“Oh!” I coloured up. “I was—just leaving these. To say thank you.”
His eyes widened as he looked beyond me and saw the flowers. “For what?”
“Well, you know, for your advice. About not tackling the bullying head on. It worked a treat. Rufus is really happy now.”
“Oh, well, good. I’m delighted. But you really shouldn’t…” he gestured, embarrassed, at the flowers.
“It’s nothing, only a few bits from the garden,” I said quickly, making an even more embarrassed gesture as I flicked back my hair. We were surely too old to be going quite so pink? The two of us? “Have you got a vase?” I ventured.
“A…vase? Er, no,” he stuttered, “I—”
“Never mind, I brought one,” I said, shamelessly whipping an old jug from a Tesco bag, horribly aware that through the glass partition, Mrs. Harris, the school secretary, had eyes like saucers as she tapped away at her computer.
“Well, I must be getting on,” he’d said, coming to and reaching past me for the sheaf of papers on his desk. “Er, thank you, Mrs. Cameron.”
“Imogen,” I reminded him.
“Imogen,” he’d agreed, and for a moment there, our eyes did meet, briefly. Then we’d both made a convulsive movement to the door, and there’d been a nasty after-you moment as we’d exchanged overbright smiles on the threshold.
Yes, a school ball would be lovely, I mused, cradling the receiver under my chin as I waited for Kate, gazing out of the window at the cows chewing rhythmically in the meadow. Give me a chance to—you know—dress up. Look my best, in a pretty floral number, something a bit Sarah Jessica Parker—I was fairly sure this didn’t call for anything Londony and vampy—with Alex beside me, of course, elegant in black tie. Or perhaps it would be lounge suits, round here? I couldn’t quite see Sheila Banks’s husband in a dinner jacket.
I’d met him at the school gates the other day, Frankie Banks. Frightened the life out of me as he’d come up behind me, put a large paw on my shoulder and growled, “You Rufus’s mum?” “Y-yes,” I’d stuttered, swinging round to boggle at his shaven head, bulging muscles and tattooed arms. “Nice lad,” he’d said gruffly, and I’d gulped my thanks. Yes, it would be good to see him in a more social setting. Daniel Hunter, not Frankie Banks. Maybe he’d like to come to supper one night? Meet Alex properly? Very relaxed, just a lasagne or something. Although, of course, as from Monday, Alex was away all week. My heart lurched at the thought. Away at that flat in town.
“Imo? Are you still there?”
“What? Oh, yes, still here. Who was at the door?”
“Caroline Harvey, popping round with a leaflet about some ghastly chamber concert she’s in. God, I can just see Sebastian’s face; he’d pay not to go to that. Anyway, happily we’re in Venice that weekend. Listen, I’d better go, I’ve slightly lost track of time and I’ve got to get to the shops. I’ll ring you later.”
“Um, Kate, before you go, I’ve got a bit of a favour to ask. Quite a big one, actually.”
“Fire away,” she said cautiously.
“Well, you’ve got to promise that if it’s really cheeky of me, you’ll say no immediately, OK?”
“What is it?”
“It’s quite an imposition, so—so think about it and—”
“Imo, what?”
I licked my lips. “It’s just…well, you know Alex is going to stay in town during the week now?”
“Is he?” she said, surprised. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Oh God, didn’t I tell you? I must have told Hannah. Yes, he is, because the travelling’s getting him down, so he’s going to spend a few nights a week in London.”
“Oh, right. Where?”
“Well, that’s the thing, Kate. He’s been offered a room by this friend of his, Charlie Cotterall, but Charlie’s left his wife and he’s a real rogue. You know, always out on the piss, chatting up girls, and the thing is, I was just wondering—well, it’s a huge imposition—but now that Sandra’s gone and you’ve got the nanny flat downstairs, I was thinking—well, if you haven’t already rented it out—if you’d think about renting it to Alex for the time being?”
