by Lulu Taylor
‘But – it’s not just the cost of the house. A place like this must be kept up, repaired. We’ll need staff. The garden alone . . .’ Mama looked around her, tense again. ‘And there is something about the atmosphere here, I don’t feel comfortable.’
Xenia went over to her and slipped her hand into hers to give her strength. She knew what Mama meant. She felt the same, despite the obvious beauty of the place.
Papa looked sulky. ‘That’s ridiculous, it’s a magnificent house and we will make it our own. You only have to make one film and we’ll have enough money to keep it going for years.’ His ebullience returned. He walked over to Mama and took her hand in his. ‘We’re rich now. And there’re the expectations from my mother as well. Even if you never work again, we’re sure to be all right. Don’t you see? At last we can begin to live like civilised human beings, the way we are supposed to.’
Mama’s grip tightened on Xenia’s hand until it was almost too much. She wanted to pull away but didn’t see how she could when she was held so tightly.
‘Very well, Paul. I can see it’s too late in any case. It is beautiful.’ She managed a smile. ‘I’m sure we’ll be happy here.’
‘Oh, we will, Natalie. I can see it all now.’ Papa looked around, his eyes shining. ‘This will be our home forever.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Buttercup got back from her ride, put Milky in the stables and sorted her out for the evening, and was running up to the stairs to take a shower when she almost collided with Charles on the landing.
‘You’re back,’ he said. ‘Good.’
She couldn’t read his mood: he seemed flatter than usual, without his normal ebullience. Was he feeling bad about the sacking of Agnieska and Buttercup protesting against it? ‘Yes . . .’
‘Good. Meet me in the drawing room later. I have a surprise.’
‘Okay, but—’
‘I’ll see you there at seven sharp. Don’t be late.’ He vanished back into his study.
Buttercup was apprehensive as she showered. A surprise from Charles was usually a good thing: a new adventure or a generous present or exciting news. For the first time she was not sure that she would like a surprise he had for her. The side of Charles she had seen that day had shocked her. Throughout her ride, she’d been replaying how he’d acted and what he’d said.
Life here is special . . . it’s safe and comfortable. Inside my circle, life is lovely. He was right about that: she had known nothing but safety and comfort since she’d met Charles. She could see now that that was what she had been craving: her life had been full of chaos, uncertainty and sadness, and Charles had appeared like a guardian angel to sort everything out for her. But despite the trips abroad and the houses and holidays, in reality, her life had shut down more and more since she had met him. She had no job. She hardly saw her friends. She had no independence and little freedom to do what she liked without answering to someone. He was right, life inside his circle was lovely; she had a husband she loved and who adored her, a life of luxury, so much to look forward to . . . and yet . . .
She thought of how he was surrounded by people whose mission in life was to make sure that everything ran the way Charles wanted it to – because he paid their wages. He paid the bills, so he could dictate how everything should be. That ought not to apply to Buttercup, his wife, and yet she had fallen into the same mindset as everyone else: Charles was the sun, the focal point, and they all orbited around him.
It’s all on his terms. That’s not what I expected in our marriage. I thought it would be give and take.
No doubt, from the outside she seemed to be a pampered, spoiled wife with a husband who indulged her. She had never wanted to be that person.
And the truth is the opposite of that. We all dance around Charles. He’s the one who is pampered and spoiled. Of course, he earns the money, but he makes sure that he calls the tunes as well. And I’m complicit in it. I even hide my sadness and stress about getting pregnant, in case it bothers him.
She had challenged him over Agnieska and he had made it clear that her objections meant nothing at all. They carried no weight whatsoever. Instead, what he’d said sounded ominous, almost frightening.
Ingrid had crossed him. She was no longer here, not a trace of her. The only sign that Buttercup had that she actually existed, besides James and Charlotte, was her social media profile.
What if Charles thought I had tried to cross him?
She had never told him about the fertility clinic, and the longer she left it, the harder it got to confess. He had not liked her taking Agnieska’s part one little bit. Was that a smaller version of how he would react if he knew about her appointment?
Perhaps he already does know.
She started to feel nervous about whatever Charles might have in store for her that evening.
At seven Buttercup came down the stairs to the main hall, dressed in an emerald green velvet jacket over a silk T-shirt and jeans, just in case Charles planned to whisk her away somewhere. The house appeared to be empty. There was no noise from the kitchen, no Tippi pattering over the marble to greet her.
She stopped in the hall and looked around, but she could see no one. There were security cameras trained on the front door, their dark glasses eyes inscrutable and red dots flashing to show they were recording. The marble busts looked towards her with blank, colourless gazes. The drawing door was closed and no sound came from behind.
She walked over and put her hand on the doorknob. Slowly she turned it and opened the door to darkness within, only the faint glow of pearly light from somewhere to provide any illumination. She stepped inside and could make out nothing but massy shapes where she knew the furniture stood. Suddenly a torch flicked on, shining in her eyes and blinding her for a moment before the beam moved off her face.
