by Debbie Rix
She was waiting for him on the veranda when he came round the corner of the cottage. He put his arms out to her and she ran to them, allowing him to embrace her. They kissed, gently at first and then with passion. He ran his hands over her body, feeling her breasts beneath his fingers. She pulled back, nervous suddenly, of getting too close, of going too far. Sensing her slight reluctance, he released her, kissing her lightly on the cheek. She sat down at the table on the veranda, indicating he should sit too.
‘A drink?’ she asked, her own mouth dry with anticipation, fearful of what she felt, what she wanted from him. Maybe they would just have a drink, she thought, and he would go.
‘Si, grazie.’
She went into the kitchen and came out with a flask of local white wine and two glasses. He poured the wine and handed her a glass, clinking his against hers.
‘Salute, Rachael.’
She swallowed, gratefully, feeling the wine relaxing her as it spread through her body. ‘Salute.’
His hand stroked her cheek. She yielded, letting him pull her face towards him. He kissed her again and she kissed him back. She felt her resolve weakening. She wanted him so much. They stood and kissed again. He took her hand and drew her inside the cottage.
‘Dove Angela?’ he whispered, his mouth against her ear.
She put her fingers to her mouth. ‘Sshhhh,’ she said, ‘she is upstairs, sleeping.’
He took her glass and put it on the table, then holding her hand, led her to the sofa. They sat down and began to kiss, exploring one another. She pulled his shirt over his head, and stroked his chest, feeling it cool and smooth beneath her fingers. He undid the buttons of her dress and slipped it off her shoulders. His hands crept up beneath her skirt. She lay back down on the sofa and pulled him towards her.
When it was over, they lay together, his head against her naked breast, their breathing slowing at last.
‘Mummy, Mummy.’ Angela’s voice filtered through from upstairs.
Tommaso pulled himself away from Rachael and stood up, hurriedly fastening his trousers, pulling on his shirt over his head. She sat up, buttoning her dress, smoothing her hair. She looked up at him and grinned.
‘Coming,’ she called up to Angela.
A few moments later, she came down the stairs carrying the child in her arms. Tommaso was already outside, sitting on the veranda. The child ran to him and he picked her up and twirled her around.
Rachael sat on the large cane chair at the end of the table and observed her lover.
‘My father has invited you to supper…’
‘When?’ he asked.
‘Tonight?’
‘Thank you,’ he said putting Angela down, carefully, on the ground. ‘I will come.’
‘He says he wants to ask you about byssus…’
‘I will tell him what I know.’ He grinned at her. ‘I should go then…’
‘Must you?’ She gazed longingly at him.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if I am to… eat with your father… I must wear good clothes.’ He gestured towards his old jeans. Then, leaning over her, he kissed Rachael tenderly on the mouth. Angela watched them, her green eyes alert to this new relationship that she could not understand.
After he’d gone, Rachael prepared supper, making pasta sauce from beef and tomatoes, and a sweet tart with wild berries she had bought at the market. Afterwards, she took Angela down to play at the cove. They built a sandcastle and paddled in the shallows. Rachael gave Angela a swimming lesson, holding her beneath her tummy as she kicked her legs and flapped her arms in an effort to stay afloat. But Rachael could think of little but Tommaso and how he had held her, and of his scent and the feel of his chest against her naked breast.
Back at the cottage, she laid the table on the veranda and picked some flowers from the myrtle bush in the garden; she arranged them in a little vase in the centre of the table. She and Angela were still salty from their swim, so she heated water on the stove, and filled the old tin bath in the kitchen. She climbed in and pulled Angela in with her. They washed one another, soaping their hair and laughing. Then, wrapped in a towel, Rachael dragged the tin bath outside and emptied it onto the small vegetable garden. The water seeped into the dry soil, feeding the tomato, pepper and aubergine plants she had bought a few weeks before from a lady in the market.
