About Last Night . . .

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘And I gather you have a problem with Felix Carrington,’ said Willem, leaning across the table towards me and speaking with a slight accent. I was taken aback as the Dutchman’s blue eyes met mine, a slight smile on his smooth, tanned face.

  ‘How did you …?’

  ‘Paddy emailed me from the train. Thought I might know him, which indeed I do, in a professional capacity. As a slightly disreputable artist-cum-dealer, albeit perfectly charming.’

  ‘You like him?’

  He inclined his head. ‘On a superficial, convivial level, I get on with him. But I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. He’d sell his own grandmother. Now. I gather there’s a document you’re keen to get hold of.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said breathlessly, wondering how much of this Jack was listening to, but happily he’d turned and was engaged with the waiter chappie standing beside him serving the wine, giving him some instruction, and Regine had turned to her other side.

  ‘But your plan is shot with holes, if I may say so,’ Willem went on, ‘if you even call breaking in a plan. I’ll come up with something much better and more legitimate. Leave it to me. You don’t want to do anything illegal if you can possibly help it, stay as squeaky clean as possible. Also, my plan will be more fun.’ He smiled.

  ‘You have one?’

  ‘Not completely, it’s definitely embryonic at present. But leave it with me. I owe Felix a little payback. He slipped a Renoir drawing right from under my nose at an art fair in Istanbul a few years ago. I’ve been waiting for my chance.’

  He grinned good-naturedly as he sipped his wine, eyeing me merrily across it, as if wheeling and dealing art and large amounts of money was a mere bagatelle to him. As I glanced around the table, I saw that it probably was to all these people. This was a moneyed, international, cultured set, very different to my Wandsworth crowd. Quite a few were foreign, I decided, drinking in the exotic mix: the beauty in the sari halfway down, her husband perhaps opposite, in his silk Nehru jacket. The sultry South American-looking woman beside him. And it was a set Paddy was clearly part of, I realized, watching as he rocked with laughter at the far end at something his neighbour said. He saw me and raised his eyebrows to check I was OK. I nodded then he immediately went back to listening to Claudia’s anecdote, a rapt expression on his face. I wondered if she’d known he was coming. If her heart had leapt when she’d heard, last minute, that he’d be here? Or even if she’d been invited last minute? If Virginia had got on the phone immediately: ‘Darling, you’ll never guess, Paddy’s coming up! Yes, for supper! Claudia, do come … Yes, he is bringing someone, but only a friend. A client he’s befriended, poor thing. At a bit of a loss, it seems. Helping her out.’ And of course I looked dreadful. She’d barely glanced at me as I’d walked in, had written me off in a heartbeat.

  My own heart began to pump. It came to me, in a blinding flash of hideous white light behind my eyes, that I felt ridiculously jealous. And yet I didn’t fancy Paddy. I stared at him. As I gazed some more, the feeling didn’t dissipate; it grew. I felt more and more horrified. Oh God, I did fancy him. Or did I? No, I couldn’t. It was just this environment, surely? Seeing him in civilized, urbane surroundings, not in his beaten-up jeans, striding through the cowpats. Was I that shallow? Oh God, I was. I clutched my pearls. I had the most awful, sinking feeling. I’d been around this man for years. I’d argued with him, stood up to him – stood him up too – had never put a jot of make-up on for him; why hadn’t I spotted him? And was it really just because a different light had been cast upon him, from a chandelier, a few candles, cultured friends, was that why I was wondering now if, when I’d nodded off on the train, I’d had my mouth open? Or why on earth I hadn’t painted my toenails?

  Claudia put her hand over Paddy’s at the far end of the table. I don’t lip-read as a rule, but this wasn’t difficult. And there were tears in her eyes as she said it.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you.’

  Paddy smiled back, equally warmly.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you too, Clauds.’

  I sank into my wine, appalled.

  24

  The following morning, having spent a blissful night in an incredibly comfortable double bed in a tremendously tasteful spare room that had been Colefaxed up to the eyeballs, I awoke to my phone ringing. In my head it was still the middle of the night, the early hours at most, but there it was, vibrating away on the bedside table. I groped for it and answered groggily, eyes firmly shut. I rested my head back on the pillow again.

  ‘Molly?’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Are you awake, my sweet?’

  ‘Well, I am now.’

  ‘Now darling, there’s absolutely nothing to be alarmed about, so don’t worry, but I’m afraid your father’s had a bit of a turn.’

