A Perfect Home (17 page)

As they drove back Claire felt happy, full of cake, and sleepy. She could still feel the touch of his fingers laced in hers. Stefan turned on the CD player.

She smiled. ‘Leonard Cohen; I haven't listened to him for years. I used to play his albums all the time when I was at college.'

‘I would have thought you'd have been more of a George Michael sort of girl.'

‘I have hidden depths beneath my façade of pretty ribbons and lace and lavender cushions,' Claire said, turning the music up a fraction. Stefan looked at her with half a smile and raised his eyebrows.

‘I saw an exhibition at the Royal Academy last week,' he said. ‘“Matisse's Women”– paintings mostly, a few drawings and a little bit of his ceramics. You would really like it.'

‘I can't remember the last time I went to an exhibition.'

‘Lots of lovely use of pattern, beautiful colours, very vibrant. I think it's on for a while.' He looked across at her and his deep brown eyes met hers. ‘I could take you to see it.'

Claire didn't answer. She had deliberately put all thoughts of any future out of her mind, trying to enjoy each minute as it came.

‘Do you think you could escape to London at all?' he asked.

‘I don't know. Maybe.'

Her mind raced. The school summer holidays were long. William would be working right through them. Could she possibly ask Sally to have the children again? It was hard enough to find time for Emily Love at this time of year.

‘When?' she asked, looking straight ahead. On the horizon she could see an empty shell of a derelict house, ivy outlining its roofless walls.

‘Next week? Is Tuesday a good day?'

‘I'd need to work it out,' she replied. ‘I could ask Sally to have the children again, but I don't want her to get suspicious.'

‘Suspicious of what?'

‘I don't know. Nothing. I don't know,' she felt flustered.

‘There's nothing to be suspicious about, is there?' He looked at her.

‘No, of course not. I just don't know what she'd think.'

‘Where does she think you are this afternoon?' His eyes were back on the road.

‘With a customer.'

‘Well, I am a customer, aren't I?' Stefan asked innocently.

‘Yes, I suppose you are,' she said slowly.

‘You could be with a customer again,' he said.

‘Yes, I suppose I could.'

‘Anyway, you'd find this exhibition inspirational, I'm sure, and so it would really be research for your work.'

‘I'll see,' said Claire. ‘I'll ask my mother to come over and look after the children. I'll email you.'

‘Text me,' he said, parking the car back in the car park. ‘My number's at the bottom of my emails.'

Claire opened the car door and turned to Stefan. ‘Thank you for a really lovely afternoon.'

‘Thank you. I've enjoyed it very much.'

‘And thank you for this,' she said, holding up her cup. The waitress had washed it and wrapped it in a napkin to keep it safe for the journey home. Claire got out of the car.

‘Send me a text about next Tuesday,' he said, and she closed the door and walked away. No goodbye kiss or hug. She didn't look back. As she started reversing her car from the parking space she saw the little sports car drive away behind her. She could still hear Leonard Cohen's languorous voice in her head.

Her mind was a blur as she drove back to Sally's to collect the children. Of course she wanted to see him in London. How could she not? She'd only left him minutes earlier, but she was desperate to see him again, just one more time, just to be with him for a few more hours.

Stopping the car on the pavement outside Sally's terraced cottage Claire carefully unwrapped the cup from its linen napkin. She turned it over in her hands and for the first time noticed the inscription painted underneath.

‘With very special memories, Stefan.'

‘Would you be able to come over and look after the children for me next Tuesday?' Claire bit her lip hoping that her mother wouldn't ask her where she was going; when Claire was a child Elizabeth could always see straight through any lie she told her.

‘I can't next Tuesday,' Elizabeth's voice sounded faint and crackling; Claire had had to call her on her mobile having failed to get her at home for two days. ‘I'm going to Brighton.'

‘Brighton!'

‘There's no need to sound so surprised.'

‘What are you doing in Brighton?'

‘Eating ice cream on the pier I expect,' Claire wasn't sure if she was being sarcastic. The line went dead.

‘Hello,' Claire called into the receiver. ‘Hello.'

