September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  More silence. He told himself that they had to be there, but already knew with hideous certainty that nobody was going to answer the bell and the Penningtons, damn their bloody eyes, were not at home.

  “Hello.”

  He turned from the inhospitable door. Below, on the pavement, stood the dumpy girl and her dog, back from posting the letter.

  “Hi.”

  “Did you want the Penningtons?”

  “They’re meant to be giving me dinner.”

  “They’ve gone out. I saw them going off in their car.”

  Noel digested, in gloomy silence, this unwelcome confirmation of what he already knew. Disappointed and let down, he felt very much ill-disposed towards the girl, as one usually does when told something perfectly horrible by another person. It occurred to him that it couldn’t have been much fun being a medieval messenger. There was every chance you’d end up without a head, or else employed as a human cannonball for some monstrous catapult.

  He waited for her to go away. She didn’t. He thought, shit. And then, resigned, put his hands in his pockets and descended the steps to join her.

  She bit her lip. “What a shame. It’s miserable when something like this happens.”

  “I can’t think what’s gone wrong.”

  “What’s worse,” she told him, in the tones of one determined to look on the bright side, “is when you arrive on the wrong night, and they’re not expecting you. I did that once, and it was dreadfully embarrassing. I’d got the dates mixed up.”

  This did not help. “I suppose you think I’ve got the dates mixed up.”

  “It’s easily done.”

  “Not this time. I only got the postcard this morning. The thirteenth.”

  She said, “But this is the twelfth.”

  “No, it isn’t.” He was quite firm. “It’s the thirteenth.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but it’s the twelfth. Thursday, the twelfth of May.” She sounded deeply apologetic, as though the mix-up were all her fault. “Tomorrow’s the thirteenth.”

  Slowly, his punch-drunk brain worked this out. Tuesday, Wednesday…damn her eyes, she was right. The days had run into each other, and somewhere he had lost track of them. He felt shamefully foolish, and because of this he instantly began to come up with excuses for his own stupidity.

  “I’ve been working. Flying. I’ve been in New York. Got back this morning. Jet lag does ghastly things to your brain.”

  She made a sympathetic face. Her dog smelled at his trousers and he moved aside, not wishing to be peed upon. Her hair in the evening sunlight was astonishing. She had grey eyes flecked with green and milkmaid skin, bloomy as a peach.

  Somewhere. But where?

  He frowned. “Have we met before?”

  She smiled. “Well, yes, actually. About six months ago. At the Hathaways’ cocktail party, in Lincoln Street. But there were about a million people there, so there’s no reason why you should remember.”

  No, he wouldn’t remember. Because she was not the sort of girl that he would register, would want to stay with, or even talk to. Besides, he had gone to that party with Vanessa, and spent most of his time trying to keep track of her, and stop her from finding some other man to have dinner with.

  He said, “How extraordinary. I am sorry. And how clever of you to remember me.”

  “Actually, there was another time.” His heart sank, fearing to be faced with yet another social gaffe. “You’re with Wenborn & Weinburg, aren’t you? I cooked a directors’ lunch for them about six weeks ago. But you wouldn’t even have noticed, because I was wearing a white overall, and handing round plates. Nobody ever looks at cooks and waitresses. It’s a funny feeling, as though you are invisible.”

  He realised that this was true. By now feeling more friendly towards her, he asked her name.

  “Alexa Aird.”

  “I’m Noel Keeling.”

  “I know. I remembered from the Hathaways’ party, and then for the lunch, I had to do a placement, and write names on cards.”

  Noel cast his mind back to that particular day and recalled in satisfying detail the meal she had produced. Smoked salmon, a perfectly grilled fillet steak, watercress salad, and a lemon sorbet. The very thought of these delights caused his mouth to water. Which reminded him that he was ravenously hungry.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Myself. I’m freelance.” She said this quite proudly. Noel hoped that she was not about to embark upon the history of her career. He did not feel strong enough to stand and listen. He needed food, but, more importantly, he needed a drink. He must make some excuse, take his leave, and be rid of her. He opened his mouth to do this, but she spoke first.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t like to come and have a drink with me?”

