‘Nicely proportioned hall.’ Simon glanced upwards, then pulled an electronic measure from his pocket. ‘Mind if I . . .?’
‘Of course.’
Lou watched, noting the combination of proficiency and clumsiness. He couldn’t be more than twenty-two, but he had a professional earnestness that she found rather touching. She turned away, preceding him into the kitchen.
The ground floor had been remodelled in the last few years, partly to accommodate her father’s decline and partly, Lou thought, to persuade her parents that it had been a different sort of home all those years. The old kitchen, unchanged since the seventies, had become a den; the long-neglected dining room had been transformed into a state-of-the-art farmhouse kitchen of the Jamie Oliver or Delia Smith variety. Both daughters, with an embarrassing lack of consultation, had bought their mother cookery books the next Christmas.
‘Delia’s delight,’ Lou announced, with a sweep of her arm.
‘Delia’s your mother?’
‘No, no.’ Lou laughed. ‘Delia’s the last person my mother could be taken for. I don’t think she’s ever actually cooked in here. It’s more – oh God, I don’t know. It makes her feel she could cook, maybe. If she wanted to.’
Simon gave her an uncertain look. Family business, she could see him thinking. The phrase settled in Lou’s mind: surveying the immaculate units, the shiny Rayburn, she wondered whether she and Alice would ever have a kitchen like this. The two of them and their children, being a family. The words caused a lurch of panic deep in her belly.
They moved on to the sitting room, its Liberty curtains faded at the edges.
‘The height of chic,’ Lou said, as they contemplated the disconsolate trio of sofas in matching fabric. ‘Or it was the last time anyone sat in here.’ That wasn’t strictly true: this had been the music room too, the place where she had played the piano, and Henry, and Kitty. But it was hard not to put a spin on things, somehow.
There had been more Comyns in here, including a painting of the room itself which showed several of the earlier pictures already hanging on the walls. Lou had always been fascinated by that one, the way it showed a version of family life, a moment in history, alongside whatever was going on in the room at any particular time. Henry had pointed out to her once that it showed firelight inside and sunlight outside, and she’d pondered the significance of that for ages. None of them had an eye for art the way Henry did.
‘Onwards,’ she said. ‘This way.’
They viewed the playroom, the utility room, and then she led Simon through to the jumble of back rooms beyond the kitchen. In the old days their guinea pigs had lived out here, and for years her potter’s wheel had patterned the walls of the lean-to at the end with splatters of clay, but this part of the house had been smartened up too. The guinea pigs’ draughty domain had been converted into a study, used so little that it looked incomplete still, and the lean-to had been replaced by a greenhouse. Neatly stacked gro-bags and packets of seeds testified to her mother’s plans to start a vegetable garden. Lou felt another wave of discomfort as they peered through the glass. Those hopeful plans, she thought. Those good intentions they could all see straight through.
‘Plenty of scope for the keen horticulturist,’ Simon said.
Lou made a strange noise, something aspiring to mirth. ‘Plenty of scope for many things here, I can assure you.’
Simon glanced at her and she looked away. She was aware that her commentary, aiming at the tersely witty, had drifted towards self-parody as the visit had progressed. Indeed, the whole occasion had an air of masquerade: moving through the familiar rooms, Lou felt she was looking in from outside, watching herself slip between different incarnations. The lonely child; the teenager with music at full blast to drown the arguments percolating up from below; the student returning reluctantly when her father’s cancer was diagnosed. There was hardly room here for a sane, grown-up Lou, let alone one riven with new anxieties: miserable about her own marriage, rather than her parents’. If she had asked, she wondered suddenly, would Alice have come today? Might that have made it easier? She hadn’t asked because she’d been afraid of the answer, that was the truth of it. She’d told herself it was simpler to come alone.
‘Garden next?’ she asked. ‘Outbuildings offering the benefit of extensive storage space?’
