A Rural Affair (20 page)

As Luke bounded boyishly up the steps to the organ, blond hair flopping, he flashed me a grin and I smiled back. Smiled, though,
not glowed. And as Angie and Jennie either side of me exchanged a delighted glance, like proud parents – one they clearly
thought I didn’t notice – I hoped I wasn’t going to disappoint anyone. He was nice. Very nice. And good-looking too. So perhaps
it was just the fact that he was always late and then basked self-consciously in the tiny spotlight this afforded that annoyed
me? Or maybe he was genuinely busy and lost track of time? At Peggy’s I’d liked him more, I decided, as he played the opening
chord in a dramatic manner. We’d perhaps even had a moment as we’d chatted over a glass of wine by the darkened window – which,
let’s face it, was a far more conducive environment than this one. The organ didn’t help, this chilly, damp church didn’t
help, and as we all launched into the Gloria and Molly into ‘Nights in White Satin’, I knew that didn’t help either.

After choir practice, I found myself walking out of church alone. Angie and Jennie were up ahead discussing dishes Jennie
was making for Angie’s freezer, when Luke materialized beside me.

‘Hi.’ He pushed his fringe out of his eyes.

‘Oh, hi, Luke.’

I’d been looking in my bag for some money for Frankie. I hated rooting around for it while she stood waiting; liked to have
it ready, so the transaction was swift and clean, prey as
I was to the usual ridiculous middle-class hang-ups about paying anyone to work for me. As he wheeled his bike beside me,
I eyed it warily. Hm. Now admittedly it was just a common or garden pushbike, but one thing could lead to another and before
you know it he could be head to foot in blue Lycra.

‘I thought we pretty much nailed it tonight.’

I couldn’t help smiling at his rock ’n’ roll way of putting it. ‘I agree. We’re nearly there.’

Don’t be mean, Poppy, he’s just making conversation. And he was satisfyingly tall and slim but not skinny, I decided, as he
strolled beside me in the light of a full moon.

‘D’you find it hard, that he’s here?’ he asked, glancing around. That endeared him to me immediately. Many people would have
conveniently forgotten my husband was amongst us.

‘Not in the least. For one thing I don’t believe in ghosts, and for that reason I’ve always found graveyards rather comforting
places.’ I thought of the one I visited quite regularly on the other side of Aylesbury. ‘Quite sleepy and peaceful and not
remotely spooky, even at night. I’m glad he’s here and not in some urn on my mantelpiece. It means the children can come later
if they want to. Have a chat.’

‘And even if there are ghosts, who’s to say they’d be more scary than the living? I can’t help thinking they’d be rather serene
and calm, not having to live in the real world any more. Being well out of it.’

‘Exactly.’

We walked on.

‘I used to be fascinated by tombstones. Still am a bit,’ he admitted. ‘Imagining the people, their lives.’

‘Oh, me too,’ I said, surprised.

‘I mean, look at this.’ We stopped at a lichen-covered stone. ‘Imelda Ruskin, beloved wife of Arthur Ruskin.’

‘Yes, I know. When equally beloved wives, Rachael and Isabella,’ I pointed, ‘are buried over there.’

‘And Isabella was only twenty-two when she died,’ he reminded me, as we paused at her grave. It was one I knew well, had often
wondered about. ‘Childbirth, d’you think?’ He nodded at the tiny grave beside her. ‘We know she was mother of Patrick.’

‘Or poison, to move Arthur on to wife number two perhaps?’

He laughed. Shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? And was Arthur a warty old dog exercising a spot of
droit de seigneur
or a dashing young blade?’

‘Oh, a young blade,’ I said emphatically.

Arthur had always been a bit of an attractive cad in my eyes. Cutting a swathe through the damsels in the village, who all
swooned for him, before popping his clogs elsewhere, somewhere more exotic. For Arthur wasn’t buried along with his wives
in this churchyard. And nor would I be, I determined suddenly. Wouldn’t stay here for ever, to be slotted in beside Phil.

‘D’you ever make it up to London, Poppy?’ Luke said easily. ‘I thought we could have lunch.’

Well, I’d pretty much known he was going to ask me something like that. But London. No, I didn’t, as a rule.

‘Or a pub lunch here?’ He waved his hand at the Rose and Crown.

‘No, I make it to London,’ I said, thinking of Arthur and his travels. ‘I’d like that. Thanks.’

‘Good. I’ll book a table somewhere. West End? I imagine you’ll be shopping.’

‘Oh, er, yes. I imagine.’

‘What about next Tuesday?’

‘Perfect.’

We’d reached my gate now. Stood facing each other in the moonlight. ‘Goodnight, Poppy.’ He reached out and tucked a strand
of hair back behind my ear, before lightly kissing my cheek.

Why should that small gesture disarm me?

I turned to open my gate, simultaneously swinging my bag over my shoulder, but it was a clumsy manoeuvre and the strap caught
on the picket fence. As I unravelled myself I turned quickly to see if he’d noticed, and just caught his eye. By the time
I’d smiled nonchalantly he was well on his way.

