One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [78]
She did, moments later, still dressed in a pink jacket and sunglasses, having clearly just returned from dropping her children at school. An expensive carrier bag swung from her hand.
‘Oh, it’s you. I’ve literally just walked in.’ She looked at me accusingly. ‘I had to pick my dress up from Bruce Oldfield, for the Aids ball tonight. Didn’t the other girl tell you eleven?’
‘The other girl did,’ I said smoothly. ‘And I’m sorry. You’re right, I am a few minutes early.’
‘Well, you’re here now. You’d better come in.’
What – as opposed to waiting outside on the step while she took off her coat and had a cup of coffee?
‘Thanks,’ I murmured.
‘I’m just going to take my coat off and put the kettle on. Won’t be a minute.’
I assumed I wasn’t to follow, and waited in her black-and-white tiled hall, watching as her pert little backside went downstairs to the basement kitchen. Her heels echoed in the vast empty house. On the Pembroke table beside me – nice enough, but not a great deal of age – were framed photographs of her family. A studio shot of two blonde teenage girls caught my eye, the ones that years ago, I’d have been breakfasting with in the basement kitchen. They were probably reading History of Art at Newcastle now, or on a gap year in Thailand, prior to Mummy finding them work at Sotheby’s. And what of Lucinda, I wondered, now they’d flown the nest? What was her life like now? Maggie insisted all her smart married friends had their work cut out keeping their successful husbands, and she didn’t mean feeding them. Said that these days, nipping to Harvey Nicks wasn’t a joy, but the deadly serious task of maintenance. Facials, hair, nails and clothes – it was all about keeping one’s man, whilst at work the younger women circled like sharks and desk-perched. Just as I had circled and desk-perched too, I realized, as I looked up with a jolt from the smiling teenage faces, to this woman, who had my life. She was clip-clopping back down the passage towards me, still slightly irritated, but plastering on a smile. She had the grace to apologize.
‘Sorry. You caught me on the hop, rather.’
And I had the grace to accept it for what it was: an attempt from a woman, whose life no doubt looked immaculate, but wasn’t necessarily all it seemed, to remember her manners.
‘Trust me,’ Maggie would warn, ‘you wouldn’t want to be in their gilded cages, however cushy you think their lives are. They’re all on antidepressants.’
‘On the whole I’m very pleased,’ she was saying, leading me down the passage and through some double doors. Thank the Lord. ‘Your partner’s got a very good eye, and she’s caught just the theme I wanted. But the colour’s a disaster.’
I followed her into the dining room which Maggie had indeed done well. I recognized the round, wrought-iron table we’d found in Grasse, originally a garden table from a château terrace, but working beautifully inside a London house. Around it were iron chairs, painstakingly sourced from a bistro in Paris and newly upholstered now in a modern grey check. On the wall opposite the open French windows, flung wide to dispel the smell of paint, hung a huge oil by Claude Vessan. The painting, along with the distressed corner cupboard for glasses and the walnut sideboard, were all pieces I’d personally found, but hadn’t seen in situ. I felt a surge of pleasure at seeing them so well appointed.
‘It’s looking good,’ I told her.
‘It is, but the walls simply aren’t working for me. This is not the Gustavian Grey I ordered.’
I nodded. ‘Hi, Greg.’ This to a painter she’d failed to acknowledge, who was crouched by the skirting board in the far corner, applying the finishing touches.
‘Hattie.’ He turned, nodded.
Lucinda’s mobile rang and she answered it.
‘No, I told you, two inches below the knee, not above. I can’t go to the opera looking