She dressed carefully that evening, choosing a dark green dress that Mrs Roper had helped her to make when they lived together in Hampstead. It was tight-fitting, with a wide boat neck, and suited her slender frame, emphasising her long neck and delicate collarbone. She dressed Angela in a pale yellow cotton dress; it was smocked around the chest and had a little white collar; she wore matching white sandals.
When Giles dropped off her father, he noticed the table laid for three people. He lingered, hoping for a drink, or an invitation to supper. But none was forthcoming and he retreated sulkily to the old pickup, promising to collect George at eight o’clock the following morning.
Tommaso arrived shortly after he’d left, carrying a small bunch of roses.
‘For you,’ he said to Rachael. As she took the roses with one hand, he brought his lips to the other and kissed it.
George wandered out onto the veranda.
‘Ah Tommaso!’ he said and held his hand out to the young man.
They chatted easily in Italian, as Rachael poured wine into their glasses and checked on the supper. Her father’s easy facility with language was one of his greatest talents. It was as if he had been born with most of the European languages pre-programmed into his brain. He just had to be in a country to be able to slip almost seamlessly into the native tongue of his hosts.
Rachael followed some of what they said. She hoped Tommaso would not mention Angela’s accident. But she heard nothing that alarmed her as she served the food and poured the wine. Tommaso watched her as she wandered in and out of the house. And George observed how Tommaso’s eyes followed her, how his fingers found every opportunity to touch hers as she laid a plate of food out on the table or filled a glass.
At nine o’clock, she lifted Angela onto her father’s lap, for him to kiss goodnight. The child scrambled off and ran over to Tommaso, holding her arms up to him. He picked her up, kissed her head and handed her back to Rachael. Their eyes met. And George saw love there.
But when Rachael came back downstairs half an hour later, Tommaso had gone.
Chapter Fourteen
Gloucestershire
Christmas 2016
Sophie was feeling excited. It was the twenty-first of December, and her family were due to arrive on Christmas Eve and leave the day after Boxing Day. She had been looking forward to the visit for weeks and had tried to persuade her mother that they should stay for longer.
‘No thank you, darling. You’re very kind, but visitors, like fish, go off after three days,’ her mother said firmly. ‘We’ll come on Christmas Eve and leave on the twenty-seventh. Trust me, darling – you’ll be praying for us to go by then…’
‘No…!’ wailed Sophie. ‘I won’t. I miss you all so much, and I hardly ever see Simon and Vic anymore. It will be wonderful to just relax and catch up with you all.’
Sophie persuaded Hamish to buy the tallest tree possible. They bought it from a local farmer who had turned part of his land into a Christmas tree plantation. The trees could be either chopped down or dug up; either way, the farmer expected customers to do it themselves.
‘God this is hard work,’ Hamish complained, as he dug round the tree’s roots. ‘Can’t we just chop if off at the base?’
‘No!’ said Sophie. ‘I want to plant it in the garden afterwards. It’s our first Christmas tree here… it’s special.’
It took over an hour to uproot the tree, and Sophie was delighted when it was finally lifted off the roof of the car and dragged into the sitting room, leaving a trail of pine needles behind it. She pruned its roots so they fitted into a generous pot filled with earth. It was then placed on a large tray to collect any overflo
w water. But as she tipped the watering can into the earth, it splashed water onto the sitting room carpet.
‘Careful, Sophie,’ complained Hamish, ‘It’s going to leave a mark. Surely it would have been simpler to have a fake one?’
‘I’m not even going to dignify that remark with a reply,’ Sophie said, glaring at Hamish.
Sophie had quite a collection of Christmas decorations. Every year she bought something new – a tiny bird or a sequinned star. When she left home, Angela gave her Rachael’s collection too.
‘I think you should have some of the family decorations… Most of them were made in the 1950s, so they’re quite delicate. But I know you’ll appreciate them. You always loved decorating the tree with Granny. They’re yours now.’