  The invitation was so unexpected that he did not immediately reply. He looked at her and met her anxious gaze, and realised that she was, in fact, extremely shy, and to come out with such a suggestion had caused her some courageous effort. As well, he found himself uncertain as to whether she was inviting him to the nearest pub or to some grotty attic pad filled with cohabiting colleagues, one of whom would doubtless just have finished washing her hair.

  No point in committing himself. He was cautious. “Where?”

  “I live two doors down from the Penningtons. And you look as though you could do with a drink.”

  He stopped being cautious. “I could.”

  “There’s nothing worse than arriving in the wrong place at the wrong time, and knowing that it’s all your own fault.”

  Which could have been more tactfully put. But she was kind. “You’re very kind.” He made up his mind. “I’d like that very much.”

  3

  The house was identical to the Penningtons’, except that the front door was not black, but dark blue, and a bay tree stood in a tub beside it. She went ahead of him, opened it with her key, and he followed her indoors. She shut the door behind them and then stooped to unfasten the little dog’s lead. The dog instantly went to drink copiously from a round dish that stood, handily, near the foot of the stairs. The dish had DOG written on it.

  She said, “He always does that when he comes in. He seems to think that he’s been for a long, long walk.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Larry.”

  The dog lapped noisily, filling the silence, because, for once in his life, Noel Keeling found himself at a loss for words. He had been caught on the hop. He was not certain what he had expected, but certainly not this — an instant impression of warm opulence, loaded with evidence of wealth and good taste. This was a grand London residence, but on a miniature scale. He saw the narrow hallway, the steep staircase, the polished banister rail. Honey-coloured carpeting, thick to the wall; an antique console table upon which stood a pink-flowering azalea; an ornately framed oval mirror. But what really threw him was the smell. It was poignantly familiar. Wax polish, apples, a suggestion of fresh coffee. Pot-pourri, perhaps, and summery flowers. The smell of nostalgia, of youth. The smell of the homes that his mother had created for her children.

  Who was responsible for this assault of memory? And who was Alexa Aird? It was an occasion to fall back on small talk, but Noel couldn’t think of a mortal thing to say. Perhaps that was best. He stood waiting for what was going to happen next, fully expecting to be led upstairs to some rented bedsitter or tiny attic apartment. But she laid the dog’s lead on the table and said in hostessy fashion, “Do come in,” and led him into the room that lay beyond the open door.

  The house was a twin of the Penningtons’ but about a thousand times more impressive. Narrow and long, this room stretched from the front of the house to the back. The street end was the drawing room — too grand to be called a sitting room — and the other end was furnished as a dining room. Here, french windows led out on to a wrought-iron balcony, bright with pansies in terracotta pots.

  All was gold and pink. Curtains, padded thick as eiderdowns, hung in swags and folds. Sof
as and chairs were loose-covered in the best sort of country chintz, and scattered haphazardly with needlepoint cushions. Recessed alcoves were filled with blue-and-white porcelain, and a bulging bombé bureau stood open, stacked with the letters and paperwork of an industrious owner.

  It was all very elegant and grown-up, and did not match up in the very least with this quite ordinary and not particularly attractive girl in her jeans and sweatshirt.

  Noel cleared his throat.

  “What a charming room.”

  “Yes, it is pretty, isn’t it? You must be exhausted.” Now that she was safe, in her own territory, she did not seem so diffident. “Jet lag’s a killer. When my father flies in from New York he comes by Concorde because he hates those night flights.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “What would you like to drink?”

  “Have you any whisky?”

  “Of course. Grouse or Haig’s?”

  He could scarcely believe his luck. “Grouse?”

  “Ice?”

  “If you have some.”

