The J M Barrie Ladies' Swimming Society

by Barbara Zitwer

  She got up and dressed quickly, then headed down to the kitchen. The breakfast dishes were still on the table, but neither Sarah nor Henry was about. Sarah had mentioned a children’s birthday party. Maybe she would be helping there all day long.

  That was fine with Joey. A good guest didn’t hang around the house waiting to be entertained. There was nothing worse than having a lot to do and feeling responsible for a visiting friend who had nothing to do. And, she was in London! She’d read quite a bit about the St. Pancras Station redevelopment in the architectural press back home and had wanted to see how they’d handled it. This was the perfect opportunity.

  She wondered briefly whether she should do the breakfast dishes before she left. She didn’t want Sarah to think she was critical of Sarah’s housekeeping skills. Maybe it was better to leave them. Anyway, she didn’t know where anything went.

  She did have to check on Tink, though. She glanced into the crate that had been placed under the windows by the breezeway. Tink was curled up on her blanket at the back, fast asleep. Joey thought about just leaving her to doze the day away, but she didn’t know whether she had been outside yet. She unhooked the crate and took Tink out into the garden. When she came in, she scraped the children’s leftover eggs and sausage onto a plate and placed it on the floor. Tink gobbled the food greedily and then was surprisingly happy to be put back in her crate.

  An hour and a half later, Joey was standing in front of Sir George Gilbert Scott’s marvel. People had often described it as the most romantic building in London. But she had never understood what they meant by romantic.

  Now she did. It was in the detail: the hundreds of windows framed in Gothic arches and columns, the glorious clock tower with its elegant steeple, the varied tones of the brick and stone. Detail. That was it. Layer upon layer of articulation, of framing, of contrast, of presentation. And yet it didn’t look fussy. How in the world had they managed that?

  Inside – well, one could only describe it as being surrounded by gorgeousness. What had once been exterior taxi stands were now enclosed and transformed into sweeping lobbies of glazed red brick and ironwork. The Grand Staircase had Joey transfixed. It reminded her of the St. Chapelle in Paris, the private chapel of King Louis IX. For a king’s chapel, yes, but to lavish this exquisite detail on a staircase? The ruby walls, the soaring arches, the glorious star-patterned panels that formed the ceiling of the winding staircase. And the tall, mullioned, stained glass windows, like those in a cathedral. This was a cathedral, Joey concluded. It was an overwhelming monument to beauty and architectural ambition.

  As Joey finished touring the areas that were open to the public and headed toward the gift shop, she felt her spirits wilt. Would she ever design anything with even a fraction of this beauty? Maybe not. But there were still lessons to be learned here. Maybe there was a book on the building. She wanted to remember these ideas in detail.

  In the shop, she found exactly what she was looking for, a book tracing the history of the building, formerly the Midland Grand Hotel, all the way up through its renovation. She wanted to buy a gift for Sarah, too, but nothing for sale in here felt right. She’d passed a nice clothing store a few blocks away. She would head over there before catching a cab back to the house.

  “Where were you?” Sarah cried as she flung open the front door.

  “I went into town. I went to see St. Pancras.”

  “I’ve been worried sick. I came back home and you were gone.”

  Joey shrugged. “I figured you were busy. You said there was a children’s birthday party.”

  “Well yes, but… why didn’t you leave me a note?”

  “Why didn’t you just call me?” Joey asked. “I had my BlackBerry with me.”

  “I don’t have your number. Have I ever called you on your BlackBerry?”

  They were still standing in the doorway.

  “No,” Joey said. “I’m sorry. I figured you had things to do. I didn’t want you to feel you had to entertain me.”

  Sarah pulled Joey in by the arm and slammed the door behind her. “Entertain you? You’re my oldest friend in the world and I haven’t seen you in ten years. Entertain you? There’s nothing I want to do more.”

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  “I had lunch reservations. I planned to take you to my favourite restaurant, then my favourite bookstore, then my favourite boutique and my favourite bar! I had everything all set up.”

