being able to stay if we need to. I’m sure I can find some garden design work. I’ve already researched some local companies, and I liked the look of one in particular. They might be interested in taking me on for a bit. And the house . . . well, it looks magnificent, don’t you think? What an amazing place for the children to spend some of their childhood.’
Dan frowned up at the ceiling, where a metal fan hung above them, whirring and slowly spinning, keeping cool currents moving through the room so that they didn’t stifle. ‘Yes. But—’
‘I know what you’re going to say. It’s my only real worry,’ Olivia said, turning back to lie on her pillows. She pushed her hair away where damp tendrils were sticking to her cheek. ‘The place might be dangerous for little ones. And if there’s any building work going on . . . well, I can’t do it if it’s a building site. Cheska seemed to imply we’d be quite separate from any of the work, though. So I think we should go and see it.’
Dan laughed shortly. ‘All the way to England just to look at it? I don’t think so.’
Olivia sighed. ‘You’re right. We’ll have to find another way.’
Dan rolled over and stared her straight in the eye. ‘But are you sure? Do you really want to be . . . so . . . close to her?’
Olivia blinked at him in surprise. ‘Close? To Cheska? She’s in Geneva!’
‘I know, but . . .’ He made an impatient click with his mouth. ‘The place wouldn’t be ours.’
‘Because we can’t afford one right now.’
Dan looked away and sighed. ‘Okay, okay. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’
‘I don’t imagine we’ll see much of her,’ Olivia soothed. ‘If you’re worried about your work being interrupted.’
But he didn’t reply.
In the end, their viewing of the Hall was done over Skype, with Francesca taking her tablet around the living quarters so they could get a feel for where they might live, but it was difficult to envisage the place as a home. It was almost empty and the dull winter weather gave everything a dirty grey tinge. Outside the garden looked large and with potential but it was dormant, everything bare and bleak.
‘You can make it so lovely,’ Francesca said over the connection, her voice disembodied as she carried the tablet around. ‘I’m going to renovate it and furnish it anyway, so don’t worry about that. My plan was to use it as extra accommodation and maybe a holiday let at some point. As long as you don’t mind my taste.’
‘Of course not,’ Olivia said quickly. ‘That would be amazing, if you’re sure.’ Secretly she wished she could do the choosing – Francesca’s taste veered more towards the glossily perfect than her own – but that was a very ungrateful thought. ‘There’s just one other thing . . . the building work. Where will that all take place?’
‘Don’t worry about that for a moment. For one thing, your bit of garden is completely enclosed. And for another, any works would be based on the other side of the house. It’s a bit difficult to show you the scale of this place, but you can be sure that you’d hardly be aware of them. You’d have to go looking for them. Really. This place is the size of a school, remember.’
That had been enough to reassure Olivia. After that, she had to work on Dan, who remained strangely reluctant to take up the offer, despite the fact it seemed perfect, the answer to their prayers.
‘Maybe,’ he said at last, when she’d pressed him again on why he was negative about it, ‘it’s because I don’t want us to be so beholden to Cheska.’
‘Really?’ She stared at him in surprise. ‘Why not? I mean, you’re such old friends. Why wouldn’t she try and help us if she can? And from the sounds of it, we’d be doing her a favour too, seeing as she can’t be there all the time. She obviously wants someone she can trust to be at the Hall.’
‘Yes.’ He pursed his lips, frowning. ‘I just mean . . . in case there are any problems. We don’t want to ruin a friendship.’
She laughed. ‘Ruin it? How? I suppose if we burned the house down or something, she might be a trifle narked. But there’s no way Cheska will hold it over you. She seems really eager to help us. And let’s face it, she can afford to, so why not let her?’
Dan sighed and said, ‘I suppose you’re right. And it needn’t be for long, if I can just get this play finished.’
‘How close are you?’ she asked. He’d never let her see anything he was doing, and quickly closed the computer screen whenever she came near him while he was working. He told her he was sensitive about anything being seen and taken out of context before he was ready.
‘Getting there,’ he said vaguely. ‘Making progress. Sometimes it’s a two steps forward, one step back kind of thing, you know?’
‘I suppose so,’ she replied, though she’d always found the process of writing more straightforward than that. ‘Well, you should take the time you need. So that it’s right.’
Dan nodded. ‘Absolutely. It has to be right. I knew you’d understand. Honestly, it’s not that far off being a complete first draft. I’ll show it to you soon, I promise.’
