That Certain Something

by Clare Ashton

  ‘It’s right there at the top.’ Pia shot her arm into the air. ‘I would love to live in New York. Not forever, may be a year or two. I’d adore wandering Manhattan, photographing everything from the Brooklyn Bridge to Grand Central Terminal, and people watching in the streets.’

  ‘Me too. For some reason I’ve always wanted to sit in Central Park and eat a New York pretzel. Since I was little girl. See the Grand Canyon, walk on the moon and eat a New York pretzel: those were my top three wishes when I was seven years old.’

  ‘Were you granted one wish and wished for three more?’

  Cate grinned. ‘Probably.’

  ‘What else would you do in New York?’

  Cate squinted in thought. ‘Ice-skating at Rockefeller Centre.’

  ‘Window shopping at Macy’s?’

  ‘Meet a stranger on top of the Empire State Building.’

  Pia hesitated. ‘What would be your perfect day in New York?’

  ‘For under ten pounds?’ Cate asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ll let you spend as much as you want this time.’

  Cate was quiet for some time. She was treating it as a more serious question than Pia intended. ‘My perfect day? I would have eggs Benedict for breakfast. I would interview someone like Hillary Clinton if she was in town. Then a walk through Central Park over to Café Lalo to type up my piece for the New York Times. Then home to a tiny central apartment, to spend the evening in the arms of the person I loved.’

  Pia didn’t know what to say. It was such a contrast with her idea of a perfect night when they’d first met. She was touched by the change in Cate and emotional at how their dreams dovetailed.

  ‘I don’t think I could come up with anything better,’ Pia said. ‘Except I’d be taking photographs instead of interviewing.’

  Cate smiled and rolled onto her side to face Pia. Sunlight streamed through her hair, which flowed loose around her cheeks and caressed her neck. It was if she’d turned to Pia in bed, a tender expression upon her face, and Pia thought how much she would give to wake up to that sight every morning.

  ‘Here you are.’ Lady Wynne broke the moment.

  Pia sprung up as soon as she spotted Wynne carrying a tray of lemonade. ‘Let me.’ She grabbed the tray, which rattled with clinking glasses and ice cubes that had escaped the jug.

  ‘We should go and sit somewhere more comfortable,’ Cate said. ‘We could go to the summerhouse?’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear. I shall be fine. I don’t get to roll around in the grass nearly often enough.’ Lady Wynne sat down with a bump, which caused Pia and Cate to wince more than she.

  Cate’s phone buzzed and she excused herself. Lady Wynne waved her hand unconcerned and Cate wandered a little distance away between the trees.

  Wynne poured their drinks and handed a glass to Pia. ‘You two look quite at home.’

  ‘It’s lovely here.’ Pia could be nothing but effusive about their hiding place.

  ‘I adored this little bit of wilderness when I was a girl,’ Wynne said. ‘Charles insists on the bloody lawns being rolled. The man would have a fit if he saw the photos of it as a veg patch during the war.’

  Lady Wynne leaned back and gazed towards Cate. ‘It’s wonderful to have her home. She’s not been here anywhere near enough. So much more relaxing when Charles is out too. He’s off killing birds on some chum’s estate, or something important like that, or more likely killing some chum by accident because he refuses to wear his damned glasses.’ She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. ‘So much lost time.’ Wynne sighed. ‘A place like this needs young people.’

  ‘Do you have other grandchildren?’ Pia asked, sipping her cool lemonade.

  ‘No. We only had Cate’s mother. Shame. I so miss the sound of mischievous feet and naughty laughter around the place. It was filled with visiting cousins during the summer holidays. Best time of my life.’

  Pia gulped away a jealous feeling and offered the obvious consolation. ‘Perhaps you’ll have great grandchildren soon.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps.’ Wynne sounded distant. ‘I’m not sure Rafe is the fatherly type.’ She turned to Pia. ‘Tell me, does it bother you that you can’t have children?’

  For a moment, Pia’s brain could have been an empty space where tumbleweed rolled. ‘Oh, because I’m a lesbian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lesbians can still have children. They don’t whip out your ovaries as soon as you come out.’

  Lady Wynne burst out laughing. She squeezed Pia’s arm. ‘Of course not my dear, I meant that you can’t make a child together.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure I’ve ever thought about it like that.’