Nestling amongst the tissue paper, alongside the nineteen-fifties glass balls frosted with glitter, were decorations Rachael had made over the years – little felt stars, embroidered with brightly coloured thread, tiny dolls dressed in scraps of old dress fabric. They were a little tired now, but each year, as Sophie took them out of the tissue paper, she felt her grandmother’s presence and recalled what it was like decorating the tree with her at home in Hampstead.
This year, in their new house, it felt special. As she pinned on each ornament, she fantasised about what it would be like to do it with her own child by her side. She never articulated these fantasies to Hamish, of course. He would have thought her foolish – or mad.
Once the tree was decorated, she planned the catering with military precision. A turkey was ordered from a local supplier. Cheese and pâté were bought from a farm shop on the edge of the village. Even the cat had been bought a special Christmas collar made of red tartan.
The week before the holiday, Hamish and Sophie received an invitation from Flora and her hedge fund husband.
AT HOME
Flora and Marcus
The Vicarage
Saturday 23 December
7 till late…
Sophie’s heart sank. The party was the day before her family arrived and she wanted everything to be perfect for them.
‘Let’s not go…’ she begged Hamish. ‘I’ve got so much to do and the last thing I need is a hangover, or a late night…’
‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ said Hamish, impatiently, ‘it’ll be fun. Flora’s such a laugh. And we ought to get to know people in the village…’
Reluctantly, Sophie agreed.
Determined not to be ‘underdressed’ again, she spent an entire afternoon in a chic dress shop in Cirencester, looking for a suitable outfit.
‘This is very lovely,’ said the attendant, holding out a black sequinned sheath. ‘Sequins are very now… it would suit you.’
‘Really?’ asked Sophie doubtfully.
She tried it on, and it fitted her like a glove.
‘Do you think it’s a bit over the top for a Christmas party?’
‘No,’ said the shop assistant firmly, ‘it’s just the thing round here; perfect in fact.’
Now, as she stood in front of the mirror in their bedroom admiring her reflection, she began to have her doubts.
‘Wow!’ said Hamish coming in, pulling a jumper over his shirt. ‘You look fab!’
‘Too much?’ asked Sophie, anxiously.
‘No…’ he said, ‘very festive.’
‘It’s black… how can it be festive?’
‘You know what I mean – sparkly. Come on, let’s go.’
As they crunched up the gravel drive, past the welcoming colonnade of flares flickering in the darkness, they heard laughter coming from the drawing room. Marcus, wearing a scarlet cashmere sweater, opened the grey front door. He took Sophie’s old black coat and laid it on the pink sofa in the hall.
‘Very glam…’ he said admiringly, taking in Sophie’s sparkly dress. She began to relax.
As he led the couple into the drawing room, she saw with alarm that she was the only woman in party dress. Everyone was wearing either jeans or simple day dresses.
Flora bounded up to them.
‘You look amazing!’ she said, looking past Sophie and pulling Hamish towards her for a kiss. ‘Sequins… such fun.’
Flora was dressed almost entirely in white: white jeans, a white silk shirt and a pale grey sheepskin gilet. Her long blonde hair was swept up in a messy chignon. She looked chic, relaxed and elegant, with not a sequin in sight. Sophie was mortified.
‘Now,’ said Flora decisively, ‘drinks. Marcus has insisted on making some mulled wine for the village people,’ she grimaced. ‘I simply loathe mulled wine. I, on the other hand, have got some wonderful cocktails on the go in the kitchen, for the chosen few.’ She smiled conspiratorially at Hamish. ‘Come with me.’
She led Hamish and Sophie into the kitchen. It was a temple to modern interior design, with pale limestone floors that merged with grey painted kitchen units, topped with Carrara marble. There was an industrial-sized range and an immense island unit, above which hung a row of six copper lights, gleaming like suns against a white sky. Her four exquisitely dressed children, sat at the long pale oak table making Christmas decorations from coloured paper and sequins. It provided an uncharacteristic island of colour in an otherwise bleached landscape.
‘Darlings, say hello to Sophie and Hamish. Sophie ought to be helping you – she’s got the perfect dress for it!’