The open air came as a relief, despite the cold. Lou couldn’t remember either of her parents spending much time in the garden, except for the occasional summer barbecue. It had been her territory, then hers and Kitty’s: a realm of hideouts and make-believe. Pinning her hair back against the wind, she surveyed the apple trees, bowed and curlicued, which she’d transformed into treasure ships and castles twenty years before.
‘Would you be including a gardener in the rent?’ Simon asked.
Lou followed his gaze, appraising the overgrown beds running down the side of the lawn, and the area near the house that her parents had replanted last year.
‘Whatever you think best,’ she said. ‘It’s been a little neglected, but it could be lovely.’
‘Oh, it certainly could.’ Simon smiled – with relief, she thought. Poor boy, it couldn’t be easy for him, and he’d been very sweet. Very gallant. They stood on the lawn for a few moments, looking back at the house. From this angle it looked even more higgledy-piggledy: a fairytale cottage, the kind that might be held together by icing sugar.
‘It’s a very special property, Miss Jones,’ Simon said. ‘It really is.’ He hesitated, looking sideways at her. ‘Of course you’ll have the opportunity to meet any prospective tenants, if you want to.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Lou shivered; folding her arms, she tucked her elbows close against her. The idea of anyone else living here – boring, happy people – was hard to get her head round, but it was time to hand Orchards over. She felt, then, a wash of relief. She was glad she hadn’t said anything too awful, glad she was almost at the point of saying goodbye.
But she’d forgotten the rest of the house, the bedrooms and bathrooms, Kitty’s attic.
‘Upstairs, now?’ Simon asked.
Lou nodded. Ignoring the knot in her stomach, she led him back inside. Nothing had changed up here, and the past lay heavy in the empty rooms. The dusty beams, the smell of old carpets, the air cloistered by the leaded windows were all so pungently evocative that Lou was sure Simon must be able to sense it too.
‘My father’s dressing room,’ she said, as they looked into a room tucked in one of the house’s unexpected corners. ‘A euphemistic term, of course.’ The undressing room, she’d dubbed it, in her see-if-I-care teens. The knocking shop.
‘Bedroom four, can we call it?’ Simon smiled, not quite meeting her eye.
‘We can call it whatever we want.’
Lou moved away down the low corridor.
‘Up here,’ she said.
They climbed the spiral staircase to Kitty’s room. Lou pulled back the curtains and looked out at the garden and the woods beyond. Kitty used to have a doll’s house under the eaves. Where had that gone, she wondered? Surely not into the skip?
‘Lovely view,’ Simon said.
‘Down again,’ said Lou, and he followed her without a word.
Her old bedroom led off the spare room; there was no passageway between them.
‘Where have we got to?’ she asked. ‘Bedroom three and three and a half? I expect you could find a way to make that work. We always did.’
‘Miss Jones,’ said Simon.
‘Lou,’ she said. She turned in the doorway and found herself right up against his face. He looked stricken, as though he’d seen something he wished he hadn’t.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Lou attempted a smile.
‘I mean to say, I’m sorry about your father. And about the house. I can see you’re very attached to it.’
Lou looked at him for a few seconds longer, and for one or two of them she thought he might
be going to kiss her. His face was so close to hers, and so anxious to please. For a moment it seemed inevitable, even desirable; and then, her heart beating fast with confusion and chagrin, she turned away.
13
Flora woke early on Friday morning, conscious almost at once of a sense of lightness and ease. The toile milkmaids were almost invisible today, bleached by sunshine. Outside, dew gleamed on the grass, and the distant hills were sharply defined against the blue sky.
Standing at the window, Flora felt, like a child, the excitement of a new day. Like the acute misery of other mornings this sudden joy was unexpected, even disconcerting – but if she was to survive, she told herself, she must be glad of mornings like this one. This wouldn’t be the last reversal of the rollercoaster, but for now it was real enough, and she should embrace it.