  “But you didn’t say anything. How was I supposed to know?”

  “You weren’t! It was a surprise. I figured you’d be out cold until noon. And at eleven o’clock I walk in, and you’re gone.”

  Joey sighed. “I’m sorry. I really am. I was just trying to stay out of your hair.” Not knowing what else to do, she handed Sarah the pink bag she was carrying.

  “What’s this?”

  “A present.”

  “What is it?”

  “A silk blouse.”

  Sarah now looked as though she was about to cry. “Nice try,” she said, releasing the garment from its wrapper and holding it up in front of her.

  “But wrong.” Joey concluded.

  Sarah nodded sadly.

  Chapter 7

  Joey stared out at the passing scenery as images from the previous evening floated through her mind. Sarah trying on the blouse, which was at least three sizes too small. Chris complaining about the supper menu and Henry angrily banishing him to his room. Zoë dissolving into tears because Timmy wouldn’t stop looking at her. Tink throwing up on the kitchen floor.

  All in all, it had been an evening she’d be glad to forget. To make matters worse, she had coped with the tension in the household by drinking too much wine, so as the driver now wove his way along the bumpy country roads that led to Stanway House, Joey was nursing a killer headache. All she wanted was to get there. Besides, there was no use obsessing about yesterday’s spoiled plans and the strained feeling that hung over the evening. She hadn’t meant to hurt Sarah’s feelings. She hadn’t meant to do anything but be a good guest. Fortunately, she’d be seeing everyone again in a few days. The children took riding lessons at a stable close to Benbrough House, and there was a pony club rally at the weekend. Sarah, Henry and all the children were coming to the country and Joey and Sarah would have half a day to themselves. Joey hoped she could repair the damage.

  Up a last hill, through a crooked avenue of trees, and then the car turned in to a drive. Past the gatehouse, and suddenly, there it was: Stanway House. The driver turned off the engine as Joey gazed at the structure she had longed for so many months to see and experience for real. Jacobean in design, it was built from a local stone known as Gulting Yellow. The arch in its centre was flanked by bay windows and embellished at the roofline with stones carved in swirls.

  “Well, here we are,” the driver exhaled.

  Joey jumped out of the car and stared rapturously up at the house, which had turned a golden yellow in the late afternoon sun. She couldn’t resist walking up to it, and, running her hands slowly over the ancient stones, felt a rush of warmth emanating from the building. It spoke to her.

  The driver retrieved Joey’s bags from the boot and interrupted her communion to ask for his fare. She carefully counted out the notes and handed them to him. It had been expensive, hiring a taxi to bring her all the way out here from London, but there was no way she could have rented a car. She had a licence, but she rarely drove, and she certainly wasn’t going to get behind the wheel on the wrong side of the road. As the driver pulled away, Joey carried her bags to the portico. Then she freed Tink from her crate and snapped on her leash.

  They wandered along the path that wound away from the arch toward a stand of ancient trees. After months and months spent on this project, Joey felt as though she already knew this place. It was strange, like meeting a family member you’ve only known through photographs.

  Behind the trees was a path lined on both sides with thick, dense rhododendrons, and a walkway that led off towa
rd the house’s water garden, one of the finest in England.

  As Joey turned and headed back to the front of the house, she saw a girl standing in a doorway. A girl of perhaps fourteen, fifteen years, with sparkling emerald eyes and hair so lush and wavy that Joey couldn’t take her eyes off it. It seemed as though half of the women in New York wanted fair hair and were willing to pay a small fortune every month or six weeks to pull off the pretence of being naturally blonde. But not even Marta, whom Joey considered a genius of a colourist, would be able to duplicate the subtle tones in this gorgeous mane.

  She also wore a skirt so short that it brought to mind what Joey’s father used to say whenever Joey had tried to escape from the house in a daring outfit: “That skirt’s so short I can see what you had for breakfast!”

  “Hello,” she called. “I’m Joey Rubin.”

