Feeling self-conscious, he smiled and sipped, as if to prove that he was completely ignorant of her family history.
Cate frowned, unable to disguise her irritation. Rachel had obviously been talking. Its so hot in here! She turned away, looking out of the window.
Youre right. Lets eat outside instead.
Fine.
Once out in the garden, the tension relaxed. It was good to get away from the heat of the kitchen with its ancient Aga. They sat under the chestnut tree again at the same low table where theyd had their tea, carrying the food out on trays.
A cool breeze rustled through the foliage. And suddenly, after the pleasant anonymity of working together for hours, the strangeness of being alone was palpable again.
So, Cate pushed her food around on her plate, have you always been a valuer?
It sounded dry and stupid.
Jack looked across at her. No. Youre an artist, arent you?
Yes. She hadnt expected him to bat the conversation back at her quite so quickly.
What kind of work do you do?
I paint. Reproductions.
Up shot an eyebrow. Really? You mean Whistlers Mother and that sort of thing?
She tore at a piece of bread. I specialise in French and Russian eighteenth-century Romantic painting.
The Enlightenment?
Yes.
He chuckled.
What?
Rachel didnt tell me you were a faker. He looked at her sideways. Ever try to pass anything off?
Its all real, she said, jabbing the bread into a pocket of gravy. Its just not original. And yes, pieces get passed off all the time. Most of the work I do is for insurance purposes. Very few people can afford to lose a masterpiece, even a minor one, to theft or fire.
Ive offended you. Im sorry. My mother always told me I had the social skills of a cabbage.
Im sure she was just being kind.
He laughed. Mothers are bound to be indulgent. So, he tried again, why that period?
I sort of fell into it.
Into the Age of Reason?
Someone asked me to do some work for them. A trompe loeil in a quite amazing flat overlooking the park. I found I had a certain aptitude for it. Also, theres considerably more scope for economic success. After all, she took a bite, if you hang a copy of Sunflowers on your wall, everyone knows youve got a fake. But if you choose something more elusive, unknown
Very clever. Was that Constantines idea?
His astuteness caught her off guard. She shifted. Well, the commission did come through a client of his.
Hes always been, shall we sayenterprising. He took another sip. And what about your own work?
This is my work.
Of course. I just meant your own subject matter.
Again, she felt wrong-footed. I get paid very well. And theres nothing particularly worthy about starving to death in a garret.
He said nothing. But his expression was amused.
This is more sustainable.
Well, yes. We must do whats sustainable.
Have you always been a valuer? she asked again, crisply.
He looked up, grinning. No. My father had an antiques business in Islington. I trained as an auctioneer at Sothebys one wayward year after university before I came up with the brilliant idea of becoming an architect. Then, unfortunately, my father became ill. Parkinsons. And I took over the business. He paused. I shouldve sold it and moved on; just been brutal and done it that same year. Instead, I got stuck.
In what way?
Pretending to be my dad, I suppose.
You dont like it?
He shrugged his shoulders. A jobs a job, right? And he flashed her a smile at least it was sustainable. For a while, anyway. I was forced to sell a couple of years later.
How is your father now?
The truth is, its hard to tell. One day hes quite bad and the next he seems like his old self. My mother is thinking of moving him to a nursing home. They live in Leicestershire now and I dont see them as often as Id like.
And you never finished your training?
He stabbed at a bit of salad. I was married by then. To a girl who came into the shop to buy a mirror.
I see. Did you sell her one?
No, she couldnt afford any. But I made her cups of tea and she used to stop in quite often on the pretext of finding one. In the end I gave her a really quite beautiful Edwardian overmantel. He smiled to himself, remembering. I searched high and low for something decent I could afford to part with. I tried to act like I was going to give it away anyway. I dont think she was fooled.
But she married you. So it worked.
Yes, it worked. I got the girl.
But you sold the shop anyway.
Turns out you need quite a lot of ambition to run your own business. After my wifes death, I let it go. His eyes met hers. She was killed in a car accident, two years ago.
He said it simply; quickly. She wondered if hed practised how to get it over with the least amount of emotion possible.
Im so sorry.
Cool air rushed around them.
Yes. Thank you.
They ate in silence.
Its strange, isnt it? Jack put his fork down. Thats what everyone says Im so sorry. And I say Thank you, like I was buying a pint of milk in a shop. Its somehowwrong, inadequate, that it should be reduced to that. And in the end, the whole thing gets reduced down to a single sentence. That was the year my wife died.
She nodded. The whole things an absolute cunt.
He looked at her in surprise. Yes, wellthats one way of putting it.
I didnt mean to offend you.
It makes a change from people apologising.
When my father died, I dreaded speaking to anyone I hadnt seen in a while; going through the whole dance of clichés. It made me angry. At them, which of course was stupid.
Were you close?
He wasnt exactly warm and fuzzy. But I dont think it makes a difference. Mostly what I missed was the idea that one day it might be different. When he died the relationship became written in stone. It was too late to change it, even if I wanted to. Or could. And I was left, wandering around saying Thank you to a bunch of people who didnt really want to talk about it and had no idea of what to say anyway.
Yes, Jack conceded, taking another drink of wine, it is a cunt.
They watched a flock of house martins swoop in and out of the high hedges on the south side of the garden.
And what about you? He leaned back. Married? Divorced? Widowed?
She looked up sharply.
Or shall we leave all that?
She stared at him a long time. ImI was involved with someone.
You have a boyfriend?
It wasnt quite so clearly defined.
He raised an eyebrow. You seem a little vague, Miss Albion.
Thats my intention, Mr Coates.