I shut my eyes. Held my breath. There. I’d said it. Ever since Kate had let slip that she was sick of having a nanny about the place now that most of her children were at boarding school and had been dithering over whether to keep the flat for guests or rent it out, I’d wondered if I’d dare suggest it. There was a pause on the other end as she digested this. Suddenly I went hot. How stupid. I shouldn’t have asked; it was rude and crass of me to put her in such an invidious position.
“Kate, I’m sorry, I—”
“You mean, for a few days, or to actually move in?”
I flushed. “Well, I suppose I meant to move in, but, Kate, forget it. I—I should never have asked,” I stammered. “It’s just, I’ve been so worried recently, and I don’t know why because I’m quite sure he wouldn’t be led astray by Charlie—I mean, apart from anything else Charlie’s got a steady girlfriend—but you know what these boys are like together, egging each other on, and I just thought—well, I don’t know what I thought,” I finished lamely. “Pathetic. I shouldn’t even be worried. And I’m not, in all honestly, I’m really not, but…forget it, Kate.”
“I won’t forget it,” she said slowly. “I’ll think about it.”
I held my breath. “Will you?”
“I’ll have to ask Sebastian, of course.”
“Of course, of course you’ll have to ask him,” I said, clutching this straw. Golly, if she was at least going to ask…
“And naturally we’d pay the going rate,” I rushed on.
“Imo, I wasn’t going to rent it out, so there won’t be a going rate.”
I bowed my head, feeling hot. Yes, that was my shame. That I’d known Kate had more or less decided to keep it for guests; had decided against renting, so that although I’d offered to pay, I was pretty secure in the knowledge that she wouldn’t take anything from us. My face burned. Suddenly I wished I didn’t have a husband who required me to manipulate my friends.
“We’ll see,” she said briskly, “OK? I’ll talk to Sebastian and let you know.”
“Yes, and thank you, Kate, for even considering it. I feel awful asking…”
But would feel even more awful, I thought, putting the phone down, if I hadn’t asked. Would have worried myself senseless, for weeks. Particularly now I knew Eleanor was going to be up there. I licked my lips, which were very dry. Narrowed my eyes out of the window. In my next life, I decided, straightening up in my chair, as well as being supremely confident, I was also going to be extremely rich. It might not buy happiness, but it sure as hell eased the way.
I sat there a moment, a mixture of guilt and relief making me feel a bit heady, and watched as a red van filled the window. Paul, the postman, drove through the gate and parked in my yard. I waved and went out to meet him, wrapping my cardigan around me against the chill wind, pleased to have a distraction. In London I hadn’t even known what my postman looked like, let alone his name, but here, things were different. Much more friendly. When I’d mentioned this to Mum, she’d looked at me in surprise.
“But of course, darling. Rural life is much more civilised. In France, the postman even stops for a tincture. When I first moved to Provence I went out and greeted him with, “Bonjour, monsieur. Un petit calvados?” To which he’d replied, “Oui, mais pourquoi petit?”
I’d laughed, but had drawn the line at offering Paul whisky at ten o’clock. Tongues might wag if I was known, not only to be saying it with flowers to the headmaster, but getting the postman pissed too.
“Morning, Paul, what have you got for me?” I said cheerily, buoyant now that I’d done the deed with Kate: ready to face the day.
“Just a brown one and some junk mail, I’m afraid.”
“Shame. Nothing exciting?”
“Not unless you count a garden hose catalogue.”
“I might,” I grinned. “G
ot to take your thrills where you can these days!”
As soon as I’d said it, I wished I hadn’t. Paul looked startled, then reddened and hopped back smartly in his van. As he roared off up the chalky track, I scurried inside, smarting.
There’s cheerful banter and there’s idiotic rambling, Imogen, I said to myself as I shut the door. Try not to come across as too much of a frustrated housewife, hmm?
