One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [90]
He smiled. ‘Not as much as it used to.’ He poured me a glass of wine and put a bowl of olives, little artichoke hearts, and tiny slices of cured ham between us. ‘Your starter,’ he warned, sitting down. ‘So what type of houses do you do?’
I felt stupid with the haphazard cutlery before me and moved it back surreptitiously. If he wasn’t embarrassed by the effort he’d made, why should I be?
‘Whatever I can,’ I answered truthfully, then wished I hadn’t. Wished I’d stuck to skittishness. ‘This looks delicious,’ I said quickly, popping in an olive. ‘Did you do it?’
‘God, no.’ He laughed. ‘I’m pretty ham-fisted in the kitchen. I’ve got a housekeeper – she left it for me. There’s some cold duck breast too.’
Questions crowded my mind. Is the housekeeper here when Céline is here? Do neither of you cook? Are you both so high-powered you don’t need to, or do you banish the housekeeper when Céline is back and she rolls up her Dior sleeves and makes perfect profiteroles? It seemed indecent to ask just yet, and anyway, we were still on my life, which seemed to be shrinking by the moment: with every perfect glass I picked up, every which way I turned, glimpsing more beautiful rooms.
‘Is it the sort of thing you see in magazines?’
‘A bit,’ I hedged. ‘But magazine coverage is quite spasmodic. Country Living did an article about us a while ago, though.’
‘I don’t know that one. Céline gets something called Interiors sent from England.’
Yes she would, wouldn’t she.
‘Oh, yes, and of course, Interiors,’ I couldn’t resist.
‘Really?’ He looked interested. ‘That’s pretty ritzy, isn’t it?’
‘Pretty,’ I agreed. ‘And quite time-consuming too, so we don’t always say yes.’ Now I was turning down Interiors?
‘But sometimes you do?’
‘Well, publicity’s always good for business. Not that we need much these days; our reputation pretty much goes before us.’
I was rather pleased with the way that had sailed out of my mouth. And after all, I hadn’t said it was a great reputation, had I? He wasn’t to know Maggie and I had not one, but two little disputes ongoing in the small claims court: one with a woman who hadn’t realized the cherubs on her toile curtains were going to be naked and frolicking, and in her view pornographic, and another with a client who’d complained the distressed kitchen cupboards we’d done for her whilst she sunned herself in Marbella were too distressed. Positively weepy.
‘Which edition?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Which Interiors did you do?’
‘Oh, way back. Last winter,’ I said quickly, sensing a recent copy might be lurking on one of those elegant coffee tables.
‘Jan? Feb?’ He was on his feet now, going inside to a veritable stack, under a table. It looked like a year’s worth. My mouth dried as he crouched.
‘Um, yes. But actually, I think it was the year before,’ I mumbled. ‘It was ages ago.’
‘Oh, OK.’
He moved around to another pile, because of course the refined and organized Céline kept, as I did, all her precious copies from years back. I gazed, mute, as he ran his finger down the spines for the requisite month. I seemed to have swallowed my tongue. It tasted rank. As he pulled out a couple of copies, I found my voice.
‘It was… American Interiors.’
He turned, magazines in hand.
‘Yes, they love the French angle, you see,’ I gabbled, ‘being so… American. And as I say, it’s all rather overdone in London. But in the States – God, they go crazy for us.’ I rolled my eyes and shuddered, as if hordes of crazy Americans mobbed Maggie and me whenever we got off a plane at JFK. Black-and-white footage of the Beatles in a similar predicament sprang to mind.
‘You go there a lot?’
My voice sounded unnatural. ‘Whenever we can spare the time. But of course there are lots of Americans living in London,’ I finished lamely. ‘We have enough work