Finding Home Page 16

  ‘Yes,’ he squints as he looks around. ‘I can see that. It’s good.’

  ‘RO-NAN!’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  I smile and gesture for him to lead the way downstairs. He pauses again at the portrait and shakes his head. I’m about to tell him that I met a real woman who is the spitting image of the girl in the picture, in case he wants to ‘trade up’, but suddenly from downstairs, Crystal starts screaming.

  We both rush down.

  ‘What is it, cupcake?’ Ronan shouts.

  We run to the library where Crystal is standing on an old sofa; her spike heels have ripped a hole in the upholstery and fluff is coming out.

  ‘I saw a mouse! There!’ She points to a tiny hole at the base of one of the bookcases. ‘I hate this place. Let’s go.’

  ‘Now, cupcake, I’m sure it’s more afraid of you than you are of—’

  ‘No! And stop calling me that. We’re leaving – NOW!’

  Ronan lifts Crystal off the sofa and carries her out to the main hall. Her heels skid on the pitted marble floor as he sets her down. Turning to me, he shrugs apologetically. ‘I guess we’d better look at a new-build next time.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say, relieved that Crystal won’t be living here. ‘There are lots of nice properties out there. I’d like to help you find one that’s right for you.’

  ‘That’d be great,’ Ronan says.

  As we walk to the door I have a sudden brainstorm. ‘In fact, ‘if you really want modern, I know of a cracking penthouse flat in Bristol. All glass and chrome and views to kill for.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Ronan says. ‘What do you think, cupcake? Could you live in Brissy, or is it too near your mum?’

  ‘Anything’s better than here,’ Crystal moans.

  It takes me a few tries to get the door unlocked. I’m secretly pleased that the rain has started up again and Crystal’s gelled hair is going flat. She grabs the car keys from Ronan and rushes to the Aston Martin.

  ‘Sorry this wasn’t the house for you,’ I say. ‘But good luck in your search.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Ronan glances wearily at the car. ‘Sorry to be so… high maintenance.’

  ‘No worries – ring the office if you’re interested in the Bristol flat. And if I see anything else come on – new-build mansions and the like – I’ll let you know straight away.’

  We crunch through the wet gravel.

  As we reach the cars, he pauses. ‘Hey, Amy, do you think they’d sell that picture? The one on the stairs?’

  I stare at him. He really is keen.

  ‘I don’t know. I think it goes with the house. But if I hear otherwise, I’ll give you a ring.’

  ‘Okay.’ He waves and gets into the car. Tyres squelch as they drive off.

  I lean against my wet car and let the rusty water trickle down my nose. All my hopes for the day have dissolved like raindrops in the sea. At this moment, all I want to do is get back to my parents’ bungalow and have a very long, very hot bath.

  - 19 -

  As if three terrible viewings aren’t enough for one day, there is one additional nightmare in store – the office Christmas party. I return home, sink into the tub, and check my messages: two voicemails and three texts from David Waters asking me when and where to meet. I text him to meet me at the ‘Glow Bar’ in Bristol where the dreaded event is being held. I put my phone on mute and set it on the edge of the sink. I close my eyes and think back to my visit to Rosemont Hall. For some reason I keep picturing the costumes – such lovely garments, so carefully preserved and looked after. Something else floats to the surface of my mind – something that Fred and Mary Blundell were discussing on their viewing of the Bristol penthouse. A Picasso in a new frame like ‘old wine in new bottles’...

  I sit bolt upright in the bath, the sudsy water streaming off my skin. All along I’ve assumed that the girl in the pink dress was painted in 1899, because that’s the date on the frame. But what if the date on the frame is a deliberate misdirection, and the portrait is, in fact, a modern painting done to look old?

  On my visit to the house with David Waters, I found a ledger that listed Sir George’s paintings bought and sold. One of them – a John Singer Sargent, I think – was auctioned off in a frame listed as ‘new’. It seems farfetched, but maybe the original frame was taken off that painting and used for the girl in the pink dress. Beyond that, the painter must have been very skilful to replicate the cracked varnish of an old painting, but surely that can be done too. And if the painting is modern, then the girl could be just about anyone.