As I went to the kitchen to chuck the junk mail in the bin, simultaneously opening the brown envelope, I frowned. Sat down. A hundred and fifty pounds? For what? My eyes shot to the headed paper, Marshbank Veterinary Practice, and then, itemised:
April 5…Home visit and consultancy £75
May 18…Home visit and consultancy £75
My eyes bulged in disbelief. A hundred and fifty pounds? For a couple of visits? Oh, for heaven’s sake. I reached for the phone and punched out a number.
“Marshbank Veterinary Practice?” purred my friend on the other end.
“Can I speak to Pat Flaherty, please?”
“Mr. Flaherty is on a call at the moment,” she said icily, perhaps recognising my demanding tones.
“Is he. Well it’s Imogen Cameron here. Perhaps you can ask him from me why I’ve been charged a hundred and fifty pounds for absolutely nothing! All he did was prod a cow with his foot and show me where my chicken house is. Is that what he went to veterinary college for?”
“We have a basic call-out charge, Mrs. Cameron. A home visit is more expensive.”
“Well, I could hardly bring the cow into the surgery, could I! Although I might just, next time.”
“You do that, Mrs. Cameron. It might be worth watching.”
And with that, she put the phone down. I stared into the buzzing receiver, outraged. Ooh…I seethed. Bloody woman. Well, it would be the last time I’d be calling on Marshbank’s services. There must be other vets in the neighbourhood; I’d patronise them next time. Take my animals elsewhere. Meanwhile, though, there was the vexing little problem of this bill to pay. I got up from the table, biting my thumbnail savagely. Alex had gone ballistic the other day because he’d seen a new carrier bag—what was he going to say about this?
“New shoes, Imogen!” he’d yelped, taking them out of the bag where I’d hidden them at the bottom of the wardrobe. “What the hell are you up to? You know we’re on a shoestring at the moment.”
“They’re flip-flops, for God’s sake,” I’d said, snatching them from him. “Hardly handmade Italian mules, and I can’t live in sweaty trainers all summer!”
I couldn’t, but a totally unnecessary vet’s bill would justifiably send him into orbit. No, I had to sort this one out myself.
Money again, I thought, sitting down and raking despairing hands through my hair, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. If only I could make some of the filthy stuff. If only I wasn’t so hopeless. If only I could do something…
Half an hour later saw me driving very fast down the country lanes into town. Fast, because if I slowed down and thought about what I was doing, I might stop, turn round and go home. My hands felt sweaty on the wheel and my heart was full of fluttering and trepidation, and not only that, I had a very full car too. Packed to the gunwales. And no doubt I’d come straight back with my full car, with my tail firmly between my legs, but as Dad said, if you didn’t stick your head above the parapet, how the hell did you know if it was going to be knocked off? Although as a caveat, he’d always add, “But never agree to play Macbeth in drag,” something he’d done to his cost. Well, I wasn’t about to do that. No, no, something much more terrifying.
I parked squarely outside the wine bar that Sheila had assured me the other day was just the place—“Just opened, luv, and right poncy it looks too”—and regarded it nervously. It did look poncy. With its smart, bottle-green livery and “Moulin Rouge” written in loopy gold scroll above the two bow-fronted windows, it looked chic, smart, and expensive; just exactly how I didn’t feel right now.
It was a full five minutes before I steeled myself to get out of the car and walk through the door. Inside it was dark and dimly lit, and I had to adjust my eyes to the cavernous depths. The walls were painted a dark matt red, and bentwood chairs were grouped around polished wooden tables dotted about the room. A long mahogany bar ran the entire length of the left-hand side, and behind it a pretty girl with a shiny dark bob and a cupid’s-bow mouth was polishing glasses. Aside from that, the place was empty. She smiled.
“Can I help?”
“Yes, I…is the manager in, please?”
“I am the manager.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, I know, I should be drinking café cognac in my little back room reading Paris Match while someone else does this, but due to sluggish business I’m also the washer-upper, glass polisher and general dogsbody.” She grinned.