‘Sorry,' Elizabeth was back. ‘Went through a tunnel.'

‘Are you on a train?'

‘No.' There was a noise in the background that sounded like an engine.

‘You're not driving are you? Do you know that it's illegal to talk on your mobile at the same time?'

‘Of course I'm not driving!'

The noise sounded a bit like a motorbike.

‘Where are you, Mum?'

‘Here comes another tunnel, better go. Bye, dear, remember to let me know about –' She was gone.

Claire guessed she had been going to ask if she'd made up her mind about Cornwall but at that moment all Claire could think abut was how she was going to get to London without three children in tow.

‘I have a huge favour to ask you,' she said to Sally as they sat on the riverbank after a picnic with the children. ‘Is there any way you'd have the three of them again next Tuesday?'

‘OK,' said Sally, finishing off a packet of Pringles. ‘They're no trouble at all. I think they actually manage to instil a bit of calm into my boys. Where are you going?' She handed Claire the last crisp and started pushing the empty sandwich wrappers and apple cores into the tube.

‘I have to go to London.' She could feel herself blushing with guilt.

‘Oh,' said her friend inquisitively. ‘To see another customer?'

‘To see an exhibition,' said Claire breaking off little bits of Pringle nervously. ‘Matisse at the Royal Academy. I really want to go. Inspiration for work. A business trip, really.'

‘I saw a bit of a programme about that on BBC4, before Gareth changed the channel to watch rugby. I'd love to see it myself. Why don't we go together one weekend? It would be more fun together, a girly day out in the city. A bit of shopping, lunch – maybe an afternoon gin and tonic at The Ritz. What do you think? We could ask the men if they'd look after the kids.'

‘Actually,' said Claire panicking. ‘I think it would be better on my own so I can concentrate properly. I might go and look in that lovely department store that I dream of stocking one day, see what the competition is like there.'

Sally looked quizzically at her face.

‘Are you all right, Claire? You really don't seem quite yourself lately. If I didn't know you better I'd think you were hiding something from me.'

Was it that obvious?
thought Claire.

‘It's not Gareth is it?' Sally's hands flew to her face. ‘Oh my God! I should have realised before. The two of you are having some sort of torrid affair behind my back aren't you? Is that why he's smartened up his act and you've got skinny; you're meeting up for passionate trysts?'

‘Oh, Sally, now you're being paranoid,'

Sally laughed. ‘I'm only joking; of course I wouldn't expect you to want to have anything to do with Gareth.' She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Though I'd happily do a swap for William if you didn't want him.'

Claire started choking on a Pringle crumb. Sally peered at her face again. ‘You look like you're having some sort of hot flush. Maybe you're going through an early menopause?'

When the children were in bed, and while William fiddled with wiring in the summer house, Claire took her mobile phone into the study.

I'll meet you outside the exhibition on Tuesday. 2 p.m? C

Chapter Sixteen

‘A palette of chalky white shades compliments the antique furniture and richly coloured oriental rugs, creating a stylish effect throughout the house.
'

Just once more
, she repeated over and over in her head in time to the rattling of the train. The journey to London took an hour, but it seemed much longer. She'd bought a magazine at the station; it lay unread on her lap. She couldn't concentrate. Her eyes were constantly drawn to the countryside speeding by outside, willing it to go by faster.

She'd had another trip to the lovely clothes shop, bribing the three children with comics to sit in the corner while she hastily tried on a mountain of outfits. She had bought a swirling raspberry-red skirt which she wore with a vintage lace blouse she'd had since her college days. It fitted for the first time since the children had been born. She'd made a brooch, looping a length of dark pink ribbon into loose petals secured in the middle by a pearly button to make a flower. She pinned it to her blouse and slipped into her new sandals.

‘Looking gorgeous again,' said Sally as Claire dropped the children off. ‘Have fun in the big city – don't get up to mischief.'