Her clothes made a pitiful showing in the wardrobe. She must go shopping, she thought. She couldn’t keeping wearing the same few things she’d taken to Cousin Hettie’s in Colmar. She chose a pair of linen trousers and a blue batik top, then she opened the jewellery box that had sat untouched by her bed since she arrived and took out a pair of earrings. Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror on the dressing table she was pleased – not so much with the result as with the effort, she thought.
No one else was in the breakfast room when she came downstairs.
‘You are well this morning?’ Madame asked, bringing out a pot of coffee. She didn’t wait for a reply; apparently she had faith in her judgement on the matter. ‘Monsieur Carver is delivering some wine this morning.’
‘Oh.’ Flora had forgotten about Martin Carver. Forgotten it was Friday, too. She caught Madame’s eye, and felt herself blushing at the assumption that the batik and the earrings were intended for him.
‘Shall I tell him you look forward to lunch?’
‘All right,’ Flora heard herself saying. ‘Thank you.’
What else was she to do with the day, after all? She had dressed herself up for it now; she couldn’t retreat again.
Madame nodded. ‘It is a beautiful house,’ she said again.
*
And it was. Les Violettes was a neat eighteenth-century townhouse, surrounded by a walled garden and bordered at the front by pollarded trees. The glass in the tall windows was textured with age; the paintwork, a delicate shade of yellow, had been recently renewed.
Martin Carver opened the door almost as soon as she touched the bell.
‘I’m so glad,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I was terribly rude the other day.’
‘I rather thought I was,’ said Flora, and she laughed a little. Part of her wondered what on earth she was doing here, but another part was content to see where the day might lead. Martin seemed, on second encounter, less sure of himself than she’d imagined. If she was less sure of herself too, that at least put them on an equal footing.
‘Well, then: let’s start again. Welcome.’
He stood back to let her pass. The hall ran the depth of the house, a staircase ascending to the left. The interior was dark and cool, but a French window opposite the front door admitted a draught of sunshine from the garden. Flora, not a connoisseur of furnishings, noticed a chandelier and some attractive prints, a delicate inlaid chest.
‘What a lovely house,’ she said.
‘It was my mother’s,’ said Martin. ‘Her family’s.’
‘She was French?’
‘Yes. I spent most of my childhood here. Only sound British.’
‘That must be an advantage, with business in France. Madame Abelard tells me you’re a wine merchant.’
He laughed. ‘More of an advantage speaking English, since that’s where I flog most of the stuff. Come on through. Too nice a day to be inside, don’t you think?’
A table was laid in the garden, on a terrace perfectly placed to catch the midday sun. It was an entrancing garden, reminiscent somehow of the toile milkmaids’ pastoral idyll. Pink rose bushes flanked the lawn down one side, and on the other box hedges were planted in an intricate pattern. There were several places to sit: a wrought-iron bench under the high wall; a round table beneath a willow bower; an old millstone resting in the middle of the lawn. They seemed to Flora like the settings for different acts of a play, one she wouldn’t be here long enough to see all the way through.
‘I’ve dug out a bottle of ’59 Vouvray,’ said Martin. ‘I hope you don’t object to demi-sec.’
‘Not in the least.’
This, Flora thought, as she took a seat beneath the vine that ran rampant across the back of the house, was going to be a pleasurable occasion. Lucky it had come on the right day; that she was in the right frame of mind to enjoy it. The felicity of that was worth savouring, too. She arranged her chair so she could see the tiny fountain at the far end of the terrace, a chubby boy holding a pitcher from which water trickled lazily.
‘Santé.’ Martin handed her a glass. He paused for a moment to register the flavours of the wine. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Good. Peaches. Very ripe peaches, don’t you think?’
Flora took a tentative sip. She had rarely tasted anything so delicious. 1959, had he said? She didn’t even want to think about what it might be worth.
