The Perfect Retreat (18 page)

‘So, why were you heading into town? Looking for me perhaps?’ he said, noticing her carefully applied eyeliner and lip gloss.

‘Does every girl fall for your routine?’ asked Kitty, not looking at him, feeling more stupid than usual thanks to him guessing her plan.

‘Yes,’ answered Ivo with a shrug. ‘Usually.’

‘I’m not one of those girls, so you needn’t bother,’ said Kitty, wondering why she had bothered to dress up. Ivo wasn’t boyfriend material; he was a major player and she was fooling herself.

‘Alright. Friends then?’ asked Ivo and he held out his hand. Kitty took it. It was smooth and soft; the hand of a man who didn’t know hard work.

‘OK,’ she said softly. Maybe being friends with Ivo would be OK. She knew his type; he reminded her of Johnny the lying bastard, she thought, and she looked back out of the window.

‘So, what shall we do in the village? Not much to do – I had a look around; took me all of ten minutes,’ laughed Ivo.

‘Yes, it’s not London, I’m afraid,’ laughed Kitty. And they sat easily together as the bus rounded the corner into the village centre. Kitty alighted and waited for Ivo to descend from the steps.

‘So what are you going to do?’ he asked.

‘I have to go to the shop and buy a few things,’ mumbled Kitty.

‘That will take all of five minutes. Then what?’ he asked, putting his hands in his pockets.

‘Um, then I guess I’ll go home,’ she said, squinting into the light.

‘No – how about a pub lunch?’ he said, pointing in the direction of the pub. ‘It’s the least I could do for a friend.’ Ivo had checked his bank account the night before and had been thrilled to find it topped up. His first instalment for the film had come through.

‘OK,’ said Kitty shyly.

‘I’ll meet you there then?’ asked Ivo, his face searching hers.

‘Yep,’ said Kitty, and she walked in the direction of the store.

Wandering about the small store, she pulled random items out and put them in her basket. Tampons, nail polish remover, a magazine, chocolate, hairspray; she didn’t need any of them.

She stood at the counter as Mrs Turner, the wife of the shop owner, rang up her goods.

‘You’ve set the village in a tizzy,’ she said.

‘Pardon?’ asked Kitty, wondering how the town knew of her lascivious thoughts about Ivo.

‘The film,’ said Mrs Turner. ‘It’s all anyone is talking about. All the B&Bs are full up and you can’t move in the pub at night,’ she said knowledgeably.

‘Ah yes,’ smiled Kitty politely.

‘What’s she like then?’

‘Who?’ Kitty feigned ignorance.

‘Willow Carruthers. I read all about her in
OK!
magazine. Poor thing, with her husband being such a cad and all,’ she said as she put the items into a plastic bag.

‘She’s very nice,’ said Kitty.

‘Ooo, you met her then,’ said Mrs Turner.

‘Just briefly,’ said Kitty, knowing that if she said anything to the town gossip, Willow would never get any peace. The Middlemist family had always kept to themselves, and Kitty was happy to keep the tradition going.

‘Thanks Mrs Turner,’ said Kitty, and she went to leave the store, wondering if Ivo would be waiting for her. She thought of his eyes when he was sitting with her on the bus; she knew he was looking at her breasts but she found herself not minding. She had actually hunched her shoulders and pushed them closer together at one point when she saw him looking at her. This behaviour was new to Kitty. The sex she had had was pleasant but not earth shattering, but she had the distinct feeling Ivo would know his way around a girl’s body. Just thinking about it made her groin throb. She felt dirty and blushed as she stood by the counter.

‘Is it all sex then?’ hissed Mrs Turner, as Kitty turned to leave.

‘Sorry?’ asked Kitty. Was the old bat reading her mind?

‘On the film set, in the house – you know what you read about in the magazines.’ She pointed at the rack of magazines near the counter.

Kitty opened the door to the shop and looked across the road. She could see Ivo sitting at a table outside in the sun nursing a pint, with another one waiting for her. Kitty admired the easy way he leaned back in the chair. He was pure sex, and Kitty knew that if she wanted, she could have him, no strings attached. She thought about Merritt in bed with Willow, a sight she was both comforted by and envious of, and she saw Ivo wave at her. Kitty waved back and turned to Mrs Turner.

‘Yes Mrs Turner, I’m afraid it is. All sex, sex, sex and then some more sex. That’s why I’m in the village – to get away from the sex,’ said Kitty seriously, and she heard Mrs Turner’s little cry as she danced across the road towards the waiting Ivo.

