by Cate Woods
Tour of the garden complete, Mr Eliopoulos leads Rudy and me back to the main kitchen (there are also two other smaller kitchens, in case . . . well, I’m not entirely sure why, really).
‘If you’re happy to wait in here for a moment, I just need to make a couple of calls, and then I can answer any other questions you have,’ he says.
‘Of course, thank you, Mr Eliopoulos,’ says Rudy, taking a seat at the kitchen island, which would look exactly like a giant marble tomb if it wasn’t surrounded by jaunty bar stools.
‘You have an absolutely magnificent home,’ I add.
Mr Eliopoulos smiles. ‘Well, I look forward to you achieving a sale price to reflect that,’ he says, heading for the door. ‘If you’d like coffee while you wait, just ring the bell, Minerva will fix it for you.’
I wait until he’s gone, then turn to Rudy and say: ‘Nice guy – and he’s clearly taken quite a shine to you.’
But he barely nods, engrossed in something on his phone, so I hop off the stool and have a poke around the kitchen. I’ve got so used to indulging my nosiness at work that it doesn’t even occur to me to curtail my snooping in front of Rudy.
Mr Eliopoulos’ main kitchen has everything that I’ve come to expect in such a property: Sub-Zero freezer drawers, a commercial-grade six-burner range with integral rotisserie, a Dacor WineStation (like a coffee vending machine, but for vintage Viognier) and a pantry that would make Nigella drool. There are several doors leading off the kitchen to other parts of the house, but one of them intrigues me in particular: it’s made of frosted glass and has what looks like a large bolt on the front. I can’t see in, so I tentatively try the handle and the door swings open, letting out a gust of chilled air.
‘Check this out, Rudy – it’s a walk-in fridge!’
He doesn’t even look up, so I go inside.
Judging by its contents, Mr Eliopoulos is imminently expecting either a legion of house guests or Armageddon. The shelves along one side of the fridge are completely taken up with soft drinks – rows of bottles of San Pellegrino, cans of Diet Coke, exotic cordials and juices – and then the rest of the room is filled with what you’d usually expect to see in a fridge (caviar and foie gras aside) except on an industrial scale. The cheese section alone boasts the same variety and volume as a Tesco Metro. But the best bit is the entire shelf of glass Kilner jars, each filled with different chopped-up fruit or vegetables, waiting, I presume, to be blended into smoothies. Lined up together they create a rainbow effect that is literally peak Instagram. Without a second thought, I whip out my iPhone; the lighting is terrible in here, but I can fiddle with the filters later. Now, if I just rearrange the jars, maybe into the actual colour sequence of the rainbow, that would look even better: first we’ve got strawberries and raspberries, then orange segments, then yellow peppers and what’s this? – I open the lid and take a sniff – ah, mango . . .
‘What are you doing?’ I spin round to discover Rudy watching me from the doorway.
‘Oh.’ I immediately straighten up. ‘Just taking a few photos.’
‘What for?’ He glances behind him, as if to check whether someone’s coming. ‘I think you should get out of there, Annie.’
‘I was just having a look,’ I say, and I can hear the guilt in my voice. ‘Professional curiosity, you know?’
‘But why were you moving things round?’
I come out of the fridge and shut the door behind me. ‘Oh come on, Rudy, I wasn’t nicking the butter if that’s what you’re worrying about . . .’
But he’s still looking at me in that serious, almost disapproving way he has, and I decide I should probably explain what I was up to, so he understands I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I have to admit I’m also quite excited about the idea of showing him my Instagram account: I’m proud of the photos, and I’d like to be able to share them with someone whose opinion I value. As for the slightly dubious nature of the content – well, I’m sure Rudy will understand. He’s a creative, like me.
‘Here, I want to show you something,’ I say, opening up the app and handing him my phone. ‘It’s a little project I’ve been working on.’