  I flayed about a bit then managed to sit bolt upright in bed. ‘What d’you mean, a turn?’ I whispered. ‘A stroke?’

  ‘Good Lord no, nothing like that. Just a spot of exhaustion, I think. He was rather breathless last night when we went to bed, with a pain in his chest, and then this morning he was a tiny bit worse and said his heart was racing. So I called the doctor – well, Hugh, obviously, from next door – who came immediately. He said he’d been overdoing it for a man of his age and fitness and that he needed a few days in bed.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ I felt my pulse rate slow down slightly. ‘Nothing serious then?’

  ‘Nothing at all, darling, but all my fault.’ Her voice suddenly sounded small. A bit wretched. ‘I’ve been a bloody idiot, Moll. I’ve been pushing him too hard. My stupid mid-life crisis. I should never have taken him to that festival, camping, at his age.’

  ‘You weren’t to know, Mum. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘It is, but I’ll know next time. It was too hot and overcrowded for him and he got no sleep at all with all the noise and that terrible camp bed. But anyway, the thing is, darling, I don’t think I can house-sit. He definitely needs to be here at home – not that he was coming anyway – but I don’t want to leave him. Certainly not for the night.’

  ‘No, quite right. Poor Dad. Give him my love.’

  My mind was already whirring. Who could I ask? Tia? Too busy.

  ‘So what I thought I’d do is pop in and out. Feed the animals, walk the dogs, shoot home, then pop back later.’

  ‘Oh, would you, Mum? You’re a star, thank you!’

  ‘So that’s what I did, early this morning – I got your text – knowing the dogs would want a pee. Only there’s a young man there, Molly. In the house.’

  I froze. Stared at the tasteful spriggy wallpaper opposite. Shit. Ted.

  ‘Toxic Ted,’ I breathed. ‘Christ, Mum, I completely forgot! I left in a tearing hurry, all a bit of a blur. God – did he have anything on?’

  ‘A dressing gown of Nico’s but not much else.’ I heard her light a cigarette. Exhale breathily. ‘I must say, he’s frightfully attractive, darling. We had a bowl of cereal together in front of breakfast TV and I couldn’t take my eyes off his cheekbones. You could pare cheese with them. Apparently he’s a friend of Minna’s.’

  ‘Yes, he is, but – hang on – you left him there?’

  ‘Well, it seemed rude to evict him.’

  I shut my eyes. ‘Mum, I’m so sorry, you’re going to have to go back and get rid of him. Did he look – you know – settled?’ I yelped. ‘As if he was staying?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t really ask. I wasn’t sure what the arrangement was. But don’t worry, I’ll pop back later and have a word. Is he Minna’s young man? There didn’t seem to be any sign of her.’

  ‘No, she’s in London, and no, he’s not. She’s got a new boyfriend, I think.’

  ‘Oh? What happened with this one?’ I could tell my mother had settled down in front of an already overflowing ashtray. ‘Was it the sex? It often is.’

  ‘No idea, but listen, Mum, that boy has to go, d’you understand? No more cosy bowls of cereal in front of Phillip Schofield in heaven knows
what squalor.’ I put a hand over my eyes. What had happened to my life? What would David say? What would my colleagues at Price Adamson say if they could see this crazy woman, chasing a document she may or may not have signed, leaving a house full of starving animals, towers of soap, strange men in dressing gowns … I shook my head, sent more love to my father, obtained further reassurance that he really was absolutely fine, and got off the phone. It could be worse, I told the Colefax wallpaper. Dad could be very ill. He wasn’t, thank the Lord. Get a grip.

  Paddy was already downstairs having a civilized breakfast of grapefruit and muesli when I appeared. There was no sign of his parents. His back was to me as he sat at a bar which divided the room. At my end, a state-of-the-art, chrome-encrusted and polished granite kitchen prevailed, whilst at the other, a plush sitting area with bright, Indian-themed sofas and scatter cushions, rugs on the floor and murals on the walls gave a relaxed, casual look. French windows opened on to a leafy walled enclosure scented with lilac and hyacinths, and classical music hummed softly in the background. The contrast to my own home could not have been more stark.

  ‘Morning.’ I slipped in beside him on a stool, noticing he’d yet again completed the crossword and probably read The Times from cover to cover.