Six weeks later, they boarded a plane, each holding a twin, their copious luggage safely stored in the aircraft’s belly, and headed back to England to live in a place they’d never seen before. Francesca wasn’t able to be there when they arrived, so she had posted them the key and sent a long and complicated email about how to let themselves in. It was pitch-dark and all of them were utterly wrung out and exhausted by the trip when they arrived in a minibus taxi arranged by Francesca to pick them up at the airport and bring them and all their stuff up the motorway to Norfolk. Thank goodness for Francesca: when they finally managed to find their way to their quarters, there was a hamper of food waiting for them, the place was beautifully furnished and equipped, and everything seemed fully functional. Olivia had only a vague sense of a vast thing attached to their tiny bit of the house – the cottage, as she quickly began to think of i
t – as though they were in a tug boat that was towing a huge empty liner along after them through a dark sea. Only once had she looked inside the main house, but she was too overwhelmed by the scale of what lay beyond to go very far while she was still so busy sorting out their new home. She was curious about the Hall, but she preferred the cosy warmth of the cottage and the safety of its enclosed garden to the dusty, abandoned grandeur beyond. Then she discovered that it was actually much closer than she’d realised all along.
Now, with Dan in the garden with the twins, she checks the time. Francesca is due any moment. There are still a few boxes stacked against the kitchen wall, but that’s not too bad. The ceilings are high and the boxes don’t take up too much space. Olivia runs to the sitting room, picks up a blanket and rushes back to drape it over them. Does that look better? She’s not sure. They just looked like boxes before, and now they look as though they might be hiding someone, a large square red and white checked presence standing like a sentry against the wall. She takes off the blanket, and they go back to being neatly stacked boxes again.
She darts a glance around the room. All is tidy. She was afraid that Francesca would make this place look very modern, like the house in Geneva, which she saw once featured in a prestigious interiors magazine, all gleaming surfaces, designer furniture and white walls. But she hasn’t. It’s been furnished with vintage charm – a large pine table, an oak dresser, old-fashioned armchairs and bright rugs. Everything is new, of course, and clearly not the cheapest either, but it looks inviting and homely, which is exactly what she’d hoped for. She feels a rush of affection and gratitude to Francesca for giving them this opportunity, and she wants to do all she can to be worthy of this kindness, and repay it in any way she can.
Just then she hears voices in the garden. An exclamation in a female voice, a loud male ‘halloo’. She’s here. Olivia whips off her apron, drops it over the back of a chair along with the blanket and hurries outside.
At first she blinks in the sunshine, which is unexpectedly bright after the cool dimness inside. Then she sees Francesca, who is kneeling in the garden, regardless of her expensive-looking jeans and the smart blue blazer she is wearing, her arms open to Bea, who is tottering across the grass towards her. Francesca is beaming, her attention entirely focused on the little girl as she gets closer. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ she is saying, ‘come to me . . .’
Olivia smiles at the sight: Francesca’s pleasure is pure and guileless – there is no doubt that she is happy to see the children. Dan is walking slowly behind Bea, watching her proudly, Stan in his arms and watching the new arrival with solemn curiosity, as though he is glad that his sister is there to go ahead of him and assess the danger before he gets near.
‘Hello, darling!’ coos Francesca as Bea reaches her. The little girl’s hair glints brightly in the sunshine, and she is wearing a sweet blue pinafore dress, a gift from Francesca that Olivia put on her as an acknowledgement of the generosity. Her tiny feet, looking too small to support her toddler plumpness, carry her the last few steps before Francesca can no longer resist, but scoops her up in her arms and holds her tight.
How wonderful that she loves them so much, Olivia thinks. I’m so pleased. She is happy to think of the twins’ world peopled by adults who love them and whom the children can trust. There are no godparents, but Olivia wants as many friends and supporters in their lives as possible.
‘Hello!’ she calls out, walking over towards them. ‘You made it.’
Francesca is showering kisses on Bea’s cheeks and the little girl is enduring them, an expression of muted curiosity on her face. She pulls away slightly as she sees Olivia approaching and puts out her arms towards her mother, as if she feels she has fulfilled her social obligations and would now like to return to the comfort of the familiar.
‘Yes, yes.’ Francesca is examining Bea with rapt absorption, as though taking in every centimetre of her soft skin, the colour of her eyes, the miniature perfection of her ears and nose. ‘The journey was fine.’ She turns for a moment towards Olivia, her eyes shining. ‘Haven’t they grown? They’re so different from the photographs, you just can’t tell from those . . .’ She stares back at Bea and then looks towards Stan, who is still quiet and suspicious in his father’s arms. ‘Hello, darling! Aren’t you gorgeous? Goodness, he’s changed so much, it’s hard to believe these are the same little babies I met last time.’
Bea has started to whimper, stretching out her arms so far that she is in danger of toppling out of Francesca’s hold altogether, and Olivia, only half thinking, leans in to take her, pulling her daughter free. She is surprised to find that Francesca holds on, and for a moment, she is tugging at Bea and then suddenly Francesca loosens her hold enough for Bea to slip out of her arms and into Olivia’s, where she nestles, tucking her head onto Olivia’s shoulder. Francesca smiles at her, putting out a hand to her and saying softly, ‘But aren’t you beautiful?’
