by Shaw, O. C
“If we’re going to get any cooking done, I need you to wear one of these,” he says, his voice darker sounding than I’ve heard it before. He reaches past me to the back of the door and unhooks an apron, swiftly putting it over my head before placing his hands on my hips and turning me on the spot. I swear I can feel my skin burning at his touch, even through my jeans. As he swiftly ties a bow, pulling the apron tight over my hips and emphasising my newly slimmed waist, I try to gather what remains of my wits and focus on the task at hand. Cooking for seventeen people is a stretch, considering the most I’ve ever cooked for previously was eight, when both sets of parents had once come for Christmas. What a miserable experience that had been for everyone. I don’t think it was coincidence that both my parents and Greg’s tended to go away now over Christmas – a pattern that had started pretty much from the same year. Still, the principles must be the same, I reassure myself. It’s just the quantities that are different, and space might be a challenge. Although a quick glance around the modern-styled kitchen, complete with a massive range cooker plenty big enough for two chickens and some roast spuds, puts that concern to bed. Now it’s all about the timings. While I’ve been checking it all out, James has been pouring us both large glasses of wine.
“One of the fringe benefits of offering to cook for everyone,” he says, handing me one of the glasses.
“Thank you,” I say, automatically taking a sip and trying to collect myself. “Okay,” I say, looking directly at James, “find the potatoes and start peeling, please.”
“Yes chef,” he replies crisply in the manner of the people I’ve seen in the T.V. chef programmes. He dutifully finds all the accoutrements he needs and sets to his task, while I prepare the chickens and get them into the oven, sipping my wine as I go about my work. When I look over to see how he’s getting on, I’m pleasantly surprised. He’s actually very proficient; this is clearly not the first time he’s peeled a potato. I put the water on to parboil them once he was done with the peeling, and then move to find the other vegetables that had been bought to accompany the meal. Purple sprouting broccoli with baby carrots and mangetout seem to be the vegetables du jour – wow, posh vegetables. Even better, they take virtually no time to prepare or cook, so we can leave them until the last minute.
“What do I do with these?” James asks, looking at the pile of potatoes in front of him, all freshly peeled and cut.
“Put them in the pan of water on the cooker, please.” He proceeds to deftly do as I ask – I’m beginning to suspect he’s at least as well qualified as I am to be cooking this meal. Once done he wanders to the fridge and retrieves the bottle of white wine before collecting our now empty glasses, sitting down beside me at the big oak table and pouring us each another large glassful.
“You must let us know how much we owe you for all this,” I say as I reach for my glass, sipping nervously. My mouth feels dry from the proximity of his body to mine. I know if I just flexed my knee we would be touching. I keep sipping my wine to give myself something to do. At this rate I’m going to be legless before the chicken is cooked.
“What?” he says, sounding mystified.
“All the food and drink,” I say, indicating the purple sprouting broccoli and wine, “it must be costing a fortune, and you’re already providing the house – which is amazing, by the way.”
“Glad you like it,” he says, looking genuinely pleased.
“It’s stunning. I don’t know how you could ever leave it, although I guess when you rent it out it must feel less like home, and you probably have somewhere equally gorgeous at home.”
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Yes,” I say slowly, wondering what I’m about to hear as I take a large, undignified gulp of the rather fine wine.
“I don’t actually rent it out,” he whispers. “It just stands waiting for when I, or anyone else in the family, want to come and use it. The housekeeper, Mrs Edge, looks after everything while the family aren’t here. She’s the one who got all the food in.”
“Why did you say you rent it, then?” I ask, genuinely bemused.
“Because, in my experience, people feel uncomfortable when you rub their face in your wealth. I thought the group would be more relaxed if they thought it was a rental house. So, really my contribution is only the food and drink because the house would be here anyway and it’s a waste not to make use of it when people are trying to raise money for a good cause.”
“That is actually surprisingly sweet of you,” I say, the alcohol starting to make me bold. It’s hit my bloodstream fast thanks to my empty stomach, all evidence of my half a sandwich at lunch having disappeared long since. “So just what is it that you do, James, that has made you wealthy enough to have a house like this standing waiting for you, all fitted out with the latest mod cons and dining out on purple sprouting broccoli every day?”
He laughs, hesitating before answering,
“I was totally unaware purple sprouting broccoli was an indicator of wealth. Whatever made you think I wasn’t sweet, by the way?”
“I don’t know. Men like you don’t have to be, maybe?”
“Men like me, Lily? We are so going to have to explore what you mean by that sometime soon.” I’m beginning to wish I weren’t drinking quite so freely as he continues, “you asked what I do – nothing special, I’m just an investor. I came into some money a while ago and I’ve used it to invest in various things – a few films, a couple of good innovations, some of the dot-com businesses a few years back which I got out of in good time. It’s made me enough that I’m okay.”
“More than okay, I would say, judging by all this,” I say, indicating the space around us.
“I guess. Look, I know it’s a cliché, but money really doesn’t make you happy, you know, Lily.” The way he keeps using my name feels strangely intimate. I need to distract myself away from the physical response I have from hearing my name on his lips.