  He glanced up. ‘Oh good, you’re up.’ He put the paper to one side and glanced at his watch, shooting up his cuff to do so, which was pressed, pale blue, and linked with gold. There was a tie, too, and smart chinos. I gaped, never having seen him in anything other than jeans and a jumper. Naturally the whole ensemble suited him hugely.

  ‘You look, um, smart,’ I said, managing to resist ‘lovely’.

  ‘Well, we’re meeting Willem at eleven thirty, or at least I am, so I thought I’d better look the part. I need to get a move on, actually. Docklands, you say?’

  ‘Er, yes, near the Tate Modern,’ I said, feeling even more out of control than usual. ‘Paddy, what exactly is the plan? Willem was full of nods and winks last night about how he owed Felix a little comeuppance – and you look like you’re off to Lloyds to broker some deal – but I’m not entirely sure what he’s up to.’

  ‘Oh, it’s very simple. Willem failed to authenticate a Degas watercolour Felix uncovered in Paris about five years ago, for the simple reason that it was an out-and-out bogus fake. So last year, in New York, Felix got a wealthy friend to outbid Willem on a Renoir drawing he’d always wanted and which had finally come up for sale at Christie’s. This is all part of the fun in the art world, Molly, they thrive on it. I only had to mention your little local difficulty with the very same man and Willem was all over it like a rash. He’s delighted to come to our rescue.’

  ‘So what’s he going to do?’

  ‘He’s contacted Felix to say he’d like to look at a piece of sculpture in his son’s collection – he couldn’t say his collection; everyone knows Felix is a crap artist, apparently, but the son’s not bad – with a view to buying it for a wealthy corporate client. He’s told him the Royal Gulf Bank in Dubai are looking for something to go on a plinth in the middle of their foyer. We’ll go over to his studio, become interested in more than just the one piece – downright excited, in fact, about two or three – and keep him longer than he expected. We’ll be a bit late arriving anyway, about twelve. He’s probably meeting his father at one, and the hope is he’ll leave us in there, poring over the sculptures – after all, he knows Willem – telling us to shut the door behind us.’

  ‘Right. We? Us?’

  ‘I’m the wealthy client.’

  ‘You look quite rich, actually.’ I admired the Church’s brogues. ‘And I suppose you could be foreign, you’re quite dark.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Molly.’

  He held my eyes teasingly and I realized I didn’t look remotely rich or exotic in my five-year-old Phase Eight summer dress.

  ‘So I’m not coming.’

  ‘We thought not.’

  ‘Because I’d hardly pass as the wealthy wife?’

  ‘No, because he’d recognize you,’ he said patiently.

  I nodded. ‘I’m still a bit sleepy,’ I said carefully.

  ‘Clearly,’ he murmured, sipping his coffee.

  ‘And if he decides to stand his father up? Ring and cancel him?’

  He shrugged. ‘That’s a risk. But if he’s anything like my parents, his father won’t be glued to a mobile so it won’t be that easy. Anyway, we’ll see.’

  ‘And when he’s gone … you root around in his drawers and find the contract.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘It’s a good one,’ I said slowly. Again, I felt a certain indefinable sadness. Such a short time ago I’d been thoroughly overexcited to be in that very same house with the handsome Felix, and now I was hoodwinking him and ransacking his home. But needs must.

  ‘And meanwhile, what do I do?’

  He shrugged. ‘Kick your heels here, I suppose. Mum’s out at some arty charity event and Dad’s gone to his office, so do whatever you like.’

  ‘I’ll stay here,’ I said quickly, thinking I really would like to take a good look around, not least at this light, airy kitchen with its dresser full of crockery, but more to the point, photographs, popped in between those mugs and plates. Obviously I wouldn’t be too intrusive. Obviously.

  He shot his cuff up again. ‘Right. I’m off now, actually. I promised to go and see someone first. Willem’s picking me up from there.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ I badly wanted to know. ‘A client?’ Lame, I know.

  He laughed. ‘Why would I have a client in London, Molly? A long-distance appointment? No, a friend.’

  ‘Ah, OK.’ Don’t say it. Don’t ask. Oh God, I was going to. ‘Claudia?’ I blurted.

  He laughed again. ‘Yes, OK, Claudia. We’re having a coffee.’

  ‘Right. She’s very beautiful, Paddy.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘And you were engaged, I gather.’

  ‘You gather right.’

  ‘And Paddy, can I just ask, I know it’s none of my business, but—’ Damn. He was answering his mobile, which had rung on about the second word of that sentence.

