Choral Society

by Prue Leith

  ‘C’mon Jo, are you sleeping together?’ Rebecca demanded.

  ‘Becca,’ Lucy remonstrated, ‘give the woman a chance.’

  Joanna shook her head and Rebecca said at once, ‘Well, does he kiss you? Do you … ?’

  ‘No, we aren’t, and he hasn’t. Not yet. But I have a feeling he’s holding back. Sometimes I am sure he’s attracted to me – I know it – but then nothing happens.’

  Lucy said, ‘Isn’t he a recent widower? Maybe he’s still grieving.’

  Joanna thought about this for a moment. ‘Could be, though his wife’s been dead quite a while now. Or it could be his daughter. Perhaps he’s scared of complications.’

  She told them about the scene in the Ladies with Caroline.

  ‘What a bitch!’ said Rebecca. ‘Why shouldn’t her father …’

  ‘No, no, Becca!’ Lucy interrupted, ‘Caroline is just jealous and frightened. She’s lost her mother and she’s scared stiff she’ll lose her father too.’

  Joanna suddenly sat back and said, ‘I can’t believe I told you all this. I wish I hadn’t because maybe nothing will come of it. Anyway, enough of Stewart. What’s up with you two, besides shopping? Rebecca, how is our singing teacher? Is it getting serious?’

  Rebecca said, ‘No, no chance. The passionate twice-a-night-bit never lasts longer than six months, does it? But …’

  Lucy laughed. ‘Rebecca, I don’t know about Joanna, but I’ve not done enough personal research to know. So we’ll believe you.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Rebecca went on. ‘I heard some guy on the radio explaining why, but I’ve forgotten the explanation. Anyway, after six months it gets to be more good friends than lovers, or goes off the boil altogether. We’re still bubbling along after, let’s see, April to Jan … Good God, that’s nine months!’ She looked at them in astonishment. ‘That’s a long time if you aren’t serious, isn’t it?’

  ‘And you aren’t serious?’

  ‘No, of course not. Nelson is hardly husband material is he? But he’s a lovely guy and I have to say he’s blissful in bed.’

  Joanna signalled for the bill, writing in the air with a raised hand to a passing waiter. She hated the inevitable wait to settle up at the end of the meal.

  There was a slight argument about the bill, both Rebecca and Lucy wanting to pay, but Joanna insisted it was her treat, and anyway her company would pick up the tab.

  ‘You canny thing. You can’t put us down to expenses can you?’ said Rebecca.

  Joanna passed her the chocolates and said, ‘Probably, yes. Remember I said I had some news and a proposition. Stewart is the news. Now comes the proposition, a business one.’

  Joanna reached down and removed a folder from of her briefcase. She pulled out two full page photographs and handed one to Lucy and one to Rebecca.

  Lucy looked at hers. The photograph was of a wide two-storey house perched on the edge of a cliff, the distant sea dotted with sailing boats. The picture had been taken from the side so that some of the terraced garden in front of the house could be seen. It had palm trees to the side, and a mass of flowering rhododendrons and azaleas to the front. On a terrace on the cliff side was a long slate table and iron chairs.

  Puzzled, Lucy and Rebecca swapped pictures. The second photograph was of the same house, but taken from the sea. It showed a shingle beach, a small quay and boathouse, and a precipitous set of stone steps zigzagging up the cliff with the enormous house, low and many-windowed, at the top. The sky was picture-postcard blue behind the palms, the froth of rhododendrons riotously pink.

  ‘Good God, Joanna, you haven’t bought this, have you? Where is it? The Caribbean?’

  Joanna laughed. ‘No and no. It’s in Cornwall.’

  ‘Cornwall? What’s with Cornwall?’ Rebecca asked.

  ‘I’ve been asked by Innovest – you know, my company – to look after this place,’ replied Joanna. ‘It’s called Pencarrick and it’s a sort of holiday resort with summer school attached. They teach all kinds of stuff – cookery, sailing, painting, jewellery-making and so on. I went there last week and it’s really something.’

  Lucy was confused. ‘But I thought Innovest were investors, or business backers or something?’