I peer over his shoulder as he scrolls through the photos and I can’t help smiling; they look so good displayed together like a mini art gallery. It’s bizarre how happy these photos make me: not just because of the ‘likes’ – although it’s nice to know that people appreciate them – but because they put me back in touch with the real Annie Taylor, the one who used to spend her days creating beautiful images – not changing nappies and stressing about Luke.
‘Annie, these photos are really good,’ says Rudy. ‘You have an excellent eye.’
‘Thank you.’ I feel a glow of satisfaction at his approval; I knew he’d appreciate them.
‘Hey, is that . . . ?’ He peers more closely at the screen. ‘Is that the stuffed stag from the house in Clapham Old Town – Mr and Mrs Anderson’s place?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘And this.’ He points to my photo of the antique rocking horse. ‘It was in the nursery of that church conversion, right?’
‘Yup.’
Rudy turns to look at me. ‘So do all the things in these photos belong to Curtis Kinderbey clients?’
There’s an accusatory note to his voice that makes me hesitate.
‘Well – yeah. Pretty much.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ says Rudy, now openly disapproving. ‘While you’re working, you take photos of clients’ possessions and then pass them off as your own on Instagram?’
‘No! That’s not what this is about at all. I just like taking pictures of beautiful things.’
Rudy holds out the phone to me, as if it’s contaminated. ‘Annie, this is wrong. You should take these down, you could get in serious trouble. You must know that, surely?’
I do know that, of course, but Rudy’s sanctimonious tone has got my back up.
‘It’s not like I’m stealing anything. It’s just photos.’
‘Yes – of clients’ private property.’
‘God, you Millennials are so judgemental!’ I give an exaggerated eye-roll, trying to lighten the mood. ‘All I’m doing is sharing these gorgeous things – things that these people are very fortunate to own, and probably don’t fully appreciate – with the wider public. I mean, you could argue that I’m actually doing something noble here: I’m like the Robin Hood of Instagram, taking photos from the rich to share with the poor!’ He doesn’t even crack a smile. ‘For God’s sake, Rudy, nobody’s going to find out.’
‘But if they do, you’ll lose your job.’
I can’t believe he has a problem with this – I really thought he’d appreciate my renegade approach, but he looks so disappointed in me.
Then something else occurs to me. ‘You’re not going to tell Karl, are you?’
‘Of course not. I just don’t want you to get in trouble.’ His face softens. ‘Annie, you’re clearly very talented. Why don’t you just find something else to photograph?’
‘Like what?’
‘Well for starters, something that’s not borderline illegal.’
I’m trying to come up with a smart reply (I refuse to admit to Rudy that I’m in the wrong – guilt is making me pig-headed) when my phone rings.
I jab at the answer button and bark: ‘Annie Taylor speaking.’
‘Oh, hey, Annie, it’s Sam. Is this a bad time?’
In an instant, the sulky, bitter feeling pinching my insides vanishes. I had all but convinced myself that Sam wasn’t going to call me, and at the sound of his voice I light up.
‘Sam! Great to hear from you.’ I very deliberately turn my back on Rudy. ‘How are you?’
We do the usual small talk, catching up on each other’s news, but just the fact he’s phoned is enough for me to start wondering if perhaps he’s interested in me after all.
It doesn’t take him long to get round to the reason for his call. ‘So, I was wondering,’ he begins, and my
body tenses in anticipation, ‘if you wanted to meet for a coffee?’
Yes! ‘That would be great. When were you thinking?’
‘Well, this afternoon, if you’re free. I scheduled the day off work as I had some personal errands to take care of, but I’ve finished up quicker than I’d anticipated.’ There’s a slight pause. ‘Of course you may well be working, but I thought I’d check on the off-chance you’re available.’
‘I’m working right now, but could meet you at . . . two o’clock?’
‘Excellent,’ he says, and the smile in his voice gives me another thrill.
We arrange where to meet and I just about manage to pay attention, although the troop of cheerleaders turning cartwheels inside my head is making it tricky to focus on the finer details.