Then she turns to Dan. ‘And this is the divine Stanley!’
Stan is still eyeing her, blue eyes round and assessing in the unabashedly judging way that small children have. He doesn’t smile.
‘Come and have a hug from Cheska,’ Francesca wheedles, holding out her arms to him. ‘Aren’t you such a big boy? His eyes! So like yours, Dan. Come on, sweetie, come for a cuddle.’
His eyes still fixed on the stranger, Stan seems to shrink into his father’s arms, then turns his face away completely, burying it in Dan’s neck. There is clearly no question of a hug. Francesca laughs it away as Dan leans in to kiss her cheek.
‘Ignore him, he’s a shy bunny,’ he says, dropping first one kiss and then another, and Francesca presses the corner of her mouth to his cheek in return. ‘How was the trip?’
‘Oh, fine. I picked up a car in London, and the traffic was pretty good, considering.’ She turns to Olivia, and leans in for kisses. ‘I haven’t even said a proper hello to you yet! How are you? You look absolutely blooming!’
‘Oh, well . . .’ Olivia gives an embarrassed laugh. She knows that she is a different version of her old self. She’s in a loose shirt dress that is forgiving of her plumper figure, and it’s been ages since she had the time to blow-dry her hair properly or put on make-up. It doesn’t seem all that important now, but she can’t help feeling the contrast with Francesca’s polished looks and elegant outfit. ‘Thank you. You look marvellous, as usual.’
It is true that Francesca has barely changed in years: her skin is as smooth and unlined as ever, she’s youthfully slender and her hair is still a glossy brown cut in a chic layered bob with a feathery straight fringe.
Olivia goes on, bustling to hide her slight discomfort, ‘You must come inside and have some tea or something. I know it’s sunny out here, but it can be surprisingly chilly when the wind gets up.’
They all head into the kitchen, Dan and Olivia carrying a child each and Francesca talking merrily about her very early flight from Geneva, every now and then a hand reaching out towards the child nearest to her as if about to stroke them, or hold their hand. But each clings to the parent holding them, quiet in the face of the new arrival. Olivia feels vaguely as though they are not being welcoming enough, and that this will offend Francesca.
They’re often shy around strangers, she thinks, and life has been so full of new experiences lately. The twins might be wondering where the extended family has disappeared to, and why they are no longer on the estancia, although in reality they seem much the same as ever. As long as they are with Dan and Olivia, they don’t seem to mind much where they are, settling down in their cots after milk and a story, just as they did in Argentina.
‘Oh, you’ve made it look wonderful,’ Francesca exclaims as she comes into the kitchen.
‘Well . . . only because you furnished it so well,’ Olivia says shyly, putting Bea down by the box of toys kept at the far end of the room. There’s a jug full of daffodils on the oilclothed table, and she’s rearranged dishes on the dresser, putting out a bowl of fruit to ad
d a dash of colour to Francesca’s restrained white tableware. She goes to the kettle, fills it and switches it on. ‘You’ve really transformed the place.’
Francesca laughs lightly as she sits down, and says, ‘It’s not entirely . . .’ then her voice fades out as she watches Dan settle Stan on the rug next to Bea, putting some toys in front of him. The little boy scrambles up at once, his bottom high in the air as he pushes himself upwards, and then trots to the box to see for himself what he’d like to play with. Olivia likes his independent spirit, the way he wants to be certain that he’s got the pick of the bunch to amuse himself with. Bea is chattering to Dan, a stream of gibberish mixed with sense delivered in a high fluting voice with a slight stammer.
‘What were you saying?’ Olivia asks, getting mugs from the dresser.
Francesca blinks, looks away from Stan and then shakes her head. ‘Sorry, I lost my train of thought. I . . . I was about to say that I wanted the place to be nicely done so that we can use it as a holiday let or for staff once you’ve found your own home.’
Olivia feels a tiny stab of offence at the idea that they’ve been put in to test-run the staff quarters, and then rebukes herself. That’s just stupid. They hardly need the place for guests, not with a house the size of Renniston.
‘That’s why I wanted top quality stuff,’ Francesca says, smiling at her. ‘And I’m thrilled it’s come in useful for you all.’ She smiles at them, almost mistily. ‘You seem so at home here.’
‘We are,’ Olivia says honestly. ‘I like it very much.’ It’s true, she realises. She does like it. The cottage has gone from the neatly impersonal to the lived in and homely in a very short time. It’s begun to feel like theirs. It’s probably a good thing that Cheska is here, to remind me that it’s not. It’s just temporary. I mustn’t get used to it. ‘And what are your plans for the main house? Should we expect builders soon?’