  But there’s one person that it’s most likely to be. Henry and Arabella were in love and secretly engaged to be married. The pink dress was hanging in a closet in her room. And the letters speak of a painter hired by Sir George to paint Henry’s portrait. One by one, the pieces fall into place. Instead of painting Henry, the artist painted Arabella. The painting was still up in the attic studio during the fire, so it wasn’t destroyed or sold off. It makes sense that Arabella dressed up in a beautiful Victorian-style ballgown for the party in honour of Henry’s 21st birthday. Unlike my original idea, she didn’t dress up like the portrait, but rather, she sat for the portrait. And putting it in an old frame lent it gravitas. It was meant to fool future generations of onlookers – people like me – into thinking that the portrait was much older. It makes sense too that the painting is the ‘birthday present’ that she mentioned in her letters to Henry. And when I asked Mrs Bradford if the woman was Sir George’s wife or mother, it’s no wonder she sniffed disdainfully at me. The young woman in the portrait is Arabella Windham!

  I get out of the bath feeling pleased with myself. Everything fits, even down to Mrs Bradford. She was devoted to Arabella Windham, so naturally kept her things in good order, including her ‘special dress’. Though if the slept-in bed is any indication, maybe she was a little too devoted…

  Dad’s carriage clock chimes – time to focus on getting ready. I rummage through my closet and unpack more of my boxes to find something to wear. I eventually decide on a vintage pink satin shift dress, with matching heels and shrug. Underneath, I bite the bullet and put on my only surviving pair of lacy knickers ‘just in case’.

  As I’m standing in front of the mirror wondering whether or not the outline of the underwear will be as visible in a dim-lit bar as it is in my well-lit bedroom, Mum comes in without knocking.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘that’s a lovely dress. You look like a princess – Princess Di. You know, before she—’

  ‘Died?’ I can’t help but wince. I know Mum means it as a compliment; she’s only trying to help bolster my post-Simon low self-esteem. But why couldn’t she have chosen Kate Middleton – or even Pippa? Does my dress scream ‘80s’? I’m neither tall nor blonde, nor do I possess any of the statuesque elegance that Princess Di had back in the day.

  ‘Well, yes.’ Mum makes a pretext of dusting the ceramic knick-knacks on my bureau. There’s a long pause while I brace myself for whatever is coming next.

  ‘You know,’ she says eventually, ‘if you need some privacy – you know, want to bring someone back here… I mean… your father and I, we’re all for it.’

  ‘Mum! Of course I don’t.’

  ‘We’re both heavy sleepers – we won’t hear a thing. And we’d rather know that you’re safe than have to go to some stranger’s flat.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘We want you to meet someone.’ She winks. ‘Make hay while the sun shines.’

  ‘Mum, I’m hardly going to bring some strange bloke to sleep with me in a single bed on the other side of the wall from you.’

  Mentally, I add up my savings plus my meagre wages. Unless I make a big commission, it will be March before I can afford the rent on a half-decent flat.

  ‘Okay, honey, I’m just trying to be helpful.’

  ‘Great Mum. Thanks – I’m sure.’

  She dusts for another minute and then leaves the room. She’s brought in my thick new novel by Sa
rah Waters from the living room and set it on the bedside table. How I long to curl up under the covers and escape to a seedy, dim-lit Victorian world. The book reminds me of the nights I used to spend with Simon, with me reading and him playing games (at least, I think that was what he was doing) on his BlackBerry in bed. The good ol’ days. But reality is an office Christmas party in Bristol, escorted by a moderately handsome almost-stranger. On paper, at least, that probably doesn’t look too bad.

  I do a final twirl in front of the mirror, put on a pair of diamanté earrings, and head for the door. I’m almost there when my dad, sitting in front of the TV watching Eggheads, notices me leaving.

  ‘Wow, it’s Princess Di,’ he says, winking at me. ‘Tell Prince Charles that we’re dying to meet him.’

  ‘Dad!’ I seriously debate changing into something else. ‘It’s an office Christmas party,’ I remind him, ‘not a date. Besides, you’re twenty-five years off the pace.’