  ‘The owner wants to borrow a shedload of money to turn it into a much posher hotel, and to add a spa, etc,’ said Joanna. ‘The rest of the Innovest board are not too keen, but I’ve rather fallen for the place, and fancy spending some of the summer there. So I persuaded my colleagues to let me do a feasibility study about future expansion, property values and generally assess the business potential. Even if we invest, we won’t be doing any alterations until after the season anyway, so it’s a good opportunity to check the owner’s business nous and see what’s what.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like a money-spinner to me,’ said Lucy. ‘It must be very seasonal, and I doubt if they can charge much for a kids’ sailing course.’

  ‘No, I agree,’ said Joanna, ‘but money has been pouring into Cornwall lately. The idea is that with Cornwall’s good weather, and airports becoming an increasing nightmare, the rich might like an exclusive, five-star resort where they can learn things or just get pampered. It’s only four and a half hours from London by motorway or train, so there might be an all-year-round market for luxury short breaks. But the idea is that I investigate.’

  ‘Could be fun.’ Lucy put a chocolate truffle into her mouth and let it melt before swallowing slowly. ‘Where in Cornwall?’

  ‘On the south coast, miles from the caravanners and teenage ravers. There are wonderful walks along the cliff-tops—

  ‘OK,’ Rebecca interrupted, ‘the commercial sounds terrific. But where do we come in? You said you had a proposition?’

  Joanna stirred the froth on her cappuccino and said, ‘I thought Lucy could teach a few short cooking or cookery-writing courses, which would give us an idea of what the market is, and Becca, you could advise me on the décor. The survey didn’t find any structural problems but the interior is shabby and the current designers haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Brilliant! I’d bite your hand off!’ exclaimed Rebecca, eyes alight with excitement. ‘Bill never lets me do a whole job. But I swear I’m better than him!’

  Joanna laughed. ‘Don’t get too carried away. All we’ll do this summer is plan the décor, run the place much as before with guest tutors, see what works and what doesn’t, and make recommendations.’ She turned to Lucy. ‘What do you say, Lucy?’

  Lucy was suddenly sure this was all an elaborate subterfuge. Joanna was inventing the plan, or somehow bending it, into a Save Lucy project.

  ‘Joanna, are you including us to stop me getting depressed?’

  Joanna, Lucy was relieved to see, looked completely nonplussed. Oh God, she thought, now I’m being paranoid.

  ‘No, OK, I’m sorry, Jo,’ she went on, ‘but I seem to go up and down like a bloody yo-yo. I was feeling great on account of this posh suit Rebecca made me buy, but I’m so neurotic …’

  ‘Forget it, darling,’ said Rebecca, her hand on Lucy’s. ‘Joanna is a control freak but she isn’t going to stage a summer in Cornwall just to get you on an even keel. Are you, Joanna?’

  ‘Lucy,’ replied Joanna, ‘your husband died, what, maybe a year ago? You are allowed to be as neurotic as you like. But you’ve still got to come to Cornwall. I need you.’

  The women met again that evening for the singing class. Lucy had very nearly cancelled. Was being chronically sleepy in the afternoon a product of stress or of old age? Or too much champagne at lunch?

  But a pot of tea, made for her by Grace, had restored her somewhat, and the thought of the argument she’d get from her daughter if she chucked the class had her changing out of her smart suit and into comfortable trousers and top.

  The group’s singing was improving. The choir had expanded and been joined by some good singers. Over the last year they had progressed from blues and simple gospel hymns to Schubert and Handel. There was talk of them singing Handel�
��s Messiah at Christmas, and tonight they had another go at the Hallelujah chorus. Lucy knew she’d sung it better, many times, with David, but it still had the power to exalt. It is singer-proof, she thought. The most untrained school choir would enjoy doing it, and even if they did it badly, something sublime would get through.

  They sang carefully at first, all eyes on Nelson, but as the tempo increased and hallelujah piled on hallelujah, Nelson loosened the reins a bit, and the singers began to lose themselves in the sound. It was the first time they’d sung the chorus right through and Lucy realised that Nelson, for once, was letting them just enjoy it unchecked.

  After the last note there was a tiny moment of complete silence, everyone still lost in the glory of the music, reluctant to return to earth.