  “I’ll go down to the kitchen and get it. If you’d like to help yourself…there are glasses…everything’s there. I won’t be a moment…”

  She left him. He heard her talking to the little dog, and then light footsteps as she ran down the stairs to the basement. All quiet. Presumably the dog had gone with her. A drink. He moved to the far end of the room, where stood an enviable sideboard, satisfactorily loaded with bottles and decanters.

  Here hung charming oil paintings, still lifes and country scenes. His eyes, roaming, assessing, took in the silver pheasant in the centre of the oval table, the beautiful Georgian coasters. He went to the window and looked down into the garden — a small paved courtyard, with roses climbing the brick wall and a raised bed of late wallflowers. There was a white wrought-iron table with four matching chairs, conjuring up visions of alfresco meals, summer supper parties, cool wine.

  A drink. On the sideboard were six heavy tumblers, neatly lined up. He reached for the bottle of Grouse, poured himself a slug, added soda, and then returned to the other end of the room. Alone, and still curious as a cat, he prowled. He lifted the fine net curtain and glanced down into the street, then moved to shelves of books, glancing at the titles, endeavouring to find some clue as to the personality of the owner of this delectable house. Novels, biographies, a book on gardens, another on growing roses.

  He paused to mull things over. Putting two and two together, he came to the obvious conclusion. Ovington Street belonged to Alexa’s parents. Father in some sort of business, sufficiently prestigious to fly Concorde as a matter of course and, moreover, to take his wife with him. He decided that they were, at this moment, in New York. In all probability, once the hard work was over and the conferences finished with, they would fly down to Barbados or the Virgin Islands for a restorative week in the sun. It all clicked logically into place.

  As for Alexa, she was house-sitting for them, keeping bandits at bay. This explained why she was on her own, and able to be generous with her father’s whisky. When they returned, sun-tanned and bearing gifts, she would go back to her own abode. A shared flat or terraced cottage in Wandsworth or Clapham.

  With all this tidily settled in his mind Noel felt better, and strong enough to continue his investigative circuit. The blue-and-white porcelain was Dresden. By one of the armchairs a basket stood on the floor, brimming with bright wools and a half-worked tapestry. On top of the bureau were a number of photographs. People getting married, holding babies, having a picnic with thermos flasks and dogs. Nobody recognisable. One photograph caught his attention, and he picked it up the better to inspect it. A large Edwardian mansion of some bulk, smothered in Virginia creeper. A conservatory bulged from one side, and there were sash windows and a row of dormer windows in the roof. Steps led up to an open front door, and on top of these sat two stately springer spaniels, obediently posed. In the background were winter trees, a church tower, and a rising hill.

  The family’s country house.

  She was coming back. He heard her soft footsteps ascending the stair, carefully replaced the photograph, and turned to meet her. She came through the door, carrying a tray loaded with an ice-bucket, a wineglass, an opened bottle of white wine, and a dish of cashew nuts.

  “Oh, good, you’ve got a drink.” She set the tray down on the table behind the sofa, edging some magazines aside to make space for it. The little terrier, apparently devoted, dogged her heels. “I’m afraid I could only find a few nuts…”

  “At the moment” — he raised his glass — “this is really all I need.”

  “Poor man.” She fished for a handful of ice-cubes and dropped them into his drink.

  He said, “I’ve been standing here coming to terms with the fact that I’ve made a complete fool of myself.”

  “Oh, don’t be stupid.” She poured herself a glass of wine. “It could happen to anybody. And just think, now you’ve got a lovely party to look forward to tomorrow evening. And you’ll have had a good night’s rest, and be the life and soul. Why don’t you sit down? This chair’s the best, it’s large and comfortable…”

  It was. And bliss, at last, to be off his aching feet, buffered by soft cushions, and with a drink in his hand. Alexa settled herself in the other chair, opposite him, and with her back to the window. The dog instantly jumped into her lap, made a nest and went to sleep.