“Oh my God, I didn’t expect you to play the ‘poor little rich boy’ card,” I say before I can stop myself, once again rueing my runaway tongue.
He raises his eyebrow at that. “Why don’t you say what you really think, Lily?” he says drily.
“Well, okay I will, and while I’m at it, stop with the ironic eyebrow thing. It’s doing my head in,” I say, indicating the offending feature. Oh my God, what is the matter with me! “Sorry I’m being incredibly rude. You really shouldn’t have let me drink so much; it tends to make me frighteningly honest.”
“Don’t be sorry, I like it,” he says, his eyes softening. “Too many people tend to tell me what they think I want to hear.”
“Look, no disrespect…”
“Which is always the precursor to a disrespectful comment,” he interrupts, laughing.
“Touché,” I smile. “But I can’t feel sorry for your apparent wealth. What you choose to do with it might not make you happy, but surely that’s your own choice. Trust me, not having money can make you unhappy. Not having to worry about money can only be a good thing.”
“Voice of experience?” He’s really looking at me intently now – like I’m some sort of curiosity.
“Yes, sadly very experienced.”
“What does your husband do?”
“He’s an artist – how very traditional of you to assume my husband should take care of me.”
“Why wouldn’t he want to if you’re his wife?” He actually sounds genuinely surprised. “I take it he’s not a tremendously successful artist, then?”
“Not so far,” I say, depressed by the topic now. “Look, can we change the subject? I think we need to move the potatoes from the water to the oil to roast now anyway.” I’m already moving across the kitchen and away from his scrutiny.
“Do you work?” he calls over to me.
“Yes.”
“So… as what? Why are you being evasive, Lily?” There it is, my name again. It sounds strange coming from his lips, kind of refined and less dowdy. Almost like a caress.
“I’m not being evasive; it’s just not very interesting when you work as a receptionist.”
“What about your children, then? Does he look after them?”
“No, I looked after them until they went to school, and then worked during school hours. I’m pretty much full-time now they’re eighteen and they don’t need looking after anymore. Adam has just left for university.”
“Eighteen! Bloody hell, how old were you when you had them, then, twelve?” I guess there was a compliment there if I really looked for it, but this was a conversation I’ve had too many times in my life to take any pleasure from.
“I was nineteen, and no, they weren’t planned, but I got on with it – that’s life.” I really hope this will be the end to the whole conversation. All these reminders of home are killing my buzz.
“So let me summarise what I’ve heard. You fell pregnant at nineteen, married the father,” he makes this sound like a question, as if I may have got pregnant by one man and married another – Jeez, he must have a low opinion of me – I just nod as he continues: “brought up the children and have supported their father while he has struggled to make a career as an artist?”
“Yeah, sounds about right,” I respond, fiddling with the food, while he sits there gazing at me as if I were some strange exotic creature he had never seen before. He gets up from the table and moves to where I’m standing.
“And what about what you wanted?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I can see how everyone else has benefitted, but I’m not sure what you got from it all.”
“Husband, children?”
“So you’re happy?” he says, piercing me with those blue eyes which when he focused them on me seemed to delve straight into my soul. Was I happy? I know I should just say ‘yes’ and be done with the conversation, that if I do he’ll back off and leave me alone. I just can’t seem to form the word. My deafening silence, it seems, is an answer in itself for him, and I watch his expression move from questioning intensity to pleasure. The final expression before I turn away is almost predatory. I force myself to move, trying to escape from a situation I’m not ready to face. I feel afraid, unsure what just happened, cold fingers of fear grasping at my chest and making my breathing become shallower. What have I done? I think, before turning to face him.
We stand there just looking at each other for a few seconds from opposite sides of the room, and then suddenly he’s moving with purpose towards me, his hands reaching to cup my face, his face moving towards mine until our lips touch. It is beautiful and gentle and like no other kiss I’ve received before. When he pulls away my legs feel like jelly, and I stand there looking at him for a moment before my limbs seem to work again and I can stagger away to the safety of the oven.
“So this is where the party is,” Sarah’s voice cuts into the silence. She’s dressed to the nines in skinny black jeans tucked into high-heeled boots, showing off acres of long, lean legs and topped with a tight t-shirt. She goes straight over to place a hand possessively on James’ chest, calling over her shoulder to me: “Is dinner ready?” She actually sounds a lot like Ethan and Adam do at home. To be fair she is probably far closer to their age than my own. But I catch the look of disgust that passes over James’ features as she says it, as does she. He moves away from her, suddenly keen to be checking the food. The vitriolic look she sends my way indicates she thinks I’m entirely to blame for his sudden lack of interest.
“About forty minutes, if you could let the others know?” I say as politely as I’m able, not wanting to stir the situation any further than I already have. She mutters something I don’t quite catch as she flounces out the room.
“What did she say?” I ask James, mystified.