  Lucy looked at her fellow singers. They all shared that open, fulfilled look that singing brings, their eyes alight and their bodies relaxed. Only Joanna had her eyes closed. She stood with her fingers resting lightly on her throat, her face suffused with a deep content.

  Lucy watched as Joanna opened her eyes and met those of Nelson. He nodded slightly, gravely, a tiny gesture of approval and congratulation. Joanna’s face slowly broke into a smile, and then a grin. Lucy, standing next to her, put an arm around her and gave her a quick squeeze.

  Nelson punched the air with an exultant fist. ‘Wow, that was good, guys, really good! And you see,’ he said, turning to Joanna again, ‘you found yo’ singin’ voice, Jo! I told you we’d do it, didn’t I? All you needed was time and a little help from yo’ friends!’

  Chapter Nineteen

  In February, on her fifty-sixth birthday (though she did not tell him that) Joanna invited Stewart to dinner. For months they had met in restaurants or pubs, and of course in the Greenfarms or Innovest offices, but he had never been to her house.

  It was a Friday and she took most of the afternoon off. As she plumped cushions, tidied magazines, arranged flowers and cooked the dinner, she became more excited and more nervous.

  She dressed in a cream wool skirt, clingy and long, a cream silk shirt, short stone cardigan, flat shoes. No jewellery —just careful make-up so she’d look good without seeming to try too hard.

  Stewart arrived with a present, a pretty sea-green bracelet made of flat glass beads linked with silver wires.

  ‘ Oh Stewart, it’s so pretty. Really lovely. Much more delicate and feminine than the things I usually wear! Thank you.’

  She wriggled her hand into the bracelet and held her wrist against the cream of her skirt, admiring it.

  ‘It suits you,’ he said, taking her wrist and turning her hand over to look at it. ‘You should indulge your frivolous side sometimes.’

  She noticed how cool his hand was on her wrist. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Some gifty shop in St Moritz. We were staying at the chalet.’

  Joanna didn’t question him further. ‘We’ would have been he and Caroline, and she did not want to hear that they’d bought a job-lot of presents, or that he’d bought the bracelet for his daughter and she’d rejected it. He would not, she was sure, have deliberately set out to buy her a bracelet, but she was thrilled with it anyway.

  Joanna showed him round the house and turned on the garden lights so they could look at it through the windows, without venturing into the cold. To her eyes it looked rather bedraggled and wintry, but he was full of praise.

  When she led him into the dining room, he looked at the carefully laid table, surprised.

  ‘Just me? I’d somehow imagined a dinner party?’

  Oh God, thought Joanna, he’s feeling cornered. Did I mean to corner him? Do I mean to?

  ‘No. Oh dear, I’m sorry, were you expecting interesting glitterati? I’m afraid it’s just me.’

  ‘Good.’ He sat down, smiling. ‘Dinner for two is just fine.’

  Joanna had played safe with the food: really fine smoked salmon to start, a couple of lamb shanks bought ready cooked from the deli, a green salad made exclusively of romaine with a lot of avocado in it, and cheese. It was good, Joanna knew, but she was still, in spite of two glasses of wine, a little nervous.

  I’m talking too much she thought, but Stewart’s capacity for silence and his steady gaze on her were unnerving.

  He was spreading goat’s cheese on a biscuit when he suddenly dropped his knife and biscuit on the plate and stood up.

  ‘Stop talking, Joanna.’ He came round and pulled her to her feet. He said, very quietly and deliberately, ‘There’s no help for it, Jo, I have to make love to you. Now.’

  She let him take her hands and for a second closed her eyes. Oh, God, it was happening. She had longed for this moment for months. He led her into the bedroom and turned to face her. Neither of them spoke as he pushed her cardigan slowly off her shoulders. It fell to the floor behind her. When he reached for the top button of her shirt she saw that his hands were trembling and she had to help him. He pushed the shirt off her shoulders as he had the cardigan.

  Her eyes on his, she reached behind her back to undo her bra. He held her gaze as she slipped her arms from the straps. And then he dropped his eyes and whispered, ‘Oh, Joanna’.

  Her heart was thumping as he pulled her quickly into his chest, one strong arm around her back, one hand under her breast, his warm breath on her neck. She wanted to stay like this for ever.

