Authors: Judy Astley
‘I’m having lunch at the Bluebird with Mary-Jane. I saw you just now, Ilex.’
‘No, you didn’t. You couldn’t have,’ Ilex answered too fast and too emphatically. Now she knew it had been him. When he was little he always used to get
himself
into trouble by leaping in with an answer too quickly. So often he’d blurt out ‘It wasn’t me’ long before Lottie had even known a window was broken or that the dog was covered in paint.
‘I did see you. You were in a police car,’ Clover told him, watching the stairs for the return of Mary-Jane. Mary-Jane would never believe it wasn’t Sean she was interrogating, or that Clover wasn’t having an affair and accusing her lover of being unfaithful with his own wife. Ilex now stayed silent.
‘And you saw me too and pretended you didn’t,’ Clover persisted – she knew she’d get there in the end.
There was a sigh from Ilex. Result, thought Clover gleefully, she’d cracked him.
‘So what’s going on then? Have you been arrested? What have you done?’
‘It’s nothing,’ Ilex told her. ‘It’s just … um … someone at work had her bag stolen and they think it was taken by a man I’d seen in reception so the police took me for a quick ride round the area in case I saw him again.’
Clover laughed. ‘Are you mad? That’s a completely rubbish story, Ilex! Can’t you do better than that?’
Mary-Jane was now on her way back, followed by a waiter with a tray of drinks and an order pad.
‘You’re up to something, aren’t you?’ she hissed quickly at her brother. ‘Who is it?’
‘Clover, it’s nothing. It nearly was, but it isn’t. I’ve
got
Manda … no intention of being with anyone else. Just
please
don’t—’
‘It’s a
policeman
?’ Clover squeaked. ‘Have you gone the other—’
‘No! A police
woman
. Oooh, Clover the sexist!’ he jeered. ‘God, if Mum could hear you – she’d be appalled!’
‘If Manda could only hear
you
,’ Clover retorted, ‘how do you think
she’d
feel? Does the word “devastated” mean anything to you?’
‘But she won’t hear, will she?’ Ilex’s tone turned almost to pleading. ‘Not from you? Think how hurt she’d be. Over nothing, truly. Nothing happened.’
‘Hmm. If it was really nothing, then you’d better prove it. Make it up to her.’
‘What’s to make up for? She doesn’t know anything, never needs to,’ Ilex reminded her.
‘Yes; but
I
know, don’t I? Think about it, Ilex, think about our lovely family home being flogged off like some unwanted old toaster on eBay. And in case you’re not sure what I’m getting at, think of those eBay toasters,’ she said sweetly, ‘don’t toasters always make you think of wedding presents?’
‘That’s blackmail.’ Ilex sounded defeated.
‘Well spotted!’ Clover laughed. ‘Whoever said it was an ugly word? I think it’s rather a pretty one! Just
ask her
, Ilex. Get on with it.’
‘Trouble?’ Mary-Jane asked as soon as they’d ordered their food and the waiter was out of earshot.
‘No! Not any more!’ Clover picked up her glass
and
grinned at Mary-Jane. ‘There was a small family tussle but I’ve dealt with it. I’d definitely say it was game, set and match to me!’
The smooth house agent, Harry, certainly didn’t waste any time. Mac and Lottie hadn’t yet agreed to take up his Digby, James and Humphreys’ offer; hadn’t agreed any percentage terms or an advertising budget for the sale of Holbrook House and yet there he was, on the phone and highly persuasive with news of a potential client.
‘I wouldn’t normally do this, of course,’ he told her. ‘It’s not the usual way we conduct our business, obviously.’
Cynically, Lottie wondered which bits were ‘obvious’ and ‘of course’ about it, unless you counted the fact that he would, both obviously and of course, almost kill to get this sale. Before she knew it, and she could almost see his beaming smile, she’d agreed she’d got two days to make the house presentable before a Mr and Mrs Cresswell (‘… always
dreamed
of a Lutyens property …’) swished up the weed-strewn drive to give her home a highly critical once-over.