‘Get everything?’ asked Ivo.

‘Yep,’ said Kitty, and she drank from her pint.

‘Want me to get a menu?’ asked Ivo.

‘No, I always have the same thing when I come here,’ said Kitty. ‘Fish and chips.’

‘Alright, then I’ll have the same,’ he said, and he went inside to order. Kitty felt pretty good, sitting in her village with such a handsome man.

She smiled to herself and Ivo walked out.

‘What you laughing at then?’

‘Nothing. Just nice to be out,’ she said.

‘I like your necklace,’ he said.

‘Thanks, I found it in a pile of crap from the attic this morning.’ She held it out for him to see.

‘Do you know what it is?’ he asked.

‘Nope,’ said Kitty, looking at it again.

‘It’s a lover’s eye pendant. The Victorians made them,’ he said. He reached over and brushed her breast with his fingers as he took up the pendant in his hand. Kitty felt her nipples harden.

‘This is real hair. Perhaps it was Clementina’s – a picture of George,’ he said excitedly.

‘Why do you know all of this stuff about art and jewellery? Are you sure you aren’t gay?’ asked Kitty.

‘Nope, not gay. Not everyone who knows about this stuff is gay. I studied art and art history, and the reason I know about the necklace is because my mother has one,’ said Ivo easily. He was so sure about his sexuality Kitty felt dizzy from the testosterone pouring from him. She wasn’t used to men like Ivo, so sure of themselves and so unapologetic about who they were and what they wanted.

Ivo opened the satchel he had been carrying and pulled out a journal. ‘Here; read this,’ he said, and he pushed the book over to Kitty.

Kitty sat still. ‘You read it. I find it hard to make out the letters,’ she said, and she pushed the book back towards him.

Ivo took the book and read. ‘I sit in the orangery and I feel the baby inside me. George is painting me and I wonder if anyone could be happier than I at this moment.
Rempli d’amour et de soleil, c’est le meilleur des jours, mais combien de temps ils durent? Rien ne dure toujours, tout meurt
.’

Ivo’s voice was low and resonant, and although Kitty had no idea what he was saying when he spoke French, she leaned forward, mesmerised by his voice.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Kitty, watching his lips as he spoke.

‘Filled with love and sun, it is the best of days, but how long will they last? Nothing lasts forever, everything dies.’

‘Well that’s depressing,’ said Kitty as she sat back in her chair.

‘Maybe, but you know Victorian times; they were used to death. Perhaps Clementina was worried about childbirth; you know so many women died in childbirth back then,’ Ivo said.

‘Why are you so smart?’ asked Kitty.

‘I’m not smart, I just know a lot of things. That’s different. I know silly useless things that are of no help to anyone,’ said Ivo, laughing.

Kitty wasn’t convinced. Ivo was above her in every way: intellect, looks, even his casual style made her feel dowdy and unimpressive.

Kitty looked across the village. There were more people around than usual, she noticed. She felt Ivo’s eyes on her.

‘You dress like an artist,’ he said.

Kitty was unsure as to whether his comment was a
compliment
or not, so she said nothing.

‘Your jacket, the scarf, the necklace, your hair. It’s all ve
ry Fren
ch,’ he offered as an explanation, aware she was
bewildered
by him. ‘I like it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kitty. ‘I don’t really think about clothes. I wear the same things all the time for work; kids are messy.’ She laughed.

‘I’ve heard that. Do you paint?’ he asked.

‘No,’ laughed Kitty, ‘I haven’t an artistic bone in my body.’

‘You look like you do. Perhaps you channel it through your style.’

‘Are you sure you aren’t gay?’ asked Kitty again.

‘I’m very sure.’ And the way he said it and the look he gave Kitty erased any doubts.

Kitty pulled her sunglasses from her bag. ‘I’m not sure what you want from me,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You. Your attention? I’m not the type of girl who sleeps around. So you might as well head off now if that’s what you’re after,’ said Kitty, her directness startling Ivo.

‘That’s good; I’m not that type of girl either,’ he said
flirtatiously
.

‘No really. I’m not.’ Kitty was firm in her decision, although the pulling in her groin was trying to convince her otherwise.

‘Listen here, Pussycat. I have no friends here, no girlfriend, and I am stuck here for six weeks. I thought it would be nice to make a friend; maybe meet some of yours.’

‘I don’t have any,’ said Kitty.

