Whiteout - Ken Follett [39]
They entered, as always, by the kitchen door at the side of the house. There was a lobby, where Wellington boots were kept in a cupboard, then a second door into the spacious kitchen. To Miranda this always felt like coming home. The familiar smells filled her head: roast dinners and ground coffee and apples, and a persistent trace of the French cigarettes Mamma Marta had smoked. No other house had replaced this one as the home of Miranda’s soul: not the flat in Camden Town where she had sown her wild oats, nor the modern suburban house where she had been briefly married to Jasper Casson, nor the apartment in Georgian Glasgow in which she had raised Tom, at first alone and now with Ned.
A full-size black standard poodle called Nellie wagged her whole body with joy and licked everyone. Miranda greeted Luke and Lori, the Filipino couple who were preparing lunch. Lori said, “Your father just got home, he’s washing.”
Miranda told Tom and Sophie to lay the table. She did not want the children to put down roots in front of the TV and stay there all afternoon. “Tom, you can show Sophie where everything is.” And having a job to do would help Sophie feel part of the family.
There were several bottles of Miranda’s favorite white wine in the fridge. Daddy did not drink much, but Mamma had always had wine, and Daddy made sure there was plenty in the house. Miranda opened a bottle and poured a glass for Ned.
This was a good start, Miranda thought: Sophie happily helping Tom put out knives and forks, and Ned contentedly sipping Sancerre. Perhaps this, rather than the scene with Jennifer, would set the tone for the holiday.
If Ned was going to be part of Miranda’s life, he had to love this house and the family that had grown up in it. He had been here before, but he had never brought Sophie and he had never stayed overnight, so this was his first major visit. She so wanted him to have a good time and get on well with everyone.
Miranda’s husband, Jasper, had never liked Steepfall. At first he had gone out of his way to charm everyone, but on later visits he had been withdrawn while there and angry after they left. He seemed to dislike Stanley, and complained that he was authoritarian, which was odd, as Stanley rarely told anyone what to do—whereas Marta was so bossy they sometimes called her Mamma Mussolini. Now, with hindsight, Miranda could see that Jasper’s hold over her was threatened by the presence of another man who loved her. Jasper did not feel free to bully her while her father was around.
The phone rang. Miranda picked up the extension on the wall by the big fridge. “Hello?”
“Miranda, it’s Kit.”
She was pleased. “Hello, little brother! How are you?”
“A bit shattered, actually.”
“How come?”
“I fell in a swimming pool. Long story. How are things at Steepfall?”
“We’re just sitting around drinking Daddy’s wine, wishing you were with us.”
“Well, I’m coming after all.”
“Good!” She decided not to ask what had changed his mind. He would probably just say long story again.
“I’ll be there in an hour or so. But, listen, can I still have the cottage?”
“I’m sure you can. It’s up to Daddy, but I’ll talk to him.”
As Miranda cradled the handset, her father came in. He wore the waistcoat and trousers of his suit, but he had rolled the cuffs of his shirt. He shook hands with Ned and kissed Miranda and the children. He was looking very trim, Miranda thought. “Are you losing weight?” she asked.
“I’ve been playing squash. Who was on the phone?”
“That was Kit. He’s coming, after all.” She watched her father’s face, anxious to see his reaction.
“I’ll believe it when I see him.”
“Oh, Daddy! You might sound more enthusiastic.”
He patted her hand. “We all love Kit, but we know what he’s like. I hope he shows up, but I’m not counting on it.” His tone was light, but Miranda could tell that he was trying to hide an inner hurt.
“He really wants to sleep in the cottage.