Toby nodded. He stood up and scribbled an address on a piece of scrap paper. ‘Thomas is on the third floor,’ he said. ‘At times he’s a total bitch but tell him I’ll smack him if he isn’t nice to you.’
She giggled, took the address and ran.
FORTY-SIX
On the Saturday of her date with Toby, Claire spent the morning and early afternoon working at Mrs Patel’s and tutoring Safta so that she could have the evening off. She didn’t notice the troubled expression on Mrs Patel’s face when she asked for the change in schedule.
As well as helping both of the Patel girls with their homework, she started clearing some of the rubbish from the back garden, before she left to take the tube home. Though she was tired, she took the time to put up more of her signs. Thomas, not quite bitchy, not quite cooperative, and without looking at her much either, had done a beautiful job and had printed out fifty copies on a variety of colored papers. As Claire tied them with the contrasting yarn to lamp posts, fence palings and tree trunks she was impressed with the bright spot of color each one made. She covered several blocks in the neighborhood and, when she had gotten half of them up, she stopped, feeling she had done more than enough for one day. She couldn’t resist, however, leaving a few on her own street. When she got to the front door of the flat she turned around and had to smile. She had been a modern day Hansel and Gretel, but instead of bread crumbs she had left a trail of papers and bows. She wasn’t sure if they would get a single inquiry, or if anyone would actually show up, but she decided that, even if they didn’t, she was glad she had tried.
She turned her key in the lock and ran lightly up the staircase to the little haven at the top of the house. As she shrugged out of her coat, Im’s voice floated out from the bedroom. ‘Hello, hello. What have you been up to?’
Claire was too shy, too afraid of failure to mention the flyers. ‘I’m going to the opera with Toby,’ she said as she went to the hall closet to pull out her clothes for the evening.
‘Oh, really?’ Im said, both her voice and her eyebrows raised. She watched Claire, who wanted to be rested for her visit to Covent Garden. But Im kept her chatter up and Claire listened to her talk about Malcolm and their plans. It wasn’t that different from listening to Tina’s constant monologue but the accent was far more pleasant.
She made herself a cup of tea, ran water for her bath and wondered why she didn’t feel quite the same sort of anticipation about going out with Toby as she had with Michael. She told herself not to be foolish. She was going out to the opera – something she had never done – with a man she liked and admired. If she didn’t feel that total suffusion of love that she had with Michael, it was because it would be inappropriate. She didn’t really know Toby, she’d never kissed him, and she had no idea how he felt about her.
Of course, she thought, as she soaked in the hot water, she had known that Michael didn’t share her passion, yet she had felt for him. Love didn’t seem to be something you could control. It was or it wasn’t. She had done her best to forget her feelings for Michael but now, because of this new opportunity with a man she supposed, they had come flooding back, reminding her how dangerous they could be. Well, she wasn’t confused about Toby. He was no ladies’ man, and he was charming and intelligent and generous. He may have simply asked her out because he had a spare ticket. This time she would take things very slowly and expect very little.
She arrived at the bookstore in plenty of time. She wore her navy-blue dress and her pearls. It wasn’t an exciting ensemble but Toby seemed to eye her approvingly. ‘Ah, here you are.’ He turned back to two older women who were both holding carrier bags and watching him intently. ‘I’m afraid I can’t take them off your hands,’ he said. ‘I’m really having trouble selling the stock I’ve got.’
Claire watched as the women’s shoulders drooped. They began to repack books into their bags. She felt sorry for them – they were obviously desperate to make a few pounds – and apparently so did Toby.
‘Wait a minute. Here we go,’ he said, picking a volume up. ‘I’ve got a customer for this one.’ The two women brightened immediately. ‘Would you take ten pounds for it?’ Toby asked. They chimed their assent together and the business was quickly completed. Once they were out of the shop, Toby sighed. ‘I’m too soft by half. I should be underwritten by the local council,’ he said, confirming Claire’s suspicion that he had absolutely no one willing to buy the book he’d just purchased. ‘Well, do unto others,’ he said. ‘Now if only someone would do this to me I could afford better seats at the opera.’ He smiled at her. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I inherited the box from my uncle. Quite good location. Dress circle. But it rather puts a burden on me. Can’t give it up, can’t afford to keep it.’