‘None here?’

‘None anywhere,’ said Kitty, thinking back to her horrid time at school, her loneliness in London.

‘Why not?’ asked Ivo, taking his turn to be direct.

‘I don’t know,’ said Kitty. ‘I’m not very good with people, just with children.’

Why was she being so honest with him? And why was she so pleased he didn’t have a girlfriend if she had just told him she didn’t want to be involved with him? God, she was so stupid, she thought.

Ivo changed the subject. He thought she looked as though she might cry.

‘Tell me about your family. The journals of your
great-great-g
reat-grandmother are delicious to read,’ he said as the waiter brought their fish and chips over to the table.

Kitty salted her meal and shrugged. ‘Well, the house was built for Clementina. That’s all I know. All of George’s paintings have disappeared and the only art left is Clementina’s, which isn’t worth much. When my father died, he left the house to Merritt and me with the instruction not to sell it till after ten years.’ Kitty popped a chip into her mouth and munched, waiting for Ivo’s response.

‘So now what? How long has it been since your father passed away?’

‘Three years,’ said Kitty.

‘Were you sad when he died?’ asked Ivo, his own father’s face flashing before his eyes.

‘Not really. Didn’t know him very well,’ she said without any emotion.

‘Why, did you live elsewhere?’ asked Ivo as he ate his lunch.

‘No, I was at home with him,’ said Kitty.

‘Where was your mother?’

‘At home too, but she died when I was twelve.’

‘So, what happened then?’ asked Ivo, leaning forward.

‘Nothing really. My father was an angry man; about what I don’t know. I never understood him. He kind of ignored me really; not outright, but he didn’t worry about me or wonder about me. He was all about Merritt, which I think was hard for Merritt to live with. After Merritt’s marriage fell apart, my father was angry at him. I think he hoped Merritt would solve all the financial issues and take over the house.’

‘Right,’ said Ivo, thinking of his own father and his
disappointment
at Ivo’s choices.

‘So after he died you went to London.’

‘Yes, I fell into a job with Willow and I’ve been there ever since.’

‘Did you like London?’ asked Ivo.

‘Not really; it’s so busy and dark. I like the country more,’ said Kitty, realising she sounded like a hick and that she didn’t care.

‘So the state of the house now? You and Merritt planning to fix it up?’ asked Ivo with his mouth full.

‘Maybe. It would cost a bomb which we don’t have, and what would we do with it once we’d finished? I’m not married, neither is Merritt. I doubt he will marry again. It’s only good for a family or the National Trust,’ she said.

‘Maybe Merritt will marry Willow and then you can all live there happily ever after,’ said Ivo, laughing.

‘I doubt it,’ said Kitty. ‘I think it’s just a sex thing.’

‘Nothing wrong with that,’ said Ivo in a low voice.

‘No, I guess not, but some people want more.’

‘Is that what you want, Kitty?’ asked Ivo, leaning further forward. There was a simplicity about Kitty that appealed to him; no designs or expectations, and even a primness that he found intoxicating.

Kitty pondered the question. She wanted so much; she wanted to love and be listened to, to be read to and caressed, to be touched and told she was clever; to be loved. And yet she said nothing.

Ivo could provide none of those things. And while it was fun to flirt around the edges, she knew not to get too close; men like Ivo burnt a girl’s wings if they flew too near to him.

‘I don’t know what I want yet,’ she said, and concentrated on her meal.

They ate in silence and then she stood up. ‘I might pay and head off home.’

‘My shout,’ said Ivo, wondering when the conversation had halted and why the awkwardness now.

‘Thank you,’ said Kitty, and she was standing wondering whether to shake his hand or kiss his cheek when Ivo made the decision for her and pulled her into a warm hug.

‘Nice to see you Kitty. If I come across any revelations in the journals, I’ll let you know.’ And Kitty let him hold her for longer than necessary.

Then she turned and walked away to the bus stop. And as she left, Ivo was surprised to find he was very sorry to see her go.

Merritt and Willow moved into intimacy quickly and found they enjoyed it. The ease of living in the same house and the presence of the children gave Middlemist an unrealistic energy, and Kitty wondered how long it would keep before the bubble burst. Perhaps Ivo was right; maybe they would marry and they would all live happily ever after. Part of Kitty hoped it would happen; then she would never have to go into the world again. She could stay here and be the nanny forever. Except there was the problem of Willow’s ideas about homeschooling, Kitty remembered, but she pushed it from her mind.