‘Come this way.’ It was Charles’s rasping voice. The beam slid onto the floor in front of her, lighting the carpet and then moved ahead of her to show where she should go. Bemused, she followed the pool of light as it moved across the room to one of the armchairs, which had been turned to face the back of the room. The curtains were pulled tightly shut and she could see very little at all, but when she reached the chair, she saw a small table beside it and the other armchair next to it, also facing the far wall. On the table was a bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket and a plate of food.
‘Sit down. We’re almost ready.’
Buttercup said lightly, ‘This is very mysterious!’
‘Shh, no talking please.’
She sat down obediently and heard Charles moving around behind her. Then he said, ‘All systems go.’ A moment later he was in the other armchair, and the torch was off. The next instant, she heard a flourish of violin music and at the back of the room, a famous logo appeared, huge and in shades of black and white: a dove surrounded by an olive wreath. Letters appeared and she read: ‘Columbine Pictures proudly present . . .’
Charles, she realised, had set up a movie screen, a proper room-sized screen that stretched across the back of the drawing room; the sound of an orchestra filled the air around her as the letters curled majestically across the screen:
DELILAH
And then the names of its stars: Natalie Rowe was the first. The credits flashed up as the music played.
A private showing. Just for me.
She looked over at Charles, who was grinning at her in the light from the screen. He leaned over and said, ‘Didn’t I say you should see this film? I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to get around to it. I’ll pour you a drink – sit back and enjoy it.’
When it finished an hour and a half later, Buttercup was sniffing and wiping away tears. The screen went blank, Charles got up with the torch and a moment later, he had switched on the lights and fetched her a tissue from the box on the bureau.
‘Did you like it?’ he asked. He dabbed at her face with the tissue, and she took it from him so she could blow her nose.
‘It was wonderful,’ she said,
her voice still thick with emotion. ‘But so sad at the end! Just when it looks as though everything is going to work out for them—’
‘That rotter Julius got her in the end.’
‘He was a monster! But it was clever, all the way along, you thought Natalie was Delilah, and then you discover the truth and it’s such a shock!’ Buttercup sighed. ‘She was amazing! What a stunner.’
‘And there she is.’ Charles gestured to the portrait over the fireplace.
Buttercup turned and gasped. She’d seen the portrait dozens of times but it had never meant much until now. The living, breathing creature from the screen – so enchanting, so fascinating, ethereally beautiful – was right there on the canvas, in this house. She saw the painting as it had been in the film, hanging in Delilah’s apartment, a symbol of her success and power. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s the actual picture from the movie! I knew that but it didn’t mean anything till now.’ She shook her head in wonderment. ‘It’s so hard to believe that Natalie Rowe actually lived here. That woman existed in this house!’
‘She didn’t just live here. She died here too.’
‘Actually in the house?’
‘Oh yes. Years later, when she was an old woman, with her dotty daughter.’
Buttercup stared at the painting, trying to take it in. From that beauty with the world at her feet to an old woman dying. Like Mum – all the life lived behind her, all the chances gone and over.
From somewhere in her mind, a voice spoke loudly and clearly.
That mustn’t be me. I mustn’t miss my chances. Not while I still have time.
The next morning, Charles left for another business trip, to Shanghai this time. It had been a pleasant evening after the private movie showing. Charles declared it such a success, he wanted to get a proper cinema room built at the house so they could repeat their movie night.
‘The golden oldies only at first. We need to round out your film education. If you’d never seen Delilah, what else haven’t you seen?’
She’d laughed and enjoyed his enthusiasm, getting caught up in plans for the cinema. She put the rupture between them out of her mind. He was her husband and she trusted him. He might have a temper and be controlling, but that was why he was such a success. She loved him despite those qualities when he had so many other wonderful attributes.
As he was leaving, Charles said, ‘Darling, I meant to say – the Christmas party needs arranging, we’ve left it rather late. Can I get Elaine to email you the guest list for checking so we can get the invitations out?’
‘Yes.’ Buttercup was glad of something she could do. ‘I’d love to help. Have her send it through.’
‘Thank you, you’re an angel.’ He smiled. ‘Goodbye, darling, I’ll be home soon, I promise.’
As promised, an email arrived that morning from Elaine with the guest list for the Christmas party, and details of all the arrangements. Charles always threw two parties – one for the village, as he put it, and one in London, his corporate party, with business bigwigs and long-time contacts all invited. Buttercup had nothing to do the London one, she only had to turn up looking glamorous and make small talk with men in suits. The one here at the house was different, much more enjoyable. It included everyone who worked for them and their families, along with neighbours and friends from all over the county. The atmosphere was excited and jolly, the house looked beautiful with great sparkling trees, festoons of ivy, holly wreaths and twinkling lights. The fires would be lit, and carol singers in hats and scarves would gather around the flaming brazier in front of the house. There was mulled wine and champagne and spicy sausages on sticks and mince pies and trays of Christmas treats for the many children. A snow machine blew pretend snow on the terrace, and a jolly Father Christmas would visit, accompanied by two real-life reindeer and a sackful of presents.
Buttercup sat down after breakfast to check the guest list, updating it and adding new names – the Tranters must be invited.
I wonder how they’re getting on. Busy, I expect, with the new baby. I must call in and see them.