‘Oh, perhaps I should pay …’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Toby said, took her arm and escorted her from the shop.
Lucia di Lammermoor was going crazy. Her brother Enrico – worse than Fred – had tricked her into confiding her love for Edgardo. Then he’d married her to Arturo. She had just discovered the horrible ruse and now, drenched in blood, she had not only murdered Arturo in reaction, but she was mourning the loss of Edgardo, and the love she could have had for a lifetime.
Unlikely as the plot might be, Claire leaned forward breathless and watched Lucia go mad. Her voice was the most beautiful sound Claire had ever heard, and though she couldn’t understand the Italian she knew all of the feelings that Lucia expressed. Her voice dipped and soared and Claire felt herself begin to sob at the tragedy of what poor, innocent Lucia had been robbed of. It was the third act, and though Claire didn’t know that it had been a famous classic almost from the time it was written, she felt its power grip her. She clutched the balustrade and wept unselfconsciously until Toby handed her a clean folded handkerchief. Only then was she recalled to herself. Lucia wasn’t singing to her, nor had she lost Edgardo. Her Edgardo, Mr Wonderful, had never loved her, and she wasn’t important enough to be tricked into marrying someone else. Embarrassed at her reaction, she mopped up her face and tried to calm herself before they left the theater.
‘I didn’t know you were such an opera buff,’ Toby commented when she had managed to quiet herself. ‘Elizabeth Futral was wonderful. Did you ever hear her in the States?’ Claire just shook her head. She didn’t feel like explaining that she had never seen an opera, that she’d never even heard of Elizabeth Futral, and that she had confused some of Lucia’s feelings with her own. She looked down at Toby’s handkerchief and realized she couldn’t return it to him in its present condition. She stuffed it into her purse and gave him a watery smile. He smiled back. ‘I actually prefer the stalls to the dress circle.’ He looked away, letting her gather herself. ‘The drop-scene was good, don’t you think? Back in my student days I used to sit in the gods but since Uncle dropped off the hooks I’ve moved down in the world.’ He took her arm. ‘Here, you can have this, too,’ he said as he handed her the program for the opera.
‘Oh, no. You can keep it.’
‘I have enough of them already. Consider this your first of many. Now, come, my little chicken,’ he said, ‘I know a delightful boite where I can ply you with wine and a savory until you feel yourself.’
Claire recovered long before they reached the restaurant. Toby put his arm through hers and patted her hand. Oh, she was beginning to like him so very much. He must like her. Once at the ‘boite’, Toby talked about his student days at Oxford before he had been ‘sent down’ – which seemed to be English for expelled. ‘So. Now on the gossip. What do you think of Our Im?’
‘I like her.’
‘As do we. Did she hit you with the second cousin to the Queen bit?’ Claire nodded. Toby laughed. ‘We all make bets on how long it will take her in any conversation before she mentions it. Six minutes has been her record. Can’t think what they have in common. Im’s dad can be a bit toffee-nosed but he’s not such a climber. And her mother’s pretty down to earth – in fact he seems to get tired of the
old bird. They’re certainly no Antony and Cleopatra.’ Toby shook his head. ‘The only thing the two of them seem dead keen on are loose covers, loose-boxes and loose waterproofs.’ Before Claire could ask what any of those were, Toby continued. ‘Have you met Malcolm?’ Claire shook her head. ‘He’s a bit wet, but I suppose rattle-brained Im could do worse.’
Claire wondered if she would ever meet Malcolm – Im only seemed to have him over when Claire was at work. But what did it matter to Claire? She was grateful to be living there – Im wasn’t obliged to introduce her to her friends. ‘She’s lovely,’ Claire said, loyal to her generous roommate.
‘Yes, but what does it all mean? She’ll just marry and breed and her children will marry and breed and so on and so on.’
Claire shrugged. ‘Well, isn’t that what everyone does?’ she asked. Didn’t Toby ever plan to ‘marry and breed’, as he put it.