Sophie winced inwardly at this jibe, as the children smiled up at her politely.
Flora drifted across her acreage of kitchen and poured two cocktails into Martini glasses.
‘Here you go … cheers!’
Back in the drawing room, Sophie found herself wedged between the vicar – a kind man with gentle blue eyes and thinning hair – and a young man named Jonty, who’d just inherited two thousand acres from his father. Recently graduated from Cirencester agricultural college, it was widely felt that he was not up to the job.
‘You look cracking,’ Jonty said admiringly, ‘lovely to have a bit of glamour about the place.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ said Sophie doubtfully. ‘I wasn’t quite sure what to wear.’ As she looked around the drawing room, she could tell that the guests were not Flora’s usual ‘smart’ set from London, but locals – villagers mostly – nice, ordinary people who Sophie would have enjoyed meeting, had she not been so inappropriately dressed. Everywhere she looked, she felt the disapproval of other women in the room. She hated to imagine what they were saying: ‘Look at her… down from London. Who does she think she is? A celebrity?’
Conversation with the Vicar and the landowner was increasingly stilted and she found herself yearning for Hamish’s company. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Eventually she caught sight of him. He and Flora burst through the drawing room door, carrying the cocktail shaker, giggling conspiratorially. Sophie made her excuses and squeezed through the crowd towards her husband. She slipped her sequinned arm through his.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Hello, there,’ he said. ‘Do you want a top-up?’ He tipped the cocktail shaker into Sophie’s glass.
She reached up to him, and whispered in his ear, ‘I want to go… Please.’
‘Already!’ he said, with just a hint of annoyance. ‘We can’t go yet… it would be rude.’
Flora sidled up to him. ‘Hamish darling, I want you to meet someone – I’m sure Sophie can spare you. After all… she has you all week…’ She pulled Hamish across the room and proceeded to whisper in his ear, causing him to laugh uproariously.
Feeling wretched, Sophie wandered out into the hall, looking for the loo. One of Flora’s daughters was walking desultorily towards the stairs.
‘Hello,’ said Sophie, ‘you’re Tabatha, aren’t you?’
‘Yes…’ said the child.
‘I was just looking for the loo…’
‘It’s there, next to the kitchen.’
When Sophie came out, having adjusted the sequin sheath, she noticed the child still loitering outside.
‘Are you fed
up making your Christmas decorations?’ Sophie asked.
‘Yes,’ said the child, sadly, ‘they’re just for show.’
‘I’m sure they’ll make a lovely show,’ said Sophie encouragingly.
‘No… you don’t understand. We’re not putting them up. Mummy doesn’t like them. They’re too… gaudy. That’s what she says.’
‘Oh… that’s a shame. Maybe they could go in your playroom? I’m sure you have a playroom.’
‘Not in there, either. They don’t match the decor.’
The child turned despondently and wandered back to the kitchen, followed by Sophie.
‘Hello there,’ she said to the other children. ‘What are your names?’
‘This is Willow,’ said Tabatha, pointing at a beautiful blonde child of about three years old. ‘And these are my brothers – Noah and Lucas.’
The children looked up from their labours and smiled politely.
‘Well, it’s very nice to meet you… I like your decorations. I’d love some like that.’
‘You can take them home if you like,’ said Tabatha.
‘No… I couldn’t do that. Why don’t we put them up now, in here? We could stick them above the cooker. They’d look lovely there…’
Tabatha looked dubious, but there was a hint of a smile playing around her lips.
‘Could we?’ she asked.
‘I don’t see why not?’
Sophie rummaged in a drawer and found some drawing pins. Then she took the sequinned paper chains and pinned them in wild swags across the top of the white range cooker. She hung another swag between the copper pendant lights. By the time she had finished, the kitchen was festooned in coloured paper. There was glitter all over the marble worktops and the children were rushing excitedly around the kitchen admiring their handiwork. Thrilled by the obvious delight of the children, Sophie also felt a certain mischievous pleasure in what they had achieved. Flora, she knew, would hate it.