She went back to the list and saw that Princess Arkadyoff was also on it. The old lady was always included but never came. It crossed her mind to delete the name, but she stopped herself. Just because their hospitality was never accepted was no reason not to offer it. Instead she hesitated, then added Agnieska’s name plus two children. She wrote next to it: ‘Please check with Carol for surname, address.’
Charles will never see her among five hundred or so others. And why should she and the children miss out on a party and presents? She deserves it. He’ll never know.
She had finished the list, ready to scan and send back, when she looked up and found herself staring at the portrait of Natalie Rowe over the fireplace. The words she’d heard in her mind came back to her:
I mustn’t miss my chances.
After a moment, she leapt up, went to the boot room and put on her coat. Tippi appeared, panting eagerly and wagging her tail, so Buttercup picked up her lead and put it in her pocket, and strode out into the yard, Tippi following. As she went past the stables over the cobbles, she waved at Phil, who was just bringing Topper out to exercise him, but didn’t stop to talk. Instead she walked out into the chill air, enjoying the sharpness in her throat and lungs, heading out of the estate and up the hill while Tippi ran ahead, exploring happily. At the top of the hill she stopped and looked back down on the house, with its sloped tiled roof and many chimneys. The reception was much better outside than it was in the house, and there would be no listening ears there either.
The call was answered almost before it rang. ‘Buttercup, sweet thing, is that you?’
‘Lazlo! Yes of course it’s me. How are you?’
‘Busy and missing you, you scallywag. I’m run off my feet and could do with your help.’ Lazlo’s dramatic tones quietened and he said, ‘Your replacement is hopeless, nowhere near as good as you. Fancy coming back?’
Buttercup laughed. ‘You read my mind! But you weren’t too keen on my idea of recruiting clients for you down here, and I wondered if we could have a chat about it.’
‘Sorry, what are you talking about?’
‘I sent you an email, remember? Then you bumped into Charles and told him it was no go. You said you were too busy to think about expanding the business . . .’
‘Email?’ She could hear Lazlo’s confusion, but he was always so disorganised, it wasn’t a huge surprise.
‘Yes, I wrote to you! You talked about it with Charles. He passed on your message.’
‘Darling, I haven’t seen Charles since your wedding.’
She stared blankly out over the wintery parkland, the house so serene and secure at its centre. ‘Yes, you have.’
‘Nope! I’m dozy but not that dozy. And I’m sure you didn’t send me an email, I would have remembered that! Emails from you are like gold dust.’
‘I . . . I’m sorry, I must have got confused.’ She shivered. Tippi crashed about in the bracken, making her jump.
‘Do you want to think about coming back to work? I’d love that! Let’s meet up and talk about it.’
‘Yes, I’d like that. Maybe after Christmas, when things have quietened down?’
‘Sounds great. I’ll see you at Charles’s Christmas party in any case.’
‘Bye, Lazlo.’
‘Bye, Buttercup.’
Back home, Buttercup went into the drawing room where she’d left her computer, pushed open the screen and fired it up. A moment later, she was in her email account, searching for the sent email to Lazlo. It wasn’t in her sent folder, so she did a search and found her email sitting in the drafts folder. She had never sent it at all.
She stared at the screen, blinking in astonishment. I never sent it! How did Charles know about it?
She had a vision of the screen left open, the draft email on it, someone taking a look and closing it down. Who? Agnieska? Hardly likely with her limited English. Charles himself? He’d bee
n away when she wrote that email, if she remembered rightly. Then surely it had to be Carol – snooping and reporting on her. And Charles had thought she’d actually sent the email to Lazlo. But why did he make up the story about meeting Lazlo and talking to him?
To stop me getting a job? That has to be it.
She stared, still shocked, at the email in her drafts folder. It had never been sent. Charles had definitely told her that Lazlo had seen it. But he hadn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Hello, Rose?’
‘Mrs R!’ Rose sounded jovial but Buttercup thought she detected just a tiny hint of strain in her voice. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m coming up to London tonight but I won’t see you then. Listen, can I ask you a private question?’
There was a pause and Rose said brightly, ‘Sure! Elaine’s on the other line right now.’
‘Okay. Obviously, there’s a limit to what you can say, I understand that.’ Buttercup stood by the French windows in the drawing room, looking out over the garden. It appeared chill and dead in the dull afternoon. ‘I want to know if I can take a look at the file Charles has on me. I want more information.’
Rose said nothing for a moment and then, slowly, ‘That might not be straightforward. It’s not really my area.’
‘I know.’ It’s Elaine’s territory. The guard dog. Buttercup knew that there would be no breaking through Elaine’s defences. She’d been working for Charles almost all her adult life and was utterly, steadfastly loyal; she would no doubt keep his secrets to the bitter end. Charles had told her how, after Elaine’s husband had died, leaving her with three small children and no money, he had offered her the lifeline of a job that she could fit around her family. As the children had grown up and gone away, Elaine had become ever more devoted to Charles’s welfare. It wasn’t unusual for her to go with him all over the world, and she knew everything about him. ‘But Charles said she’s joining him in Shanghai today.’
‘That’s right. Later today.’
‘Good. Then at least we can discuss it openly when I see you tomorrow.’