She knew that Matt’s mother had died recently but, though she’d made one or two very tactful and sympathetic noises, he’d refused any kind of bait to draw him into talking about her. It was common knowledge that his mother had been an invalid for a long time and by the time his book had begun to top the bestseller charts she’d already been in a nursing home for ages. Annabel shrugged. At least she didn’t have a doting mother to contend with, although she knew there was a sister that might be a bit of a challenge. From what she’d gathered so far, Matt and Imogen were quite close. It was a possibility that she and her husband might be coming over later on, someone had said. And there was a baby: Ruby? Rosie? Whatever, the baby might give her an opportunity to impress by doing the maternal bit, though she wasn’t all that keen on screaming brats. Still, she had to find some key; some way of making Matt really see her.
Maybe a very slight flirtation with Nick might be one way; or even with Milo. He was still a good-looking old boy with a twinkle in his eye – but there was something else beside the twinkle: a hint of steeliness that made her suspect that he might not be quite a pushover. Lottie was easy, thank God; she could just talk publishing with Lottie. But even with Lottie there was that slight detachment that indicated she wouldn’t be easily charmed.
Feeling frustrated, Annabel turned away from the window and began to unpack her overnight case, her brain turning and twisting; plotting and scheming.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
By the time Annabel got back downstairs Nick had already set off for London and Matt was suggesting a walk with the dog. Lottie found Annabel’s coat and she and Matt and Pud prepared to set off. Venetia watched the proceedings sardonically.
‘Have a lovely time,’ she called after them.
‘Not very kind, darling,’ Milo said, as the door closed behind them. He sat down by the fire and picked up the newspaper, pleased by the success of his lunch. Annabel had been very appreciative. ‘You could see that the last thing she wanted was to go out.’
‘I know,’ said Venetia contentedly. ‘I don’t like her much, do you?’
‘Pretty girl,’ he said cautiously. She was pretty but some essential quality was missing though he couldn’t quite define it. ‘Not really my type, though. What do you say, Lottie?’
Lottie was staring into the fire. ‘Odd,’ she remarked. ‘It’s rather odd and very disappointing. I hoped that she might be a bit special but Matt certainly isn’t all that keen and I really can’t quite see why he’s invited her down.’
‘She’s pushed him into it,’ Venetia said promptly. ‘You’ll have to keep an eye on her.’
‘Honestly, Vin,’ said Milo uncomfortably. ‘She seems a thoroughly nice girl.’
‘“Seems”,’ repeated Venetia contemptuously. ‘I tell you, she’s after him and she means to get him.’
‘I agree that she’s keener than he is,’ Lottie said, ‘but Matt’s old enough to look after himself.’
‘No man is ever old enough to look after himself,’ said Venetia. ‘Not with a woman like that around. Trust me.’
Imogen and Julian arrived. Lottie saw that Jules looked faintly truculent; Im, carrying Rosie in her arms, glanced round quickly, half hopefully, half anxiously.
Lottie had already erected Rosie’s playpen in the corner and now she held out her arms to her.
‘What a pity you’ve just missed Nick,’ she said, and saw Im’s expression change to a mixture of disappointment and relief. ‘Matt and Annabel have taken Pud for a walk but they’ll be back soon. How are you, Jules?’
He smiled at her rather warily. He looked very strained and so tired that her heart gave a little tick of anxiety.
‘I’m OK,’ he said. ‘Busy time of year. Lambing. You know?’
‘I know,’ she agreed sympathetically.
She put Rosie down in the playpen and they both watched as she began to examine the toys that were kept for her at the High House. Im was talking to Milo and Venetia now, and Jules, having glanced round at them, spoke in a lower voice.
‘I wanted to say that I’m sorry about the Summer House,’ he said. ‘I hope to have a word with Milo later on. He must think I’m a bit of a wuss as well as very ungrateful.’
‘He doesn’t think anything of the sort,’ Lottie said swiftly. ‘He’s the first person to understand that the job must come first and when we all thought about it properly we could totally see your point.’
Jules looked at her gratefully. ‘Thanks, Lottie. It’s very disappointing for Im, of course.’