My head is so full of Sam that it isn’t until I’ve ended the call that I realise Rudy is no longer in the kitchen; decent bloke that he is, he must have gone out to give me some privacy. I think about how I behaved to him just now and my cheeks burn: he was only looking out for me, there was no need for me to be so brattish. Right, before I do anything else I should find him and apologise – but as I head for the hallway I hear voices approaching, and then Rudy walks back into the room with Mr Eliopoulos.
‘You really know your Surrealist artists,’ Mr Eliopoulos is saying, his hand clamped chummily on Rudy’s shoulder. ‘Right, let’s get this paperwork out of the way . . .’
All I can do is mouth ‘sorry’ to Rudy as he passes and he acknowledges my feeble apology with the briefest of nods. I was expecting a smile at least, but he still looks so disappointed in me – even a little hurt – that I get another prickle of irritation.
Yet it’ll take more than Rudy’s holier-than-thou attitude to put a dent in my good mood. With a virtual shrug, I dismiss his concerns as an overreaction and eagerly turn my thoughts to this afternoon’s date.
32
Sam and I have arranged to meet outside the café next to the boating lake in Battersea Park. It’s a beautiful afternoon, and the blue of the sky and intense apple-green of the grass and trees give me a kick that only someone who spends most of the year living under grey can truly appreciate. The sunshine has brought out all of south-west London’s park tribes and the paths, playgrounds and meadows are busy with cyclists, scooting toddlers with harried adults, runners, strolling Chelsea pensioners in full uniform and dogs of every conceivable shape and size.
There’s not an inch of spare space on the terrace outside the café and I’m nervously scanning the crowd trying to find Sam – while sauntering along, outwardly playing it super-cool – when I walk straight into a tiny elderly lady and stumble over the pram she’s pushing, inside of which are two equally doddery Pekinese. By the time I’ve apologised and been introduced to Sir Snuffles and Lady Wuffles, Sam has obviously already clocked me, and when I finally spot him he’s grinning at me in a way that suggests he witnessed me nearly taking out a pensioner. Yeah, really cool, Annie. He’s sitting at a table right near the pond, sunglasses and shorts on, tanned legs stretched out in front of him, and my embarrassment quickly fades as I get a jolt of disbelieving excitement: this gorgeous man is waiting for me! I manage to stop myself running over, straddling his lap and snogging him, but for a moment it’s touch-and-go.
‘I don’t know if you’ve watched much American football,’ he says, standing to greet me with a kiss, ‘but I reckon you’d be a natural.’
‘Actually, that was a rugby tackle,’ I say airily. ‘We don’t bother with all the namby-pamby protective padding on this side of the pond.’
‘Well, I’m impressed. Although next time maybe pick on somebody your own size.’
We grin at each other, and though we’re surrounded by noise and people, in that moment it’s just him and me. Surely I’m not the only one who can sense the electricity fizzing between us?
Sam is the first to break the spell. ‘So, gridiron Annie, I thought we might get ice cream, then take a walk – if that’s okay with you?’
‘That sounds like an excellent plan.’
He goes for a strawberry Cornetto (which surprises me – I’d have pegged him as an almond Magnum type) while I have a 99 Flake, and then we set off, ignoring the signposts and picking a path at random. It’s so rare these days that I’m not on some sort of schedule, especially since having Dot, and I revel in the feeling of wandering without any destination in mind.
While I’m still in the dark about Sam’s intentions, one thing’s for sure: we are certainly compatible, chat-wise. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed talking to someone as much as him. It was probably when I was fifteen and spent three hours every night on the phone to my then-boyfriend, Matthew Liggett. I was so infatuated with him I wrote a song called ‘You Will Always Be Just Mine’ and sang it to him to the tune of ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’, accompanying myself on my Casio keyboard (setting: bossa nova). He dumped me a week later.