“I think it was ‘whatever’,” he says, and we both fall about laughing at how the slang phrase sounds in his refined tones. It takes me a few minutes to compose myself again. I’m immensely grateful to Sarah for the break in the tension she inadvertently caused, because for the rest of the time as we set the table, finish the vegetables and make some gravy, the silence is just companionable, as other guests drift into the room ready to eat what we had prepared.
The dinner is a resounding success, no doubt helped by James, who acts as a perfect host, and the copious bottles of wine that are flowing throughout the meal. I’ve eased off drinking, anxious about getting too inebriated to think straight when every instinct I have is telling me I’m in danger. When everyone toasts the chef I blush, until Sarah asks if I will be cooking again tomorrow evening. The thought of cooking in my new dress is horrific, but before I can answer James announces he has asked Mrs Edge to come and prepare the food, with some support from a couple of locals, so we could all enjoy the evening. His eyes linger on me as he says it.
With the meal completed, and Arthur, Colin and Pat agreeing to washing up duty, most of us move into the sitting room, with a few people heading for the pub. Annie and Stuart curl up in a chair together, and I can see the body language become more intimate as they talk. When Sarah comes in and sits on James’ lap, and he places an arm around her, she throws me a triumphant look. I’m tired, I realise, ignoring the jealous surge that washes through me, so I quietly stand, slip out of the room and make my way alone to bed.
Chapter 14
The next morning I deliberately stay in bed later, until I know others will be up and about, despite having woken early and heard James’ door open and someone leave his room. My greatest fear, if I’m honest with myself, is that it’s Sarah leaving after a night of sex with James. I hate the thought.
I dress in my walking gear and make my way to the kitchen, where almost everyone is already sitting and having breakfast. Annie had not returned to the room the night before, and one look at her sitting beside Stuart tells me where she’d spent it. She gives me a radiant smile, and I can’t help grinning back at her.
“Details later,” she giggles as we make our way out to the coach.
The weather is far less kind to us on this walk with almost continual rain, and the beautiful scenery shrouded in mist. Despite the waterproof items I’m wearing, rain seems to seep in everywhere, even my underwear. Lunch is a miserable affair, soggy sandwiches not holding much appeal, with the group keen to finish swiftly so we press on after a short break and finish the walk nearly an hour earlier than anticipated.
“You can’t avoid me forever,” a quiet voice at my side informs me. I turn to find James at my elbow.
“I didn’t know I was,” I say as nonchalantly as I’m able, given the fact my heart rate has just accelerated to 100 miles an hour. His eyebrow tells me I haven’t got away with it. “Again with the eyebrow,” I say, pissed off now, and he laughs, which just makes me even more irritated. I flounce onto the bus and flop down next to Annie.
“So he has the most enormous penis,” is the first thing she says. I turn in my seat to look at her, taking a second to work out she’s talking about Stuart.
“Well that’s good,” is all I can think to say.
“Yes, yes it is,” she replies, and we both fall about laughing, trying to compose ourselves only to lose it again when both Stuart and James turn round to scowl at us.
Back at the house, Annie insists on taking care of my beauty preparations for the evening. We spend an enjoyable rest of the afternoon, after our baths, with her doing manicures and pedicures for the both of us while she regales me with stories of her night’s exploits with Stuart. Turns out he has natural staying power, and a taste for locational variety, so they had spent the night shagging in as many of the rooms in the house they could find that were unoccupied, including the oak table in the kitchen, before retiring to his room, which he was fortunately not sharing with anyone. Thank God tonight’s dinner was being served in the formal dining room, I think, concerned there was no way I would be able to eat off the oak table again.
She looks horrified when I tell her I’m not planning to do anything special with my hair and makeup, sittin
g me down in a chair while she plucks my eyebrows and then powders and brushes my face with every conceivable type of makeup, before straightening my hair.
“I went to a religious school, Lily,” she tells me at one point. “Most of the girls found God, while I just found GHD,” she titters, waving her straighteners at me. “Girl, you so need to get yourself a pair of these to manage that unruly mop of yours. I promise you they will change your life.” She won’t let the subject drop until I have ‘crossed my heart and hoped to die’ if I don’t purchase myself a pair when I get home. I haven’t had so much girly fun since I had been at university and before I had hooked up with Greg, and even then I had carried so much teenage angst about myself and my body I hadn’t been able to enjoy it as much. When I put on the underwear Emma had made me buy, and realise she had got me stockings to wear rather than tights, I feel a thrill of excitement. As I slip the dress and shoes on and finally turn to look at the complete ensemble in the mirror, I nearly cry.
“Oh my God, Lily, you look stunning,” Annie breathes as she takes in my appearance. “Wait, let me take a photo. I promised Emma I would.” She fumbles in her bag for her phone while I stand staring at the vision in front of me. Annie had made the makeup enhance my eyes, bringing out their rich chocolate colour and making them look huge, while my skin looks flawless and the light gloss on my lips shows off their natural fullness. My straightened hair falls further down my back, looking sleek and glossy, while the dress enhances my curves as before, flattered further by the well-fitting underwear. Finally the shoes make even my little legs look long. I look like a different person, and even I can see that I look beautiful. More importantly, I feel it.