He hesitated, looking so thoroughly miserable that she put her hand over his where it gripped the playpen’s rail.
‘Im will come to terms with it,’ she said softly. ‘Of course it’s a disappointment but she’ll get over it. Has she seen the barn?’
He nodded. ‘She liked it, actually. I knew she would. But even so …’
Rosie looked up at them, holding out a toy and making unintelligible Rosie-noises. Jules bent over to take the toy and Lottie gave his hand a squeeze and turned away to the others.
‘I hope you’re not being rude about Annabel, Venetia,’ she said, ‘and giving Im a totally false impression?’
Im turned, laughing. ‘She says that the poor girl has designs on Matt.’
‘And I told her that Matt can look after himself,’ said Lottie. ‘Ssh. I think they’re back.’
‘So what do you think?’ Lottie murmured to Im, who had come into the kitchen to help make the tea.
‘Predatory,’ muttered Im. ‘Putting on an act. Pity, isn’t it? I hoped she might be special. She’s very keen, though. Matt doesn’t seem to be seriously involved.’
Lottie smiled to herself. ‘You sound like Venetia. I don’t think Matt’s at all involved but I suppose there’s always a danger.’
‘I shall speak to him in a sisterly manner,’ Im said. ‘It won’t be the first time.’ She glanced around the narrow kitchen – at the gleaming work surfaces, the shelves with Milo’s well-used cookery books, the wooden block with its dangerous cargo of shining knives. ‘Milo keeps this place so clean,’ she said. ‘It’s amazing.’
Lottie warmed the teapot and took the tea caddy from its place on the shelf. ‘You know the old saying? “The navy protects the world and the army cleans it.” Only, don’t repeat it to Milo. Luckily I’m hardly allowed in his sanctuary except to make tea and coffee.’
Im chuckled. ‘It’s a good thing that you don’t mind.’
‘Mind? You’re joking? Far from minding I encourage him to believe that I’m useless at everything culinary. It suits me splendidly. He won’t even allow me to cut bread because he says I can’t slice the loaf straight.’
‘But you get on so well together.’
‘That’s because we don’t interfere with one another in the areas that really matter to each of us. If he wants to choose the menus and organize the kitchen his way it’s just fine with me. On the other hand I don’t have to check with him as to when I see my friends or what I do, and he plays bridge and goes off shooting when he wants to, and we meet very happily on the common ground. None of the third-degree stuff or criticisms that married couples have to put up with. I suppose that it’s because we’ve never had the problem of sex to contend with, or all the emotional muddles that come with a sexual relationship.’ Im stared at her, and Lottie smiled at her expression. ‘Why is it that you and Jules are having such a problem about the Summer House? You both know it isn’t the right thing but you’re tearing each other to pieces over it. Why?’
Im looked away. ‘It’s just not that easy,’ she mumbled defensively.
‘Why not?’ asked Lottie. The kettle boiled and she began to make the tea. ‘Is it because you’re muddling a perfectly straightforward, sensible decision not to buy the Summer House with your emotional responses? Perhaps you think Jules ought to be able to sympathize more with your disappointment and therefore he doesn’t care about you enough. Perhaps he thinks you shouldn’t need sympathy because you can see the decisio
n is the right one, given his job, and so he thinks you’re undervaluing him.’ She paused, and when Im didn’t speak, she added, ‘And how does Nick come into it?’
‘Nick,’ began Im quickly. ‘Well, Nick is—’
‘Hi,’ said Annabel from the doorway. She leaned against the archway, dainty and demure, whilst the two other women turned quickly to look at her. ‘I wondered if I could help?’
‘That’s very sweet of you,’ said Lottie. ‘But as you can see there isn’t really room. Even Im is in the way. Here.’ She put the loaded tray into Im’s hands. ‘You take that and I’ll bring the teapot.’
‘Of course, my mother was an amazing woman,’ Venetia was saying to Matt.