  ‘You don’t want children?’

  ‘Yes I do. I’ve just never thought it would be a problem.’ She pondered for a few moments. ‘If she had a baby, I suppose I would see the child of the woman I adored and fall in love with all those bits I recognised from her, and all the pieces in between.’ She met Wynne’s gaze. ‘I can’t imagine not loving a baby that she loved. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Yes it does my dear.’ Wynne’s lips curled and her smile creased her cheeks.

  Pia blushed, alarmed, when she realised she’d imagined having Cate’s children. She’d pictured Cate, voluptuous and blooming from pregnancy with a tiny baby nestled on her breasts. Her heart skipped and she hoped Lady Wynne hadn’t discerned her thoughts. Desperate, she tried to remember the words she’d used. Wynne’s stare was penetrating. It made her want to hide.

  Pia stood up flustered and stuttered an excuse. ‘Sorry. I need the loo.’

  ‘You’ll find one.’ Wynne waved in the direction of the mansion. ‘There’s a dozen, so you’ll bump into one sooner or later.’

  Pia shuffled off towards the house more in discomfort from the conversation than from any need to pee. The large entrance hall, with twin stairs joining in the middle, seemed an unlikely place for a lavatory. She imagined that they hadn’t fitted a convenient space-saving downstairs loo in a cupboard. Which was a shame, since there was no sign of one in the library, ballroom, parlour or recreation room.

  She skipped upstairs, the discomfort of needing to pee now more urgent than the need to avoid further discourse. Pia expected to find a large family bathroom at the top of the stairs, so an extended gallery of family portraits was another source of disappointment.

  The first room she peeked inside appeared to be a master bedroom: an enormous bed with his and hers arrangements of books, brushes, mirrors and suits on either side of the room. The en suite door was ajar and inviting. She could see the bowl from where she stood. But, warm and welcoming though Lady Wynne had been, Pia wasn’t sure that it extended to placing her warm behind where gentry sat.

  The next room was more like a museum. A four-poster bed with thick tapestry curtains was guarded by shining, empty suits of armour. No en suite, only a chamber pot beneath the bed. Although the thought of using a potty was beginning to have a certain appeal she thought she could hold on.

  She ran along the wing, checking from side to side, into dressing rooms, empty bedrooms, an old school room, and she had no further choice than to climb up a wooden twisting staircase to the attic. Sure that this would hold one of the dozen toilets, she began to relax her bladder. She was rewarded with a long single room with not even an old rocking horse to haunt it.

  ‘Bugger,’ Pia said, with a high pitch of despair. With illogical desperation she crashed open an attic window and leapt onto the roof. While a potty hadn’t been inviting a few minutes earlier, the gutter and flared top of a lead drain pipe on the edge of the external wall was now mecca.

  She dropped her trousers, stuck out her bottom and hoped that the whole of London wasn’t watching, and that any stray hairs wouldn’t make her pee down the wall. She sighed as her bladder deflated.

  ‘Ooooooooh. Thank God for that,’ she breathed. She closed her eyes, enjoying the relief.

  With a last drip and wiggle she started to pull u
p her trousers.

  ‘You there!’

  She peeped over her shoulder, and beyond the white mounds of her buttocks, to see an elderly gentlemen shouting up from the drive: an elderly gentleman wearing a cap and tweed jacket and holding a shotgun.

  Still in a squat position she hoisted up her trousers and scurried back inside the attic. She heaved for breath and her eyes were wide as she tried to think of a reason why she might be baring her bottom to Kensington.

  Pia consoled herself that something would occur to her while she shuffled through the attic, back along the corridor and to the hall stairs. Nothing. Not a single good reason. She liked to pride herself on her honesty and integrity, but at that moment she would have loved to have been the biggest, dirtiest liar on the planet.

  The gentlemen strode across the hallway, shotgun cocked over his arm, and Pia limped down the stairs with shame and a small, uncomfortable wet patch.

  ‘Well who the bloody hell are you?’ he shouted. He proceeded past her and peered up and around the stairs.

  Confused, Pia tried to catch his eye. ‘I was up on the roof.’ She gestured over her shoulder. ‘You saw me.’ And then she kicked herself.