Toby looked over the top of his glasses at her. ‘Not quite everyone, my dear,’ he said. ‘Let’s share a pudding, shall we? Afters is always the best part of the meal.’ Claire knew by now that pudding was the generic for dessert. She supposed ‘afters’ meant the same. ‘Shall we be naughty and have sticky toffee pudding?’ Toby proposed.
Claire admitted she’d never tried it. ‘Pure ambrosia,’ Toby assured her. ‘Of course, I always like the opportunity to ask for spotted dick but I don’t really enjoy it.’ The waiter appeared, Toby asked for the toffee pudding and ordered a dessert wine. ‘Simply because you need to keep up your strength,’ he told her with a grin.
The ‘afters’ was the best thing she had ever had and Claire tried not to eat more than her share. They were just finishing and Toby was paying the bill when he turned to her, his glasses slightly askew and his hair tousled. ‘I completely forgot. My charity in the bookstore and your reaction to Lucia put it out of my mind. But I’ve had a call about your classes.’
For a moment Claire didn’t know what he was talking about. She was a little fuzzy from the opera, her feelings for Toby, and the drink. But she thought she had heard good news. ‘A call?’
‘Yes. Some woman wanted to register. I had no idea what to do so I faked it. I told her she didn’t need to do anything but give me her name. Was that right? Shall I take you home?’ he continued, not realizing the importance of the news he had just given her.
FORTY-SEVEN
When Claire walked into Knitting Kitting on Monday morning, to her surprise, there was a customer. At least she thought at first that he was a customer, though an unlikely one. For one thing he was a man. For another, he was very well dressed in a business suit and actually rather good-looking – what Imogen might call ‘dishy’. He was very fair with eyelashes, eyebrows and hair almost the same light color as his skin. That made the blue of his eyes even more startling when he turned them on her.
Claire had a smile ready but didn’t have a chance to greet him. ‘Ah. Here she is. I think I need to speak to you,’ he said. Claire smiled at him inquiringly. To her surprise he didn’t smile back. Actually, his lips compressed into a narrow white line. ‘Are you the one who’s done this?’ he asked and held out one of her flyers. Claire nodded. Perhaps he wanted to enroll his wife in a class. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Don’t you know people don’t like trash tied to their private property? And that you don’t advertise a business the way you do a church fête?’
‘Now Nigel,’ Mrs Venables began.
‘Don’t “now Nigel” me. This is irresponsible behavior. And it’s illegal. Full stop.’
Claire had put signs up all over but didn’t know it was illegal or wrong. Could he be from the police department? Certainly not in that suit. More likely an angry neighbor. But she had been careful to space out the notices. Could somebody be annoyed over one page of paper tied to a lamp post? ‘I don’t think …’ she began.
‘You certainly don’t. And do you read? You posted all over the “No Hoardings” signs.’ Claire had seen signs saying that. She’d thought they were about some law against saving up food or something. She had tied up flyers right over them.
‘I’m sorry …’ she began, but he gave her no time for apologies.
‘And whose idea was this? Who asked you to interfere?’
Claire was completely chagrined, then relieved when Mrs Venables came out from behind the counter. ‘Nigel, stop that right now. You may be a barrister but Claire is not on trial. She asked me if she could do it and I agreed.’
Clearly this pale and angry man wasn’t threatening to Mrs Venables. The old woman put her arm around Claire’s shoulder. ‘She was helping me. I asked her to. You have no right to blame her. And I certainly don’t approve of your tone of voice.’ Claire felt Mrs Venables’s arm tighten. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. Permit me to introduce you to my son. Claire Bilsop, this is my son Nigel. He’s a good boy but sometimes he’s overprotective. Please excuse him.’
‘Mother, I …’
‘Nigel, don’t raise your voice.’
To her surprise, Claire felt tears rising, blurring her sight. How humiliating. She didn’t want to wipe at her eyes but she certainly didn’t want this arrogant man to see her cry.
‘I didn’t raise my voice. I was simply taken off-guard. I had to respond to half a dozen phone calls.’