  He chuckles. ‘Whatever you say, Princess. But looking like that, maybe we’ll meet your Dodi Fayed in the morning?’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Just kidding. Oh, and just so you know, we’ll be out tonight – it’s the thirtieth anniversary of the night I met your mum. At your Uncle George’s – ha! Can you believe she ever went out with that old todger?’

  ‘No Dad, I can’t say I’ve ever given it that much thought.’

  He holds up his hand and points to the television. ‘Let’s see if the challengers can oust them.’

  I stand there patiently while the challengers miss an easy question about Dickens, and the Eggheads take the crown – as usual. I leave my dad hemming and hawing. Just as I reach the door, he turns back to me.

  ‘Well, Princess, try to have a good time. And even if you don’t – I’m sure your mum and I will.’

  Of that, I have no doubt. The prospect of sleeping elsewhere is becoming more and more attractive. The walls really are thin. I do a quick recalculation to determine if mid-February might be possible on the move-out front.

  ‘Bye Dad.’ I force a smile. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  *

  I arrive in downtown Bristol, right on time. Then, I proceed to sit in the car for fifteen minutes staring at the cascading white Christmas lights hung between the buildings and fretting about going inside the bar. A thousand objections come to mind: I haven’t really ‘bonded’ with anyone in the office other than Claire, and I’m convinced that Jonathan and Patricia both hate me for some unspecified reason. Then there’s the whole issue of David Waters. Unfortunately, absence has not made my heart grow fonder; it’s only given me time to conclude that inviting him was probably a mistake.

  Finally, I force myself to get out of the car and walk towards ‘The Glow Bar’. Half a block away, music, laughter, and chat are spilling out of the bar. It’s a chic, swanky joint – all leather and chrome. I pause outside the door and take a deep breath when, all of a sudden, a hand grabs my bottom. ‘Hey—’ I shriek. Fist raised, I spin around. ‘Stop that!’

  The hand belongs to my boss, Alistair Bowen-Knowles. He stands there grinning at me like a Cheshire Cat. Over his usual shirt and tie, he’s wearing a tacky knit snowman jumper with an embarrassingly phallic carrot nose. It’s obvious that he’s made an early start on the drinking part of the evening. An attractive blonde woman is hanging onto his arm. Conveniently for him, she’s peering into a tiny compact mirror and fixing her lipstick and doesn’t notice anything untoward.

  ‘Tessie,’ he slurs, turning to his date. ‘Meet our newest addition, Amy Wood.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ My face burns.

  ‘Charmed, dahling.’ Tessie says. Her voice is deep and she shakes my hand with claw-like fingers. For a second, I wonder if she was once a man. ‘Are you here all alone?’ she warbles.

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m meeting someone – he may already be inside.’

  ‘Well, let’s go and look for him, shall we?’ Alistair says. ‘First round’s on me.’

  He steers me around (his hand on my back this time) and the three of us enter the bar. I push my way through the crowd towards a cordoned-off area in the back. A big banner trimmed with a gold garland is taped to the wall: Happy Christmas from Tetherington Bowen Knowles. It’s a relief to spot Claire taking a glass of champagne from a roving waitress.

  ‘Hi.’ I make a beeline over to her. She’s dressed in a lovely teal blue sari, accessorised with a handsome Indian man in tow – her husband, I presume.

  ‘Oh hello, Amy.’

  She introduces me to Raj, the husband, and then leaves to go to the loo. He gives me a dead-fish handshake and I stand there trying to make small talk. Unfortunately, I can’t remember anything she’s told me about him other than that he’s from Birmingham. I make a brief comment to Raj about how Simon and I once went up north to Edgbaston to do the Tolkien Trail, but he looks blank and says they live up near Walsall.

  It feels like we’ve been standing there talking forever, and saying absolutely nothing. I’m dying to get away – go dance, go home, go look for David Waters, but I don’t want to be rude. Raj speaks in a monotone, and tells me in great detail about his family’s Indian restaurant. Then he regales me with details of the ’68 VW Beetle he’s restoring. Then he tells me about the pedigree Alsatian he wants to buy for his son. I can’t get a word in edgeways, even if I had something to say about any of his topics of interest. Across the room, I see Claire laughing with a few women I don’t know but I assume must be from the Cardiff office. I want to join them but stay where I am, nodding and umming in the right places.