I grinned back, relaxing slightly. “I know the feeling. I mean, the dogsbody one. My name’s Imogen Cameron, by the way. I’m an artist.”
It was an old trick, but she looked suitably impressed as she offered me her hand.
“Hi, I’m Molly. Should I have…?”
“No, no,” I said humbly, instantly regretting my bravado, “you won’t have heard of me. But I was just wondering—well, someone said you occasionally have local artists’ work hanging in here, and I wondered if you’d consider taking mine?”
There. It was out. “Oh, right. Who said that?”
“Sheila Banks.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Sheila Banks! Well, you’ve been misinformed. I’ve never had art here—haven’t been open long enough—but if Sheila sent you, I’d better take a look. Don’t want my legs chopped off, do I?” She balled her cloth and tossed it down on the bar. “What are they, watercolours?”
“No, oils actually. Rather large ones. They’re in the car, I’ll—”
“Oh.” She stopped, looked disappointed. “Might not be our sort of thing then. Watercolours tend to go best, apparently. Cheaper, I suppose, and I think people find them more accessible.” She must have seen my face fall. “Tell you what, let’s take a look. She came out from behind the bar, slim and elegant in a white shirt and black jeans, a long white apron tied over them. “You go and get them, and we’ll spread them out on this big table here.”
Of course, by the time I’d made various trips to the car and struggled back with them, puffing and panting whilst she’d looked on wide-eyed, they wouldn’t all fit on the table, so we ended up putting them on the floor around the room, propping them against the dark red walls. There was another, smaller room through a low archway at the back and Molly took a few in there, which I thought was encouraging. I then waited an agonising few minutes, what felt like the longest few minutes of my life, as she walked around them all, biting her thumbnail; really looking at them properly, head on one side, squatting down to get a better look, peering closely, then moving back to get the perspective. Finally she straightened up, turned and smiled.
“I’ll take them,” she said. “What the hell, they’re huge, but they look great. And even if the customers don’t go for them, I like them. They certainly go a long way to brightening up my bar.”
What I wanted to do was leap up and punch the air and shout “Yesssss!” before jumping, footballer style, into her arms, but I managed to restrain myself and gasp “Thank you!” instead.
“What shall we say—sixty forty on the price tag if they sell? To you, of course.”
I gaped. I hadn’t got as far as that. “Perfect,” I said dazed. God, I’d have given her ninety per cent; would have agreed to anything if she did but know it. We then spent the next ten minutes writing prices on sticky labels—rather high ones, I felt, but who was I to argue?—and putting them on the frames, and then Molly went upstairs to borrow a hammer and a fistful of nails from her builders who were working in her flat above the bar. When she came back down, we set about hanging the pictures there and then. As I passed nails up to her, I felt as if I was walking on air.
“No time like the present,” she’d declared, halfway up a ladder and banging one in, taking a painting from me and hanging it carefully above the low archway. “And it’s not as if I’ve got any bloody customers!”
We hung eleven in all, and one, my largest and favourite, a Parisian street scene, we put right behind the bar under a convenient picture light. As I stood back and surveyed it, nestling there amongst the bottles of Martini and vermouth, then turned slowly round and took in the rest of my work, above tables, over the archway, a couple in the back room, all cheaply framed but at least on walls, and not in an easel or stacked away in a wardrobe, I felt such a rush of pleasure I was nearly sick.
“They look great,” said Molly in surprise, turning about. “Really—you know—professional. And they transform the place. Looks like a proper French café now.”
It did. What had been a dark, gloomy bar with north-facing bow windows, now looked cheerful and atmospheric, like a nineteenth-century Impressionists’ retreat. One could almost imagine them in here, in fact, in their smocks and berets, smoking their Gauloise, knocking back their pastis, bitching about Toulouse-Lautrec, before bustling back to their easels in their garrets.
“You need some of those ashtrays,” I said suddenly. “The yellow ones, triangular, with something written—”
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