As we talk, I start to piece together a picture of Sam – his values and views, what makes him tick – and the more I discover, the more convinced I am that we are meant to be in each other’s lives. It’s one of those amazing conversations you have at the start of a relationship, when even the tiniest thing feels significant, like proof of fate: ‘Your favourite coffee is a double flat white, no sugar? Incredible, mine too!’
Yet niggling away with increasing insistency at the back of my mind is the knowledge that Sam and I can’t really get to know each other at all, whether as friends or (fingers firmly crossed) as something more, until I come clean about Dot. I’ve tried to pretend to myself that it doesn’t matter that much, but even when I’m not with her, the fact that I’m a mother informs pretty much everything I do – and it’s obvious that if I’m even remotely serious about trying to get closer to Sam, I shouldn’t keep it from him any longer. The problem is, it’s not an easy thing to simply drop into a conversation: ‘Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention – I’ve got a baby. Surprise!’
Thankfully, however, Sam provides me with the perfect opening while he’s telling me about his family in Canada.
‘My sister Ellen has just had a baby,’ he says, his face softening into a besotted expression. ‘Her name’s Penelope and she’s completely adorable. I miss her desperately – and she doesn’t even do anything yet! I can’t imagine how I’ll feel when she actually starts talking. I’ll probably have to move back to Canada just so I can hang out with her.’ He digs in his pocket for his phone and brings up a photo of a baby with a mop of black hair and huge dark eyes.
‘Oh, she’s gorgeous,’ I say.
Sam is still gazing at the phone in an endearingly soppy way. ‘Yeah, she’s already got me wrapped around her little finger . . .’
Before I can think too hard about the consequences, I dig out my phone. ‘Now it’s my turn,’ I say, showing Sam my screensaver. ‘This is Dot.’
‘Well, she is extremely cute. Your niece, too?’
‘Actually,’ I say, keeping my voice light, ‘she’s my daughter.’
Sam’s eyes go wide – whether with horror or surprise, it’s difficult to tell – but he doesn’t immediately freak out, which is at least encouraging, and he’s not showing any signs of active repulsion. I would describe his expression as ‘astonished with a million questions’, which is about as good as I could hope for in the circumstances.
I start talking again before he can get a word in.
‘She’s nearly six months old. Her dad and I are separated, but he’s great with her.’ I don’t go into the gory details – I still feel it reflects badly on me that Luke cheated. ‘We’re co-parenting, and I think it works as well as it can in the circumstances.’
Sam looks at the phone again and then back to me. ‘She looks just like you.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do. She’s beautiful.’ He breaks into a smile, filling my worried heart with hope. ‘I bet it’s hard work, though.’
‘More than you can imagine.’ I laugh. ‘But so
worth it. I think I’ve become a better person since having her.’
As I say this, I’m surprised to realise that it’s true – it hadn’t even occurred to me before – and I really like how it makes me feel. Yes, the sleep deprivation is a bugger, and I could do without the back fat, but I can honestly say Dot has changed my life for the better. Meanwhile, I’m thrilled to see that Sam is still not showing any signs of imminently bolting.
‘So, Annie Taylor. You work, you have a baby and you still have time to meet up with strange men in Battersea Park. I’m impressed.’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Sam,’ I say, as we begin to walk again. ‘The job and baby don’t really take up much of my time; it’s meeting up with strange men that really eats into my schedule.’
As he laughs, it strikes me that the way he’s being with me now is exactly the same as before I dropped the baby bombshell. Perhaps he’s going to be cool with this, after all? And with that, all the tension I must have been holding inside me, in preparation for the inevitable rejection, simply melts away, and I’m left feeling as giddily light-headed as if I was perfectly tipsy on expensive champagne. I was so convinced that this would be a problem, I hadn’t even considered the possibility that it wouldn’t change a thing. This thought makes me so euphoric I have an urge to grab his hands and whirl around like I’m Julie Andrews on top of the Alps in The Sound of Music.