  “Hi. I’m Lily – Ian’s daughter. We live in the gatehouse at the end of the drive.”

  Joey had been looking forward to meeting Ian Mc-Cormack, with whom she had spoken several times on the phone. Since Lord and Lady Tracy had relinquished the keys to the property and moved to their house in London, Ian had been the company’s only on-site contact. She was hoping he could be persuaded to stay on and help manage the hotel and estate. It would help to have a local man in charge. And he probably knew the house and the grounds better than anyone.

  “Where are you from?” the girl asked, giving Joey a thorough once-over.

  “New York,” Joey replied.

  The veneer of adolescent disdain slipped away rapidly. “That’s so cool. I’m moving to New York.”

  A man appeared in the doorway, and Joey knew it had to be Ian. The resemblance to his daughter was unmistakable, but it was his eyes – intelligent, watchful – that captivated her attention. He wore heavy canvas trousers and a wool shirt topped by a dark-grey Aran knit jumper that had seen better days. The cuffs and bottom ribbing were unravelling.

  “Is that right?” he asked his daughter, a little dismissively. Now he gave her the once over, his disapproving gaze lingering on her skirt. “Where’d that get-up come from?”

  “Oxfam.”

  “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “Dad!”

  Joey bit her lip to keep from smiling.

  “Go and change your clothes.”

  “Daddy!” she wailed.

  “Lily!” he imitated.

  With a helpless glance at Joey – a look that said, Men! You understand, don’t you? – Lily turned on her heel and stomped into the house.

  Joey had a vision of Ian styled for New York: close-cropped hair, cleanly shaved, a three-piece Italian suit. She did this to every man she met – imagined how they would look if she were allowed to manage every detail of their grooming and wardrobe. Today, though, she shook off the fantasy. Almost any man could look good in an Italian suit. There weren’t too many that could look as good as Ian did in a worn out cabled sweater.

  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Joey said. She extended her hand.

  Cute little crinkly lines did not appear at the edges of Ian’s eyes, nor did he smile. He gave her a nod but did not reach for her hand. His restraint felt like a splash of cold water.

  “I thought Wilson was coming.”

  “He was. He had an accident.”

  “Oh! Is he all right?”

  “He will be,” Joey replied.

  “So you’re in charge?”

  “I am, yes. And I’ll really need your help. We’re starting first thing in the morning. We have a walk-through with the contractor.”

  “What contractor? You’ve already hired one?”

  Joey nodded. “His name is Massimo Fortinelli.”

  Ian gave Joey a disbelieving look. “Not the Italian…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jayses.” Ian shook his head scornfully.

  “But his references were fantastic. Everyone he’s ever worked with here raves about him.”

  “Like who?” Ian pressed.

  “Like –” Joey paused briefly, wondering whether it was ethical to relay the details of her confidential conversations, then realised that there was nothing whatsoever to hide. “Like – Alasdair Newell …”

  “Well, sure,” Ian said. “Newell.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning they’re –” Ian held up two fingers, one wrapped around the other. “Like this! Of course Newell is going to be in the guy’s corner.”

  “But they wouldn’t be friends if Newell didn’t respect him, would they? They’ve done three or four projects together.”

  “Precisely,” Ian shot back. “Well, suit yourself. The flat’s ready.”

  “Thank you,” Joey whispered. “I thought I’d look around for a while.”

  “Do as you like. You don’t need my permission. The place is yours now.”

  “I wish,” Joey answered, trying to warm the distinct chill in the air. “My place would probably fit in one of the bathrooms.”

  Ian was not charmed. He stepped inside and returned a moment later with a ring of keys.

  “Thanks, ” Joey said.

  He nodded, and walked off down the drive towards the gatehouse.

  An hour later, Joey was busily unpacking in the gracious apartment she would occupy for the next few weeks. It had been the private quarters of Lady Tracy’s elderly aunt, Margaret, who the previous winter had suffered a fatal stroke at the age of ninety-one. The apartment had one large living room and a generous bedroom and bathroom. The elderly woman had taken many meals with the Tracy family and had others served to her privately in her rooms by the household staff.