  ‘That was you?’ He came up closer and squinted at her. ‘Oh. You look different close up. Could have sworn you had a beard from down there. Wynne’s right, I should wear my glasses. Well who the bloody hell are you?’

  ‘Pia,’ she stuttered.

  The man, whom she assumed to be Sir Charles, appeared unimpressed. ‘Hell of a London accent you’ve got there Peter.’

  ‘Peter?’ Pia thought that telling someone they’ve mispronounced your name was one thing. But saying you’re not a boy, you’re a lesbian and one who’s peed down their drainpipe to a homophobic knight was another. So she decided to say ‘Yes,’ just an octave lower.

  ‘Surname?’ bellowed Sir Charles.

  ‘Benitez-Smith.’

  ‘Well Benitez-Smith. What the hell are you doing in my house?’

  ‘I’m a friend of Cate’s, sir, and I was, erm, going to the loo.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, still with disdain. ‘You should have used the one under the stairs. Genius idea. Everyone should have one. Is Cate here?’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Pia was already getting a sore throat from the forced deep voice.

  ‘Didn’t know she had any Spanish friends. I assume you’re Spanish.’

  ‘I work with her sir and yes, Mama’s from near Gibraltar.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He squinted, considering her. ‘What do you think of this latest debacle? Damned Spanish intruding on fishing rights. They’ll be after the Rock itself next.’

  Pia wondered if she might be shot if she said the wrong thing. But pretending to be some chap called Peter was already a significant lie for someone so honest, and she couldn’t stretch to another. ‘I can see their point of view, sir. Isn’t still owning Gibraltar a bit like Spain having sovereignty over Cornwall?’

  ‘Pah! Load of old tin mines and tourists. They’re welcome to it. But interesting perspective, Peter.’ Sir Charles snapped around and stared out into the gardens. ‘I’d better say hello to Catherine. I suppose Wynne’s with her.’

  ‘Last I looked.’

  ‘Well good. Come on then.’

  Pia squared her shoulders, drew in her breasts and tummy, tucked under her bum and strode forward hoping she didn’t strain anything in her attempt to walk like a man.

  ‘I suppose you work with that Rafe as well,’ Sir Charles said.

  ‘Yes,’ Pia growled.

  ‘You know, he’s a very savvy businessman. Looks like a fag, but has the balls for earning money.’

  Pia winced at the term and prickled with sweat at the prospect of being revealed as a lesbian.

  ‘He’s been a revelation with this fracking idea,’ Charles continued. ‘Could earn a small fortune from our land in Kent.’

  Pia rolled her eyes and wondered, not for the first time, how Cate stomached some of Rafe’s credentials.

  ‘Ah, here they are. What the devil’s Wynne doing lying on the ground?’

  ‘I’ll go and see.’ And Pia ran on ahead.

  She didn’t even have time to explain. Wynne and Cate struggled to their feet, clearly alarmed at the prospect of Sir Charles meeting Cate’s lesbian friend. Pia gasped for breath and managed to say, ‘Please, just go with it.’

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Sir Charles bellowed. ‘Whole of the grounds and mansion and you sit under a tree.’

  ‘We’re fine darling.’ Wynne’s expression questioned Pia with alarm. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Fine,’ Sir Charles said. ‘Shot through the window of an old worker’s cottage on Geoffrey’s estate. Terribly angry fellow who lived there quite spoiled the mood of the shoot, so we called it a day. Peter here has been entertaining me with his interesting views on sovereignty.’ And he slapped Pia on the back.

  Pia would have explained at this point if she’d been able to draw breath. As it was she coughed and wheezed and stared, anxious, at Cate, whose initial look of shock and horror was softening to amusement.

  ‘That’s wonderful darling,’ Wynne said. ‘I’m glad you’ve taken to Peter. Now.’ She took Charles’ arm and moved to return to the house. ‘Let’s put the shotgun away before we go any further.’

  Lady Wynne and Sir Charles walked away arm in arm. Cate slipped beside Pia and took her hand. ‘Why does he think you’re a man?’ she whispered, delight curling at the corner of her lips.