Milo and Jules had disappeared and Matt was sitting beside Venetia with Rosie on his lap. With Matt’s help she held a large cardboard book adorned with bright, plastic buttons. When she pressed a button, a nursery rhyme jingle would play and, each time she pressed a button, she beamed at Matt with delight and expectation and he would obediently sing along to the nursery rhyme. Venetia was watching them both with amusement whilst undeterred from her own train of thought.
‘I was telling Matt about my mother,’ she told them, as the tea tray was unloaded. ‘She had this quite unintentional gift of making people feel very special. It was simply a kind of social politeness, of course, but each person would imagine that she was really interested in him, or her, and everyone simply adored her. She found it quite amusing but occasionally rather wearing. She said that she ought to carry a placard which read: “I think you have mistaken me for someone who cares.”’
Everyone laughed, except Annabel, who looked faintly shocked.
‘Where’s Jules?’ asked Lottie. ‘And Milo? Could someone tell them tea’s ready?’
Im went out; she needed a moment to recover from Lottie’s question about Nick. She guessed they’d be in the garden room but she didn’t hurry. On the way to the High House earlier, Jules had told her that he was hoping for a private moment with Milo.
‘I’ve never thanked him for offering us the Summer House,’ he’d said. ‘I’d like to do that. I expect he’s pleased that Matt’s going to buy it.’
‘Yes, he is,’ she’d answered. Glancing at him sideways, feeling a queer, almost painful stab of affection for him, she’d suddenly wanted to say something more; something that implied that she was coming to terms with it now.
And then he’d added: ‘Well, thank God you like the barn. I knew you would once you’d made the effort to go and see it. If only you’d gone when I asked you to we might not have had all this fuss.’
And in that moment her love had switched to indignation so she’d only reminded him that Venetia knew nothing about the sale of the Summer House yet; nothing more. Anyway, she’d been anxious about seeing Nick again and wondering how on earth they’d be able to behave quite naturally with everyone around. It had been almost a relief when Lottie told her that he’d already gone: almost, but not quite. A part of her was disappointed. The picnic had been such fun – and she’d been feeling good because she really had liked the barn …
She could hear voices, and here were Milo and Jules coming out of the garden room, so she called out quite naturally: ‘Come on, you two. Tea’s ready.’
Annabel watched the tea ritual with disbelief. She hadn’t imagined that there were still people around who actually drank tea poured from a teapot using a tea-strainer and ate cake at half past four in the afternoon. And it was clear that this hadn’t been done for her benefit: they all looked too used to it. She took a piece of cake with well-simulated delight – mentally adding up the calories with an inward shudder – and smiled at Lottie, ready with a compliment.
‘Did you make this? It looks delicious,’ and was disconcerted when Lottie burst out laughing.
‘Good grief, no,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You need have no fear.’
‘Lottie’s cakes make excellent ballast,’ Milo said. ‘Do you like cooking, Annabel?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, I do.’ She was flustered, because she wanted to impress him, to get him on her side, but was fearful in case he questioned her too closely. ‘I just wish I had more time.’
She glanced about, seeking desperately for some distraction, smiled up at Im’s husband – James, Jeremy? – and was relieved when he smiled back at her. He seemed rather a sweetie and she was pleased when he came to sit beside her. She remembered that he was a vet and, miraculously, she had a friend whose brother was a vet so she could probably manage to hold her own. Anyway, it was rather fun to sit next to this attractive man and pretend to be utterly absorbed in him, whilst Matt looked on. To be honest, she was rather bored by his ‘Aren’t I a good uncle?’ act and the child was far too noisy and demanding.
Annabel smiled dazzlingly to cover the fact that she’d forgotten his name and asked, ‘Are you mainly a small-animal practice or do you deal with large ones too?’
He looked rather surprised that she had any clue about his work, and quite pleased, and she leaned forward, just a little bit, so as to look really keen and interested. He began to explain but she didn’t concentrate too hard, just enough to wing it, watching Matt from the corner of her eye, and waiting to make her next comment.
‘It’s just terrible, isn’t it,’ she asked, wide-eyed with distress, ‘that the suicide rate is so high amongst vets? The pressure from manic pet owners and the travelling, and being called out at night and all that. A brother of a friend of mine, he’s a vet, worked with a man who killed himself just before Christmas. Of course, he had the means to hand with all those drugs available but he left a wife with a young family. It was tragic.’