  ‘Yes, that’s it …’ he was saying. ‘Draycott Gardens, forty-eight … Well, I’m leaving here now, so I’ll see you at about half eleven … OK.’ He pocketed his phone, stood up and drained his coffee in one gulp.

  ‘Gotta go. That was Willem. Make yourself at home, Molly. Help yourself to breakfast and anything else you want. There’s orange juice in the fridge.’

  He slipped into a dark linen jacket and I had a mad moment of wondering if he’d kiss my cheek, like a husband off to work, but of course he didn’t, and in another moment, he was gone.

  From the other end of the house the front door closed softly behind him with a hushed puff of air, not a clang and a rattle as mine had done in the days when it opened at all – it was currently jammed shut, warped by winter rain.

  On an impulse I got to my feet and stole quickly to the front of the house, slipping into the lofty drawing room where we’d had coffee last night, darting to the window to watch him go. My eyes followed him down the street. A taxi appeared around the corner and Paddy’s arm shot up in the air. As it drew to a halt and he went to get in, he must have had a sense he was being watched because he turned. I shot back behind the curtain, fist in mouth. Had he seen me? I hoped not. Really hoped not. I tiptoed back to the kitchen. But what was I doing acting like some adolescent schoolgirl?

  Disappointingly, the adolescent activity continued. Having established that I really was alone and that a silent starched maid wasn’t about to materialize enigmatically from the shadows, I set about casing the joint. I picked up every single photograph in the kitchen and gazed avidly, my study forensic. The dresser, as hoped, proved fruitful. It yielded Paddy as a boy, with what looked like two younger sisters. I didn’t know that. Why didn’t I know that? But then again, why should I? One or two more of Paddy, mostly as I knew him today. The fridge revealed Paddy as a teena
ger, with his parents and sisters on a skiing holiday. I released this treasure from its magnet, drank it in then replaced it carefully, the magnet in exactly the same place. In the dining room, where I stole next, were two sets of wedding photos: both girls and their new husbands, Paddy smiling in the background. Back in the drawing room Paddy was graduating, with a mortar board and a scroll. He looked young, sheepish, a bit scruffy, and God, so handsome. Then I found Paddy with a puppy. Then Paddy on a horse, out hunting. Then Paddy with Claudia. I plucked this jewel, this large, silver-framed treasure, from the far end of the drawing room at the back of a bank of photos on the grand piano. I gazed greedily. It had clearly been taken on holiday, Tuscany possibly: a stone farmhouse in the background plus some skinny cypress trees. In the foreground were the happy couple, who did indeed look blissful. They were laughing into the camera, arms around one another, Claudia’s blonde hair billowing. What had gone wrong? Well, I knew what had gone wrong, she’d balked at deepest Herefordshire – and who can blame her, I had too – but then she’d come round. Was his pride really so colossal that he couldn’t forgive her? Had he let her initial resistance stand in the way of marrying the girl he loved?

  I thought of his anger when I’d failed to meet him for supper. Which had gone on for quite some time. His refusal to come and see my animals even months later, sending Mike, his then assistant, who would deliver my latest recalcitrant calf – in the days when I had a few cattle, which didn’t last long on account of their inability to give birth without expensive veterinary assistance or, in the case of one pregnant cow, a tractor. On that occasion Paddy had had to come out: it had taken two of them to deliver her. Paddy had driven the tractor and I remembered him yelling at me to keep the rope taut, tied as it was to the calf’s protruding feet, whilst Mike held the poor bellowing cow in the halter. Oh yes, we’d had some fun times. Most of them with Paddy looking like thunder. I stared at the happy photo. But surely no man was so proud that having had his ego dented thus, he’d let it stand in the way of his eventual happiness? It seemed Paddy Campbell might just be that man. I replaced the frame thoughtfully. I wondered what he was saying to her now. I’ve been a fool. Time spent alone and without you has made me realize that … I caught my breath. I hoped not. I really hoped not. I gazed through the French windows to the leafy walled garden beyond, lost in meditative thought. Then I shook myself. Swallowed. I knew what I needed right now: a plan to make myself feel better, even if it was a flimsy one. I racked my brains for a moment. OK, this one was practically diaphanous, but it was nevertheless all I had, so it would have to do. I flew upstairs, grabbed my handbag then left the house, making sure I had the key.