From the station Claire took a taxi. She couldn't face the busy hustle of the tube, the hot walks down long, tiled corridors, the jostling on crowded platforms. After a frustratingly slow crawl through London traffic the taxi drew up outside the imposing building of the Royal Academy of Arts. Long banners advertising the exhibition hung down the length of the stone facade. The street was crowded with fast-moving Londoners and loitering Japanese tourists. Fumbling in her purse for the fare, Claire was aware of buses beeping at her double-parked taxi. In her hurry, her change spilled onto the rutted rubber floor of the cab.

‘Come on, darling,' said the taxi driver as she scrabbled to pick up the coins. ‘I can't sit here all day waiting for you.'

Flustered, Claire handed the driver a twenty-pound note.

‘Haven't you got anything smaller?' More beeping came through the open window.

‘Keep the change and what's on the floor,' she said, opening the door to hot traffic fumes and the noisy street. She took a deep breath and wove her way across the dense crowd of people in front of her.

Walking into the sudden quiet of the large entrance courtyard, she could see Stefan sitting on the steps. As she walked towards him she straightened her skirt and checked the buttons on her blouse weren't coming undone; they had a habit of popping open and revealing more than she intended. He hadn't seen her. As she got closer Claire realised he was on his phone. He was talking, looking down, running his hand through his hair, laughing. Only a few feet separated them now. Claire slowed down her steps, waiting for him to notice her.

‘Lets meet up for a drink some time,' Claire heard him say and then he laughed again, throwing back his head. Suddenly he saw her. ‘I've got to go.'

He stood up smiling and slipped his phone into his pocket.

‘An old friend I haven't seen for ages,' he said. Claire wondered if it was an old girl friend. ‘He's called Mark,' Stefan said with a smile as though he'd read her mind and wanted to reassure her.

‘It's none of my business,' Claire felt slightly flustered.

‘It's great to see you,' he took both her hands in his and kissed her cheek. ‘Was the journey all right?'

‘Fine,' she said. ‘I haven't been on a train for ages.'

‘Do you need a cup of tea to recover?'

‘No, let's see the exhibition first.'

‘Come on then, I've bought the tickets already.' Stefan touched her back lightly as he led her up the steps. ‘You look lovely,' he said. ‘Nice brooch.'

Claire touched it and she could feel her heart beating rapidly under the white lace of her shirt.

Inside the gallery they moved slowly around the hushed white rooms looking at the brightly coloured paintings on the walls. Matisse's women stared out at them, serenely beautiful; their flat calm faces looked at Claire amidst a riot of bold pattern and colour. Sensual feline bodies silently reclined on sofas upholstered with chaotic patterns, or sat upright, waiting, on bright wooden chairs. In front of the figures, fruit or flowers in decorated vases sat on sumptuously patterned tablecloths. In the last gallery the female figure was stripped down to cut-out shapes of paper – so simple, yet strangely erotic. To Claire these women looked strong and confident, at ease with their bodies, happy in their eternal settings. It made her feel aware of her own body; conscious of herself, her limbs, the way she walked. She and Stefan didn't speak as they moved around the quiet rooms side by side but Claire felt powerfully aware of him beside her, the inches between them charged with a magnetic energy drawing them together, pushing them apart. Her skin prickled with his proximity to her. They didn't speak until they were outside again, blinking in the bright August sun.

‘Now what?' asked Stefan. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?'

‘Tea would be good.'

‘Do you like champagne?'

‘It's been a long time since I've had any real champagne,' she admitted. ‘Cava and a bit of fizzy Australian is the closest I get to it these days.'

‘I'll take you to my favourite bar,' he said. ‘They do great champagne cocktails. It's not far.'

They walked out into the busy pavements of Piccadilly and up Regent Street. Claire caught tantalising views of clothes in shop windows as Stefan led her quickly on down the side of Liberty's and into the narrow streets of Soho. Her feet began to sting in her high strappy sandals as they negotiated the fruit barrows of Berwick Street. Stefan obviously hadn't heard of ‘taxi shoes'. He took her hand as she slowed down and lost pace with him.

‘Nearly there,' he smiled at her.

He kept hold of her hand. Claire forgot about her painful feet.