  “How long were you in New York?”

  “Three days.”

  “Do you like going?”

  “Usually. It’s getting back that’s so exhausting.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  He told her. He explained about Saddlebags and Harvey Klein. She was impressed. “I’ve got a Saddlebag belt. My father brought it back for me last year. It’s beautiful. Very thick and soft and handsome.”

  “Well, soon you’ll be able to buy one in London. If you don’t mind paying an arm and a leg.”

  “Who plans an advertising campaign?”

  “I do. That’s my job. I’m Creative Director.”

  “It sounds frightfully important. You must be very good at it. Do you enjoy it?”

  Noel thought about this. “If I didn’t enjoy it, I wouldn’t be good at it.”

  “That’s absolutely true. I can’t think of anything worse than having to do a job one hates.”

  “Do you like cooking?”

  “Yes, I love it. Just as well, because it’s about the only thing I can do. I was dreadfully thick at school. I only got three O-levels. My father made noises about me going to do a secretarial training, or a design course, but in the end he agreed it would be a total waste of time and money, and let me be a cook.”

  “Did you do a training?”

  “Oh, yes. I can produce all sorts of exotic dishes.”

  “Have you always worked on your own?”

  “No, I started with an agency. Then, we worked in pairs. But it’s more fun on my own. I’ve built up quite a good little business. Not just directors’ lunches, but private dinner parties, and wedding receptions, or just filling people’s deep-freezes. I’ve got a little Mini van. I cart everything about in that.”

  “You do the cooking here?”

  “Most of it. Private dinner parties are a bit more complicated, because you have to work in other people’s kitchens. And other people’s kitchens are always a total enigma. I always take my own sharp knives.”

  “Sounds bloodthirsty.”

  She laughed. “For chopping vegetables, not for murdering the hostess. Your glass is empty. Would you like another drink?”

  Noel realised that it was, and said that he would, but before he could shift himself, Alexa was on her feet, spilling the little dog gently on to the floor. She took his glass from his hand and disappeared behind him. Comforting clinking sounds reached his ears. A splash of soda. It was all very peaceful. The evening breeze, stirring through the open window, moved the filmy net curtains. Outside, a car started up and drove
away, but the children who played on their bicycles had apparently been called indoors and sent to bed. The abortive dinner party had ceased to be of any importance, and Noel felt a little like a man who, trudging across a barren desert, had inadvertently stumbled upon a lush, palm-fringed oasis.

  The cold glass was slipped back into his hand. He said, “I always thought that this was one of the nicest streets in London.”

  Alexa returned to her chair, curling up with her feet tucked beneath her.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Pembroke Gardens.”

  “Oh, but that’s lovely, too. Do you live alone?”

  He found himself taken off-guard, but, as well, amused by her directness. She was probably remembering the Hathaways’ party, and his dogged pursuit of the sensational Vanessa. He smiled. “Most of the time.”

  His oblique reply went over the top of her head. “Have you got a flat there?”

  “Yes. A basement, so it doesn’t get much sun. However, I don’t spend much time there, so it doesn’t really matter. And I usually manage to avoid London weekends.”

  “Do you go home?”

  “No. But I have convenient friends.”

  “What about brothers and sisters?”

  “Two sisters. One lives in London and one in Gloucestershire.”

  “I expect you go and stay with her.”

  “Not if I can help it.” Enough. He had answered enough questions. It was time to turn the tables. “And you? Do you go home for weekends?”

  “No. I’m very often working. People tend to throw dinner parties on Saturday evenings, or Sunday lunches. Besides, it’s hardly worth going to Scotland just for a weekend.”

  Scotland.

  “You mean…you live in Scotland?”

  “No. I live here. But my family home is in Relkirkshire.”

  I live here.

  “But I thought your father — ” He stopped, because what he had thought had been pure conjecture. Was it possible that he had been barking up entirely the wrong tree? “…I’m sorry, but I got the impression…”