  I’m concentrating so hard on the non-conversation with Raj that the next thing I know I’m holding two empty glasses of champagne – one in each hand. My quota for the entire night is gone in the first fifteen minutes.

  I shift my weight from side to side, pleased that I’m still secure on my feet. But a second later, a waitress comes around and suddenly I’m holding a new glass – this one full. A cold hand grabs my arm. ‘Oh!’ I scream. The glass goes flying, spilling champagne all over Raj’s shoes before shattering on the floor.

  Like a needle ripping across a vinyl record, all conversations stop and everyone turns to look at me. I look up at a horrified David Waters.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Looks like I’ve made an entrance yet again.’

  ‘Looks like you have.’ A small army of waitresses and bar staff rushes over and attacks the mess with towels and brooms.

  We move away from the wreckage. David gives me a little kiss, but I turn my head and it ends up somewhere in my hair. ‘You look great,’ he says, appreciatively taking in my dress.

  ‘So do you. Love the jumper.’ Over his pink shirt he’s wearing a kitschy red jumper with a knit white beard and black knit Santa Claus belt, nicely filled out by his athletic torso.

  ‘Yeah, seemed appropriate.’

  Before I can reply, Mr Bowen-Knowles (sans Tessie) swoops over to us.

  ‘David Waters,’ he says in a distinctly ‘superior’ tone. ‘How nice to see you.’

  ‘Hello Alistair. Great party.’ David moves closer to me and takes my arm. ‘Love the jumper.’

  ‘Ditto. I didn’t know you were Amy’s guest.’

  ‘Well, she was nice enough to ask me.’

  ‘I see.’

  They stand squared off against each other, Christmas jumper-clad chests thrust out – a pissing contest if I’ve ever seen one. I’m curious as to how far back these two go. Certainly, I’m not vain enough to think that they’re actually fighting over me.

  ‘And how’s your handicap?’ Mr Bowen-Knowles asks.

  ‘Up to six now. You straighten out that left cut yet?’

  ‘I’m working on it. But I don’t believe you’re at six.’

  ‘Well, fancy a round to prove it then – and you can put your money where your mouth is?’

  Golf. They’re talking about golf. I almost choke on my rapidly dwindling champagne. My date and my boss are planning a golf week
end.

  ‘How about next weekend?’ my boss says. ‘You still a member at Minehead?’

  ‘Yeah.’ David seems to lean away from me a little. ‘It’s still my favourite course – for now.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ Alistair raises his glass. ‘Put it in the diary.’

  Maybe it’s a trick of the twinkling Christmas lights, but the room has positively started to spin. I grab a glass from the tray of a roving waitress and drain it. There may be other golf courses in Minehead, but the one that I know is there for sure is ‘Golf Heritage’.

  ‘Amy?’ David grabs my arm as I teeter away a few steps. He steers me to a chair and sits down opposite keeping hold of my hand.

  I pull it away. ‘I didn’t know you and Alistair were such good golf buddies,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, not really.’ He shrugs. ‘We play from time to time. That’s how we met.’

  ‘And I suppose you’ll be happy when Hexagon guts Rosemont Hall to build another ‘Golf Heritage’ and you can run your golf carts through the wreckage.’

  His boyish face hardens. ‘That’s not fair, Amy.’

  ‘No?’ I inhale sharply. ‘I read your report – line by line. You’re right, someone will need to find buried treasure to fix it up. Whereas… a golf course – now there’s a good option.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m just doing my job, Amy. You know that. And if it does become a golf course, then at least the site will be open to the public – you should like that.’

  ‘I’ve read the articles about Hexagon and their “sustainable developments”. I’m sure you have too.’ I stare him down.

  ‘Look, babe,’ he says. ‘Do we have to talk about this now? This is a party. Let’s go dance.’

  He points to a cleared space across the room where Alistair is in the process of mauling Tessie to the tune of ‘It’s Raining Men’. Claire and her husband step into the fray and join them.

  I shake my head. ‘No David, I’d rather not.’