  ‘Apart from being almost blind? I don’t know, but I was flustered and it seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  Cate squeezed her close. ‘Trouble finds you, doesn’t it Benitez-Smith?’ And Pia couldn’t help be buoyed by Cate’s indulgent smile as they walked arm in arm.

  Before she left, Lady Wynne came to say goodbye. Cate conversed with her grandfather while Wynne cozied up to Pia. ‘I am sorry the silly fool thinks you’re a boy, but it was perhaps for the best.’ She sighed. ‘Before you leave though, I wanted to invite you to a party we’re having for Cate. It’s a small birthday party, a hundred guests, but I believe you’ll recognise one or two from the magazine and feel at home.’

  Pia beamed, relieved she hadn’t appalled Lady Wynne.

  ‘Lovely to meet such a special friend of Cate’s,’ Wynne said. ‘You know, I don’t think she’s ever shown anyone her mother’s flat. Not even Rafe.’ She squeezed Pia’s hands and kissed her on the cheek, and the look Cate gave her as she observed warmed her through and through. It was a mix of trepidation, amusement, fondness and pride and it kept Pia on a thrilling high all the way home to Brixton.

  She closed the front door behind her, still grinning from the day. She thought of beautiful, refined Cate, and how Lady Wynne had thought of Pia Benitez-Smith from Brixton as her particular friend. She could feel her cheeks glowing.

  She heard the flick of a newspaper from the lounge and saw her mother’s quizzical expression mocking her again.

  Pia sighed. ‘I know. I know. But she’s becoming a good friend. I like her very much as a person now I understand her better.’

  Her mother appeared unmoved.

  ‘She’s just a friend, Mama.’

  Her mother flicked her paper straight and Pia heard, ‘Tut, tut, tut. If I looked like that after seeing my friends at cards, their husbands would ban card night.’

  Pia giggled. ‘Night Mama.’

  ‘Night mija.’

  Chapter 17.

  ‘Frosty today,’ Denise murmured from reception.

  ‘Is it?’ Pia was incredulous. She wiped the sweat across her forehead from her ill-advised jog up the baking stairwell.

  Denise winked at her, an inept movement that involved her mouth grimacing and showing half her teeth.

  ‘Huh?’

  The receptionist nodded her head in the direction of the corridor.

  Pia turned to see Rafe and Cate walking away, a good stiff yard apart. They disappeared into an office next door to Ed�
�s without a word.

  ‘Hope the office party’s still on,’ Denise said through a strand of gum. ‘You going?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ Pia gazed towards where Rafe and Cate had been. Rafe was to host a party that evening to celebrate the first edition of Bennet. The entire office had been invited to his luxury apartment. When the invitation was circulated, Pia hadn’t been sure if she could stomach the residence of the happy newlyweds, but now she was more than a little curious.

  ‘Go on. It’ll be a laugh. That Rafe’s a good laugh anyhow. Dunno how he ended up with that wife of his though.’

  Pia was also about to express her incomprehension when Ed’s stern face appeared, along the corridor and a foot or two above her.

  ‘Pia,’ Ed said, her head poking out of her office, ‘a word please.’

  As always, Pia’s stomach leapt at the invitation into Ed’s office, a prospect always fraught with potential danger and surprise.

  A large print copy of an article lay on Ed’s desk. Pia’s photo of Lottie and Cate in the Savoy was displayed in the corner. Pia grinned despite herself and picked it up. She’d caught it: Lottie clinging over Cate’s consoling shoulder with an expression that shivered between despair and elation. The old black and white film had brought a quality to it, a subtle impression of the past: perfect for an article about an old film star.

  Ed was watching her and Pia’s unease deepened into worry. ‘Is it OK?’

  ‘Pia, it’s astonishing.’

  ‘Oh good. It looked perfect through the lens.’

  Ed took off her glasses. ‘It’s remarkable. Pia, you have an incredible talent for portrait photography. You capture very personal moments but in a sympathetic way and the composition is inspired. You must spread your wings and do more challenging work than this terrible rag.’

  ‘I’m finding it pretty challenging so far.’ The supermodel kidnap sprang to Pia’s mind.

  Ed shook her head. ‘Cate’s piece is brilliant too: entertaining, poignant and well balanced. The pair of you should be doing serious journalism.’

  Pia beamed, thrilled to be classed with Cate in Ed’s high estimation.