Out on the terrace, Sorrel was supposed to be revising the finer points of Othello’s descent into madness for the next day’s exam but was instead making a long list of must-haves from the Travel Paraphernalia catalogue. She sat shaded from the sun by a vast green canvas umbrella, which must
have
been stored over the winter close to a mouse-nest, if the tatty fretwork of holes was anything to go by. What was left of it sheltered the long teak table, an item randomly scarred by years of careless barbecue sparks, its legs chewed – and Lottie never knew why they all did this – by each successive wolfhound. Not, Lottie now thought as she looked at it with the eye of a potential buyer, a scene that spoke of luxury outdoor living. It would take more than a scattering of Cath Kidston floral cushions and a thirty-hole tray of scented tea-lights to turn this terrace into a midsummer feature page from
Living Etc
. And was she supposed to smarten up the people as well as the house? She’d long accepted that Mac hated clothes shopping, but surely, when your elbow had gone through a linen sleeve, it was time to chuck out the shirt?
‘So do you think these house buyers are for real?’ Sorrel looked up from her list and asked her parents. ‘They might just be a plant so that you’ll be impressed and sign up with his agency. They could be his mum and dad or something, just posing as buyers.’
‘They could be his parents,’ Mac agreed, ‘or they could be about to hand us a cheque that would have your average Lottery winner popping the champagne and thinking they’d be all right for giving up the day job.’
‘Or in your case,’ Sorrel sighed, ‘abandoning your teenage daughter to a university bedsit and nowhere to go in the holidays.’
‘Oh come on now, Sorrel, we did offer to buy you a little flat in the village. Even Ilex thought that would be a good investment. And there’s always Clover. She’s got plenty of room for you and she won’t mind being a base for when you’re not at Exeter.’
‘What? You haven’t even asked her! The very idea of it made her look scared rigid!’ Sorrel bit her lip. She’d been
that
close to letting it out that they’d all been over to Clover’s for dinner. If they found out, they’d be so hurt at the thought that all their family had ganged up together behind their backs. And it might make them even more determined to go – sometimes, parents could be more stubborn and silly than small children.
‘And we won’t be gone for ever. Months rather than years, you know. We’ll have to live somewhere when we get back.’ Lottie tried to reassure her. ‘By then you’ll probably think sharing a place with your doddery old folks is a completely horrible idea!’
‘You might not be gone for ever but the money will,’ Sorrel grumbled. ‘You’ll blow it all on air fares at silly prices just because you do stuff on impulse. You could do the whole world dead cheap, even first class, if you planned it right. The way you talk, you’re just, like, gonna dash from one thing to another all over the place, never mind the cost.’ Then she added, with a sly smile, ‘Or the jet lag … you haven’t thought of that, have you? Old people
get
jet lag much worse than young ones. You’ll
really
suffer.’
‘Oh we’ll be planning it properly, don’t you worry. We just haven’t quite got round to sorting out an order of play,’ Mac said. ‘And when we get back, that’ll be the time for decisions. We don’t know where we want to live. We want open-options on that, probably renting for a bit. It could be a flat in Soho – or it might be something remote on Dartmoor. Who knows?’
‘I know it won’t be Dartmoor,’ Lottie interrupted, shuddering. ‘Too cold, too remote, too …
sheepy
.’
Sorrel grinned, her face transformed as if all the lights in her head had suddenly come on. ‘But Soho – excellent idea! Like, why don’t we find somewhere really great there
now
, and then I can move into it and take care of it for you for when you get back? That way, you don’t have to worry that I haven’t got anywhere to live and you’ve got somewhere with all your stuff in it for coming back to the minute that you get a bit fed up!’ She looked appealingly at Lottie. ‘I mean, suppose you wanted just to dash back and see us all for a little break, like you felt homesick or something? You’d need a base then.’
‘We’d thought of that: we could always stay at a hotel,’ Mac said, ‘or at a club. We’ll join one of those that old fossils who live out in the colonies come to when they need to see their stockbrokers or get their wills looked at by the ancient family solicitor. The
sort
of place where you’d run into the old Major from across the road, downing a pink gin and reminiscing about tiger-shoots.’
‘They’d never let us join,’ Lottie said. ‘Don’t you have to be at least ninety-five and have been big in the Indian Civil Service? And do they let women in?’
‘See?’ Sorrel was triumphant. ‘That’s what I mean! You’ll need to find somewhere to rent for later on. Great. As soon as the exams are done I’ll start. Soho! Fantastic!’
‘But you’re going to Australia,’ Lottie pointed out.
‘Oh I know, that’s OK. We could get Ilex to sort out a shorthold tenancy for three months and then I can move straight in when I get home. Sorted. See? Now. Mum and Dad, look at this lot: I’ve made you a list. You’re going to need all these.’
Lottie went to take the list from her but Sorrel held on tight and started to read. ‘OK, now listen carefully because these things could be life-savers. So. First of all you’ll need a strap-on body pocket, for cash and passport and stuff that you absolutely don’t need to lose. You wear it under your clothes so it’s not nick-able. Because the world isn’t really full of sweet old hippies like you two, you know. Or rather you don’t.’