She glanced round, slightly surprised at the silence, gratified to see that everyone seemed to be watching and listening. She turned back to – what was his name? Julian. That was it.
‘Do you have those problems down here, Julian? The practice I’m talking about was a very busy one in Berkshire. I expect it’s a bit more laid-back down here.’
He hesitated for a minute, looking oddly embarrassed: she waited, watching him, keeping her face alert and interested.
‘We’re pretty busy too,’ he said at last, almost reluctantly. ‘Though we’re not that big yet. There’s just me and my boss and a nurse, but it’s growing quite quickly.’
‘Oh,’ she cried sympathetically, ‘but that can almost be the worst situation to be in, can’t it? Too much work for the two of you but not quite enough to pay for a third person.’ She touched his knee lightly, playfully. ‘You’ll have to be careful that you don’t overdo it.’
She sat back to sip some tea, delighted with the reaction: the whole party seemed riveted, except for the wretched child, who had dropped her book and was now scrambling around over the sofa, though Matt wasn’t paying the child any attention. It really did seem that, at long last, he was seeing her properly – obviously a bit peeved by her interest in Julian. Only the old bat, Venetia, didn’t seem to be taking much notice. She’d obviously been following her own line of thought because, when she spoke, it was clear that she was still thinking about cakes and cooking.
‘I must admit,’ she was saying, ‘that I agree with dear old Hugh Fearnley Eat-it-all that occasionally you can have too much of a good thing. My intentions are always good, and I get just so far with all the clever stuff, and then I think exactly like he does: “Sod it! Where’s the corkscrew?”’
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Matt stood on the veranda of the Summer House watching the rain pouring down. He was quite dry beneath the veranda roof and down here in the village, at sea level, even the rain felt surprisingly warm.
‘You’ll notice the difference,’ Mrs Moreton had promised him. ‘We always put our coats on if we’re walking up to the High House to see the brigadier.’
Well, she was right. The Summer House was snug – and something more than that. Matt tried to analyse the odd sensation he had each time he came into the house. It was as if a welcoming pre
sence embraced him and eased that long-familiar, deep-down loneliness. Living as he did for most of the time in the parallel universe that inhabited the world of his imagination, Matt had no problem in accepting this concept. He liked it. He knew instinctively that the presence went back beyond the Moretons – though he could see that those gentle, kindly souls had added something of their own to the extraordinary atmosphere – beyond the happy picnic parties and family gatherings, to something in the more distant past.
Watching the rain slanting across the small emerald-green lawn, listening to the bubble and chuckle of the brook’s voice, Matt stood well back beneath the veranda’s roof. He took a deep breath, emptying his mind; waiting. All at once he felt wrapped about with peace, a sensation that until now had been almost unknown to him, and the joy of it was so great that tears pricked his eyes. The rain clattered on the leaves of the tree-tall rhododendrons but he was no longer aware of it: he was simply caught up in this healing sense of wellbeing. He stood in silence, accepting it.
Presently he straightened, looking around as if emerging from a waking dream, and turned back into the house. As yet there was very little furniture; after all, he was in no hurry and, anyway, he was waiting, giving himself the time to understand what he might need and to discover where he would work. Of this one thing he was now certain: that he would work on the new book here. This knowledge was exhilarating even if, as yet, he still had no clue as to what the book might be about. Just for now, he liked the empty spaces, the uncurtained windows, the lack of clutter. The glass doors on to the veranda let in airy volumes of green, watery light that reflected back from the pale painted wood-lined walls; at night, from the landing window above, he could see the wheeling stars: scattered icy fragments glittering in the soft black darkness. He walked from room to room, dwelling pleasurably on the elegant proportions, the way the sunbeams slanted across the polished oak floors, the scullery at the back of the house with its huge ancient stoneware sink, and the old-fashioned bathroom above it. He liked the pretty glass-fronted bookcases that were built into the alcoves on either side of the red sandstone fireplace in the sitting room, and wondered if this room was where he might work.
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