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By Root 1487 0

a tray on, with coffee, as Laura liked to do after supper; to sit around; perch on, even. And OK, perhaps it was a talking piece, which Maggie despised, claiming good pieces should blend in and not be discussed, but the rest of the room blended in rather beautifully around it. He’d hung simple linen drapes at the windows, but unexpectedly, the drapes were heavy with tassels at the top for a traditional, luxurious twist. There was, admittedly, an imposing modern sculpture in the corner by the window, but on closer inspection I realized it was of a philosopher, Descartes. So in fact, Ralph’s style was contemporary but with a twist of the ancient: a nod to the past. Whereas ours, I thought, going slowly back to revisit the sitting room, which Maggie had done with lovely old French chairs but upholstered in red leather – practical with children – was old, but with a nod to the future: a contemporary twist. So two not so very different styles met in the middle.

‘Look at this!’ she squealed as she marched me on to the dining room, throwing wide the door.

I gaped. Almost didn’t recognize Hugh’s heavy old ancestral furniture. The sideboard, cleared of dusty old crystal and silver, had a vast modern canvas hung above it – presumably the ‘streak of dirt’. But it was a red and vibrant streak, and it worked brilliantly, bringing out the russet in the piece of mahogany below, bringing it alive. The dining table was set with enormous pewter plates, going way back before this oak table was made, and wrong-footing one. Ralph hadn’t tried to update it, but taken it back further in time, to when hairy men threw bones over their shoulders to the dogs. The panelling he’d dared to paint a lovely soft grey, just the sort of grey Maggie and I might have used, and the chairs he’d recovered in rough hessian and scattered around the sides of the room. Benches instead, for everyday use, heavy oak ones, ran either side of the table.

‘Ooh…’ I said, sitting down. ‘I like it!’

‘You don’t!’ she snorted.

‘I do,’ I said disloyally, and rather bravely. ‘I think he’s done a great job. And I love these huge plates. Yum.’ I picked one up.

‘Platters,’ she told me. ‘We’re not allowed to call them plates. Have to use a stupid bloody pretentious word.’

I put it down.

‘Yes, but you get cross, Maggie, when customers talk about our “sofas and settees”, muttering under your breath, “Bergère”.’

‘Only because it grates,’ she said, throwing her head back and scratching it energetically. ‘And it’s incorrect.’

‘Well, that’s how he feels,’ I said, getting up. I peered at the painting. ‘Is this the streak of dirt?’

‘Streak of piss, more like.’

‘Who’s it by? It looks like a Kandinsky.’

‘It’s a copy. But not. If you know what I mean. In the style of.’

‘Clever!’ I marvelled, swinging round to her, knowing she knew it too. Could tell by her short answers and the way she was chewing her thumbnail. ‘Come on, Maggie, you’ve got to admit, the guy’s got style. And he hasn’t got where he is on reputation alone. We know that’s not possible. He’s earned it. You’re only as good as your last commission.’

She sighed. ‘Yes all right, he’s got something, I admit. But why does he have to be such an arrogant ponce?’

I shrugged. ‘Who knows? Insecure? Or maybe he was born like that. Have you bothered to find out?’

‘Why would I?’ she retorted. ‘And anyway, I’ve been far too busy with my own rooms, actually, to really bother looking at his.’

‘Which are fab,’ I assured her. ‘Laura’s thrilled.’

‘Is she?’ She looked anxious.

‘Absolutely. She told me.’ She had. Had said the two designers had worked brilliantly, better than she’d ever hoped for. And that Hugh was thrilled too. But she’d said it in a quiet, Laura-ish way I didn’t like, which told me she had a lot more on her mind. Luca, probably. I didn’t dwell on that now.

‘And it’s taken your mind off Henry?’ I asked tentatively.

‘Yes, it has,’ she said in some surprise. ‘I mean, obviously I’ve had my moments. Had to run to the bog occasionally, rent my hair, beat my breast. But coming down here, being out of London, away from