‘Sounds sensible.’ Lottie nodded.
‘And a survival whistle. In case you get lost in the outback or a jungle; then you need a sterile first-aid kit, one that’s got all your own syringes and sutures.
Oh
, and a dental one as well because at your age …’ Sorrel pulled a face.
‘Oh thanks,’ Lottie said. ‘You think all our teeth are about to fall out.’
‘You’ll thank me, honestly,’ Sorrel said. ‘And obviously you’ll need a Swiss army knife with just about every attachment that they do, plus an ultra-light headlamp in case you’re struggling to get out of a ravine in the dark—’
‘Hang on a minute, Sorrel,’ Mac interrupted. ‘When did the “luxury” aspect disappear from our agenda? Because the word “struggling” wasn’t actually meant to feature in any of the trips I had in mind.’
‘You’ve got to be prepared,’ Sorrel told him sternly. ‘And what about a portable smoke alarm? Some of the places you stay in might be death traps in a fire.’
‘I don’t think the Maharaja’s palace in Jaipur is going to be unfamiliar with basic safety issues,’ he told her.
‘And then there’s the Magicool body cooler,’ Sorrel continued. ‘It says it’s great for ladies of a certain age.’
Lottie grimaced. ‘That’s you, Mum,’ Sorrel said, in case Lottie didn’t know. ‘And Air Flight gel, those flight socks so you won’t get an embolism, acupressure jet-lag patches, silk sleeping-bag liners, trek towels, travel soap, plug adaptor, insect repellent—’
‘You’ve forgotten the partridge, and the pear tree,’ Mac said. ‘And you’re certain we need all this stuff?’
‘Um … well … yes. Two lots of everything. Except the dental kit and the body cooler. Just one each of those. I mean, if you’re buying it all for your own safety, you’d want to get it all for me too, wouldn’t you? Obviously?’
‘Obviously,’ Lottie agreed, defeated. ‘I just wonder about excess baggage, that’s all.’
Ilex didn’t much mind the idea of marrying Manda. The more he thought about the constantly pursuing terror that was Wendy the more he felt the need to run to Manda for safety. It was such bliss simply to be in his own apartment with someone so easy to live with. He had certain reservations, one of them to do with feeling he was being firmly pushed into it by Clover, but he had to admit that perhaps he needed that push: he’d assumed he’d get round to it some time. Now was as good a time as any. Better, anyway, than waiting for a crisis to be the spur. And that crisis could well be to do with Wendy, if he wasn’t careful. There were other reservations he’d simply have to find a way round: for one, that people were definitely going to snigger during the ceremony when it was revealed that his middle name was ‘Adonis’. It would ripple all round the church or whatever venue Manda went for. He’d just have to think about how childish they were being. Maybe he could change it, in the next few
months
, to Alan or something. Or maybe they wouldn’t notice: loads of people had embarrassing middle names. It could be a lot worse – some unlucky sods were named after the England World Cup squad or Ringo or were christened John Elvis-Presley Smith. Parents could be so unthinkingly cruel when their brains were mashed by childbirth.
He looked at Manda now, as she sat looking silky-pretty across from him at their table in Le Caprice and sipping so very neatly at her pre-dinner champagne that her lipstick didn’t smudge, and he thought about the many reasons why he should get on with it and simply propose to her. Would she turn him down? He didn’t think so. She’d been showing definite signs of nesting: the cookbook collection was growing; she’d taken to buying little things for her sister’s twins and pointing out to him how cute they were. New, velvety, jewel-coloured cushions kept appearing on the sofas. As for the positives, at the most superficial level she was a truly stunning woman and was certain to mature, with those super-fine cheekbones, and slender frame, into a very beautiful one. He definitely wouldn’t be faced with some lumpy, frizz-haired old boiler in twenty years’ time. Also, apart from a perfectly amiable sister, she had no relatives to scrutinize him and find him wanting in any department. From what he’d heard of friends’ marriages, in-laws could be a dire interference. Women were fond of their mums. They went out on shopping
trips
with them where they told them things in a Starbucks break between shoe-purchases. Not good. You wouldn’t want every little niggle reported back – suppose they talked about personal stuff? Suppose Manda found his
Fuzz
magazines and had a mum to run to and tell? And look at Clover. She still called Holbrook House ‘home’ – what must Sean feel about that?