‘Were they complaints?’ Mrs Venables asked.
Nigel Venables turned his head, walked to the window and looked out onto the street. ‘No. Not exactly. But you must understand that homeowners don’t want commercial establishments to post notices …’
Claire, so excited about her list of possible class attendees, now felt ashamed of them. And why had people called Mrs Venables’s son? His number wasn’t listed.
‘Were they inquiries about the class, Nigel?’
He looked back at them. ‘I suppose so. And I felt a proper fool knowing nothing about it. The point is, Mother, this idea is ridiculous. It’s going to come a cropper.’
Claire hated to appear pathetic, but even worse was to appear ridiculous. Her idea, which had sounded so practical and effective, something she’d been so proud of, was ridiculous? But people had called, not only Toby but this detestable Nigel. Her heart lifted a little. And some were people who wanted to register? How had they gotten Nigel Venables’s number? Why hadn’t they called Toby’s?
Nigel crumpled one of the flyers and tossed it onto the window seat. ‘Since I bought this property the neighborhood has been watching to see if I plan to develop it. I don’t need any extra attention.’ He looked back at Claire. ‘You can’t treat people’s private properties as if they were billboards. This isn’t the United States, you know. Next you’ll be handing out freebie subs at tube stations.’
‘Nigel, that will be quite enough.’ Mrs Venables turned to Claire. ‘I’m sorry, he’s not at his best right now.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Claire’s idea is a good one. Shake hands with her, Nigel, and behave properly.’
Reluctantly, Nigel extended his hand which was long, very pale and surprisingly warm. But he made the handshake brief and hardly looked at her. Then he sighed, letting both of his hands drop helplessly to his side. ‘You’re quite impossible,’ he told his mother. ‘If you need help, why didn’t you tell me? You know how I feel. This place is altogether too much for you to manage.’
‘I know, dear. I should stay home and dust the Staffordshire. But you see, I don’t like to dust.’ She turned to Claire. ‘Come and sit over here at the pattern table. I’ll make you both a cup of tea.’
‘Oh, fine! Let us make you extra work. Why not cook us dinner?’
‘I’d be delighted to,’ said Mrs Venables, already filling a kettle. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come to dinner sometime next week, Claire?’
‘Mother, you’re getting into one of your moods and …’
‘I? In one of my moods? I can’t imagine what would ruffle my normal calm, except perhaps for an over protective son descending like an enraged headmistress and scolding his mother as well as an innocent stranger.’ Mrs Venables tu
rned off the tap. ‘Do you want a biscuit as well? I have your favorite macaroons.’
Nigel put a long hand over his eyes and Claire almost felt sorry for him. He seemed calmer now, resigned almost, and not nearly as frightening. He leaned against the counter, took a deep breath and made quite a production of exhaling. ‘Can we discuss this whole idea? I take it it was Miss Bilsop’s?’
‘Well, don’t be so sure. You underestimate your mother,’ Mrs Venables said.
‘It was my idea,’ Claire admitted. ‘But I asked permission. I just thought it might increase business …’
‘Just what my mother doesn’t need, increased business! Which means increased work. Which means increased blood pressure. Don’t you know …’
‘Nigel, I don’t want to have to be sharp with you but I am going to insist you drop this subject and change your tone of voice,’ his mother interjected. ‘Claire isn’t interested in my medical reports. Is this what they teach you at the Inns of Court? Now, tell us how many phone calls you have had about the class.’
‘Well, about five,’ he admitted, ‘but there’s probably another three on the ansaphone.’
‘And they all objected to a bit of paper tied with wool to a lamp post?’
Nigel sat on the corner of the pattern table. ‘No. Some did, but some inquired about the class. They said they didn’t get an answer at that phone number. So they rang my number on the shop sign.’
Claire wondered if Toby had taken the phone off the hook. Had she imposed on him too much?
Mrs Venables filled the teapot and brought it to the table. Then she took out a tin of homemade cookies – they looked far too moist and good for Claire to think of them as biscuits – and put them on a plate. ‘Claire, my dear, how many signs did you hang?’
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