Do you instinctively balk at being defined, or simply in matters of the heart?
Who said this was a matter of the heart?
Who said this was a matter of the heart?
Well,he laughed, isnt it?
Im not sure. She ran her fingers lightly along the rim of her glass. There are so many more territories in the heart than one expects.
Like what?
Possession, power. She spoke slowly, softly, lifting her eyes to meet his. Its confusing sometimes, isnt it?
He felt his pulse quickening, the surface of his skin alive with increased sensitivity. In what way?
To tell which is which. They are intimacies, not so polite as love, but compelling just the same. Not everyone longs for tenderness.
And you?
I long for all sorts of things. Some of which I understand and some which I dont.
Are you saying you dont know your own mind?
Do you?
I like to think I do.
Youre deceived.
And youre presumptuous.
What does the mind have to do with it anyway?
Im not referring to intellect but to intention, he clarified, aware that he was overcompensating with a certain loftiness of tone. She was clever and provocative. But it was the speed of her that was most thrilling.
Her lips widened in a slow, teasing smile. And are all your intentions transparent and worthy?
Isnt that possible?
Possible, perhaps. But not natural.
And why not? He shifted, recrossing his legs. Why cant you be aware of your actions before you take them? Set your own course for your heart rather than blundering in blindly?
My, you really are a rare breed!
The wind tossed the thick boughs above them, elongated black shapes stretching towards them across the lawn.
Thats not fair. You make me sound like a prude!
Well, lets see. A man whose motivations and desires are completely known to him at all times and absolutely under his control, who never stumbles into the murkier depths of human relations, whose affections only follow his pre-sanctioned plansNo, youre not a prude. Youre a statue. Something Olympian. Definitely marble.
And what about you? he countered. A woman who doesnt know her own mind, cant even tell if shes having a relationship or not, but is only certain it doesnt involve love. What does that make you?
In the dimming light, a shadow fell across her, bathing her in darkness. I dont know. I dont know what it makes me.
The air felt suddenly cooler.
He tried to think of a way to backtrack without losing face. Cate
But before he could, she pushed her chair back and stood up.
Im tired, she said. Its been a long day. Do you mind if I?
Yes, go on. He said it a bit too quickly; his mind racing to figure out exactly how hed offended her; certain that he was likely to do it again if he pursued the matter.
Ill look after this.
Thank you.
She crossed the lawn, retreating from him, into the house, through the open French windows where the wind gathered and released the gauzy white sheers with invisible fingers.
The old house changed with the encroaching darkness. Rooms that were open and inviting in the daylight took on an unfamiliar coldness; shadows loomed and uneven floorboards sent her stumbling along the hallway. Although they were too far away from the shoreline, she thought she could hear the sea; surf crashing into cliffs.
Suddenly, her body felt leaden with exhaustion; her mind numb. The stairs groaned as she climbed up to her room. Without turning on the lights, she slumped on the edge of the bed. The last pink embers of sunset faded into the west. A minute later they were gone.
She picked up her mobile phone, lying on the bedside table. Two more missed calls. She was unable not to check it. Unable to return the calls yet unable to delete his number; unable to move forward in any way, trapped in an invisible cage of contradiction and obsession. She switched it off, tossing it across the room where it landed in a corner. Far away enough so that she couldnt reach across and grab it in the night; close enough to be retrievable. Self-loathing swelled and saturated, bleeding silently through her, like ink across a clean sheet of paper.
She could see Jacks blue eyes, narrowed, triumphant; hear the superiority of his voice.
What did that make her?
She knew all too well what that made her.
It still thrilled her. That was the most disgusting part. She dreaded the missed calls yet feared the day when there were no calls at all. Her motives were clouded, filthy. Nothing about her was clear or good or pure any more.
Were bound, you and I. The memory of his voice, low, just above a whisper, his breath hot against her cheek played again and again in her mind. Without thinking she rubbed her forearm; she could still feel the pressure of his fingers, digging into her flesh when she tried to move away.
Twilight reigned. A pale sliver of moon began to rise.
It was an unknown house; veiled yet alive in the darkness. It sighed and trembled. Things shifted, shapes, half seen, darted across the floor.
And without even bothering to wash her face, brush her teeth or take her clothes off, Cate curled up on the bed and closed her eyes.
17, Rue de MonceauParis
20 July 1926
My darling Wren,
Well! Finally something interesting has happened here! Eleanors cousin has arrived in townFrederick Ogilvy-Smith or Pinky, as hes known, on account of his permanently flushed cheeks (they really do look like a freshly spanked bottom)and he is the most fun, which is surprising, considering how congenitally dull Eleanor is. Hes on his way to Nice to join the Hartingtons at their villa near Eze but decided to stop a bit longer to take us all out to supper and a show. Of course Eleanor was mortified but he and Anne and I all got on brilliantly. Perhaps a little too brilliantlytell me what you think. We are strolling out across the Place de la Concorde after leaving the Ritz and he takes my arm.
Youre the bread girl, arent you?
I beg your pardon?! (I was trying to be serious and aloof but really theres no point with Pinkyhe just carries on regardless.)
Now dont be coy. Everyone knows your mother married Lord Warburton of Warburtons Wholesome Wholegrain. And a fine loaf it is. He looks at me sideways. I expect I best woo you, now that youre a famous heiress.
Im not famous.
You will be.
And Im not an heiress!
Yes, well, insanely well off then. Shall I do it now?
I sigh. If you must.
Best get it over with. He takes his hands out of his pockets and puts on a wobbly sort of voice. Your eyes are like two perfect blue
Please stop.
Fair enough.
What about Anne?