She couldn’t understand, now, why she’d reacted so strongly to him in the shop. She knew exactly who Martin was: she’d grown up among men like this, worked with them all her life. He had a hint of Mark Upward’s bluff arrogance – that fleeting thought had been apposite – but also something of Landon’s civility. Now that she had nothing to prove, what could be simpler than enjoying his company – and his wine?
‘Yes, peaches,’ she said – then, entering into the spirit, ‘and pears, perhaps?’
‘Dessert pears,’ Martin agreed. ‘Excellent. It’s a pleasure to have someone to share it with.’
Flora raised her eyebrows. ‘But you must know everyone around here, if you grew up in the village.’
‘More or less. All the oldies, anyway.’
‘Like the Abelards?’
‘Formidable Francine.’ Martin grinned. ‘I was a mate of her brother’s when we were kids. He died young.’
‘She’s been very kind to me,’ said Flora.
‘Oh, she has a heart of gold. Only a dash of witchcraft, and she needs it with that useless husband of hers.’
Flora swilled the wine in her glass. ‘I do sometimes have the feeling she can read minds,’ she said, ‘but she cooks like a dream.’
‘Well, that’s something to live up to.’ Martin got to his feet. ‘No, stay there. It’s all ready.’
Flora wasn’t sure whether Martin had cooked the meal himself, but he talked knowledgeably, interestingly, about the ingredients: the tomatoes that were among the last of an early variety he particularly liked, and the confit de canard that had been left to steep in its herbs overnight. He told her, too, about the village and the expat community in the département, amusing her with anecdote and intrigue and minor tragedy. He’d had, it seemed to her, the benefit of living two different lives: he was countless steps ahead of her in appreciating the delights of France.
It wasn’t until the duck was finished, and most of the Vouvray, that conversation began to dwindle. Flora felt full and rather sleepy, lulled by the shush of insects and warmed by the June sunshine. She’d enjoyed herself – was still enjoying herself – but she had a sense that a watershed was approaching.
‘I should be going soon,’ she said.
‘Going?’ Martin looked perturbed. ‘Why on earth, halfway through lunch?’
‘Oh.’ Flora flushed. Stupid, she thought. This was France, after all.
‘I’ve made a tarte aux abricots. My mother’s recipe.’ Martin leaned across the table and poured the last of the wine into her glass.
Another tarte aux abricots. She’d better not run away from this one. But even if her instincts on etiquette were unreliable, Flora told herself, dredging up the thought from beneath the pleasant carapace the wine had laid over her mind, her antennae were well tun
ed for certain other inflections of social intercourse.
‘Is your wife English or French?’ she asked.
Martin lifted an eyebrow.
‘English,’ he said. ‘Ex-wife now. Happily ensconced in the family pile in Berkshire.’
Flora flushed again. She realised, too late, that he’d misinterpreted her question. So much for her surgical precision, her famous bluntness. She looked away, towards the fountain where the boy stood patiently with his never-emptying jug.
‘I suppose I was a difficult bugger to live with, always flitting hither and thither,’ Martin said. ‘I spend most of my time here these days. I like it here. I bought my brother out when my mother died.’
‘That seems a happy solution,’ Flora said. Safe ground, she thought. She could do imperturbable too.
‘I’ve been thinking I ought to find a base in England, though,’ he said. ‘I’m sick of hotels.’
‘Do you go over often?’
‘My eldest’s getting married this summer,’ Martin said, ‘which requires my presence for a month or two. I thought I’d rent somewhere.’
‘There must be agencies who specialise in summer lets,’ said Flora.
But a thought was taking shape, an audacious and unlikely thought that she wouldn’t have entertained without the wine, the lunch, the haloes of ripening grapes. Perhaps not even without the conversational slips and misapprehensions that had left her feeling strangely heady.
‘Whereabouts would you want to be?’ she asked.
‘Within reach of London. Within reach of the family.’
‘You could rent my house,’ Flora said. ‘I’m looking for a tenant. Just for the summer, while I’m here.’
The Things You Do for Love Page 10