  Joey was going to have to get by without a kitchen, but apart from that, she couldn’t imagine a lovelier place to stay. She had been happily surprised to learn that the apartment was still furnished, as many of the other rooms had been emptied of their objects at the time of the sale. Stanway House might be going public, but there were dozens of Tracys scattered about Great Britain and they had all been determined to carry off as much as they could of the portable property. She wondered why none of them seemed to have raided these rooms. Regardless, Joey was thrilled to stay in the house itself, rather than at a local inn or B&B. She would really be able to get the feel of the place, at all times of day and night.

  As she drifted around the apartment, inspecting the well-polished furniture and lovingly maintained accoutrements, she felt a surprising wave of sadness. At first she thought it was because the woman who had lived here was so palpably absent – the abruptness of her departure could almost be felt. But it wasn’t really that, Joey realised. Her sadness had its roots in the apartment itself.

  The cushions bore hand-worked crewel, the framed photographs were personal and informal, the counterpane on the bed had been crocheted by hand. There wasn’t an object in the rooms that didn’t seem to express some kind of personal thought, desire or significance. It was as though the rooms were filled with memories, and all the objects in them were talismans of places that were loved, people who were loved, times that had been alive with affection and connection.

  Joey thought of all the things she had got rid of in the process of gutting and renovating her own apartment. She had been determined to make it feel like hers. Her mother had been so sick there for so long – and, to have the floors refinished, the walls ripped out, the kitchen and bathroom completely redone, to generally heal the place had felt vitally important at the time.

  But in her zeal to make a whole new start, she had divested herself of many of the very things that made the apartment feel homey and welcoming: hand-crocheted afghans, framed snapshots, mismatched little odds and ends that had been gifts or heirlooms. Now, she found herself thinking of particular cups and saucers they had used when she was growing up. She had packed them all into a Goodwill box when she bought new saucepans and dishes. Maybe she shouldn’t have been quite so hasty.

  Joey dug out her make-up bag and sat down at the dressing table in the
bedroom. She lifted the glass stopper from an old perfume bottle and inhaled the scent: it was heavy and dark, a glamorous, old-fashioned perfume. She dabbed some behind her ears, leaned in to the large oval mirror and stared at her own reflection.

  She looked tired. She was tired. There were lines at the corners of her eyes that she hadn’t noticed before. “Sunburst lines” she’d heard someone call them, trying a little too hard. They were crow’s feet. Crow’s feet! She would have to focus on not smiling automatically. She would have to remember to smile only when she really meant it.

  Joey glanced over at Tink, panting happily beside a reading chair. Tink chose just that moment to roll over onto her side and let out a deep, contented sigh.

  How can you be tired, Joey thought. You’ve been sleeping for two days!

  Her thoughts floated back to her encounter with Ian. She hadn’t been trying to be charming, but it was unsettling that she had not managed to prise even the slightest smile or the most banal pleasantry from his lips. What was the guy’s problem? No one was kicking him out of his house. Yes, his life was going to change, but that’s what life did: it changed. He had a good job waiting for him if he wanted it.

  A worrisome thought flitted into her consciousness. Maybe he found her unattractive – too efficient, too foreign, too pushy? Not that she was trying to be attractive to him, but usually there was a little reaction, a little spark – of some sort. He had acted as though he couldn’t wait to get out of her presence.

  There was only one solution to this unsettled, jumpy feeling. She needed to go for a good long run.

  Chapter 8

  The sun, low in the sky, bathed the gardens as Joey passed in a divine, milky light. Vines, which would have been green and thick with leaves in summer, were now bare. The dark brown vegetation covering the building looked like thousands of tiny veins and arteries. Yes, even in the dead of winter, there was beauty, Joey thought. The densely clad facade looked like a Jackson Pollock canvas – dripped paint seeming at first to have no pattern or reason, but which, on reflection, appeared to say something after all.