  She stayed still, feeling the rise of raw lust invade her. She could feel the texture of his jacket against her bare breasts – she thought she could feel the exact herringbone pattern of it. She could smell the sharp lemony scent of his aftershave, hear every gradation of his rapid breathing.

  She could no more help herself than a puppet. Her head went back and his mouth came down on hers. ‘Oh, Stewart,’ she said, ‘Please, please.’

  *

  For a second Joanna looked at the empty bed beside her and thought it had not happened. A grey wave of loss engulfed her. Was last night a fantasy; a figment of her longing?

  And then the bathroom door clicked and Stewart walked in, a towel around his waist.

  She sat up, almost sick with relief. She wrapped her arms around her knees. ‘Oh Stewart, I thought for a minute that it didn’t happen. That I’d imagined last night!’

  He came and sat on the side of the bed and took her face in his hands. She could feel a foolish grin spreading across it.

  ‘Silly girl,’ he said, as though she were a child. ‘Let’s fix the memory a little more firmly then.’ He pushed her knees flat and pulled the sheet off her. Then he yanked her by the ankles to lie her flat and stood looking down at her.

  Joanna immediately worried that he would notice her knees. They looked all right bent, but when straight she really hated them, especially the right one which was worse than the left. She brought them up a little to iron out the creases. But Stewart was not interested in her knees.

  ‘You’ve got the body of a young woman,’ he said, his voice deep with desire. He leaned over to run his hands over her breasts, feel her ribcage and belly as if she were an animal he intended to buy. As he slid his hand between her thighs, he added, ‘With the responses of a very grown-up one.’

  It was true. As soon as he’d flipped back the sheet, even before he’d touched her, a warm flood of longing had run through Joanna. And now that his voice was enveloping her, transfixing her, all concern about her age, her legs, evaporated. She could not prevent her body squirming slightly under his gaze and her breath quickening.

  His skin was damp from the shower and smelled of soap, and his fresh-shaved cheeks were smooth and delicious. He made love to her slowly and so deeply that he had her crying out. And then, as she was drifting into sleep, she felt his kiss on her neck.

  ‘I want more, darling, we have to do it again,’ he whispered. Joanna wanted only to lie still, to sleep and drift, but he would not listen and caressed her again and again to a pitch of pleasure, each time more agonising than the last.

  When he finally let her rest, and held her as she lay on his s
houlder, she felt completely drained, floating on a sea of exhaustion. He told her she was the lover he always wanted, the more desirable because she was not a girl. Joanna did not really believe him, but it did not matter. She’d never felt such deep content.

  They slept for an hour then. When they woke again, she said, ‘I’ve never had such a good birthday in my life.’

  ‘What? Is it your birthday?’

  ‘Was. Yesterday. And you gave me this.’ She showed him her arm, the bracelet on her wrist.

  He kissed her wrist and palm below the bracelet and said, ‘Very inadequate birthday present. We’ll go to Bond Street and improve on it.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I love it.’

  ‘You’re one hell of a woman, Joanna. Under that pin stripe business persona is a very sexy beast.’ He sat up and ruffled her hair as one might a child’s. ‘How old is the birthday girl?’

  ‘Much too old and wise to tell you that.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘Wise you may be. Old you are not. But more important: can you fry eggs? Because I like mine sunnyside up and on toast. I’m going for the Sunday papers.’

  Joanna wore happiness like a coat. It was such a cliché, and she never thought it could happen to her again, but she felt giddy with longing. When she saw the name Stewart on her mobile phone display, her guts would turn to water, and she would have to close her eyes while she listened to his voice.

  And he was so surprising. One evening he was hanging his trousers neatly in the trouser-press when something heavy fell from the pocket.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, bending to pick up a small leather box. He tossed it onto the bed in front of her.

  ‘I bought you this today.’

  It was a Patek Philippe watch.

  It was beautiful. So classic and pared-down. Elegant and special, but no flash or bling about it.

  ‘But … why?’ she said, puzzled. It’s not my birthday …’

  ‘I know. But I saw it and thought you’d like it, so …’

  ‘But …’

  ‘You do like it? You can change it.’