I walked up my path thoughtfully. Well, I was out of practice. Flirting. But I’d have to do better than that. One man leaves
a message on my answering machine and I’m twirling round the kitchen, another touches my hair and I’m fighting my own garden
fence? I shook my head. Any woman’s magazine worth its salt would point out that, recently widowed and bereft in so many other
ways for years, I was vulnerable. And susceptible to any man’s attention. Any man, I thought soberly, being a great deal better
than Phil.

I could barely get the tenner into Frankie’s hand before she’d sidled past me with the briefest of muffled thanks, and out
into the night. I turned and watched her go. Towards the pub across the road. Into the pub? No. Surely not. It was full of
locals; she’d never get served. She hurried past the saloon-bar door and went round to the yard where the barrels were stored.
A car seemed to be waiting, engine running. She slid quickly into the passenger seat. I watched as it sped off. Oh well, it
was still early, I reasoned uneasily as I went inside. And she was sixteen now. Hardly a child. I didn’t want to
make things hard for Frankie, and as Jennie kept reminding me whenever I raised it, she really wasn’t my problem.

I found myself dressing rather carefully for my meeting with my lawyer. I gave my hair two washes, wishing it was thicker
but pleased it was still satisfyingly blonde from the recent highlights, and blew it dry with a round brush instead of just
giving it a hasty blast of hot air. It hung in a fair sheet around my shoulders. Spun gold, Mum used to say when I was little.
Then she’d brush it for me, my head in her lap. My face was a bit pale, but a spot of blusher and lipstick and a bright pink
scarf improved it, although I did remove the silky skirt and replace it with a navy one. And my new boots, not bare legs.
Years ago I’d still have been head to toe in black, I reminded myself, and this was a meeting, not a date. Nevertheless my
heart quickened as I tripped lightly downstairs, one hand brushing the rail. I hesitated at the bottom. Ran back upstairs
for some scent.

The heavy oak front door onto the high street had been varnished, I noticed, and there was a new sign on it: Sam’s name in
gold letters picked out just below that of the senior partner. The stairs, as I climbed the two flights, had been carpeted
in something cream and expensive, with gilt stair rods. Very Harley Street, or whatever the legal equivalent was. Wigmore?
No, that was teeth. Very private practice, anyway. Maybe we could share a joke about that? Except we’d already done one about
makeovers. Anyway, something quick and witty would come to mind, I decided, as I bounded up with a new authority and sailed
into Janice’s waiting room. I was feeling decidedly sparky today.

Janice’s room was more than just tidy, it was freshly painted, with flowers on the desk. After she’d greeted me
with a beaming smile I admired the decor and the flora, and then we indulged in a spot of girly chat about how we both loved
lilies. She ushered me on through, assuring me Sam was waiting for me, and I noticed the new carpet continued seamlessly into
his room, which was also immaculate. Although the half-empty packet of Orios on the desk, I decided with a small smile as
I turned to shut the door, was a nice familiar touch. I wondered what pretext he’d manufactured for this meeting?

‘Poppy. Thanks for coming in again.’ He stood up with a smile.

‘My pleasure.’ I gave a dazzling smile back, taking the seat he indicated. I noticed the shirt was pink today with a button-down
preppy collar and a dark blue tie. A good combination. No social peck on the cheek, but perhaps later, when we said goodbye.
And Poppy was a very good start, not Mrs Shilling.

‘And I’m sorry if my message alarmed you in any way.’

‘It didn’t at all,’ I said, surprised.

His face, as he sat, was serious; devoid of laughter lines. I suddenly realized I should be alarmed. Very alarmed.

‘Why? Is something wrong?’

‘I’m afraid Emma Harding has crawled out of the woodwork. She’s making a claim on your husband’s estate.’

My heart plummeted. All the skippy excitement of the morning went with it. It seemed to me it seeped out of my boots and right
through the creamy carpet and the spongy new underlay to the floorboards below. I felt old. Tired again. And not because of
the claim. Not because of the money. But because suddenly I was plunged into a world where my late husband had been sleeping
with another woman for years. A world I thought I’d left behind; one I didn’t want to
return to. Not when I’d been happily choosing between Sam’s broad shoulders and Luke’s hair-tucking technique.

‘I see,’ I said miserably. I remembered Emma Harding’s scrubbed, anxious little face in my sitting room, saying she didn’t
want a bean. Yeah, right. I crossed my legs, noticing a tiny ladder on the inside of my knee.

‘How much does she want?’

‘She wants half.’

‘Half!’

‘Well, she claims she’d been his partner – in the domestic sense – for four years, and in the professional sense for longer.
Nine, in fact. Four at Lehman’s, and five at the new firm. She claims they left to set it up together, albeit under his name,
and that during those years any wealth he accumulated was due largely to her, because she was responsible for new investment.
Apparently she gathered most of the clients. She says your husband was only a success because of their partnership, ergo she’s
entitled to half his estate.’

‘But that’s outrageous. She wasn’t married to him, hasn’t got children by him. God – I hope not!’

‘No, no children,’ he said quickly.

‘And if she was so instrumental in the business, how come I’d never even heard of her? She certainly wasn’t one of the directors.
I knew them. And OK I knew her name but, honestly, that was about it!’

‘Well, that’s … hardly surprising, really, is it? Under the circumstances.’ It was said kindly. And he was looking at me in
a detached, speculative way, rather as a doctor would a patient. If he’d had half-moons he’d have been peering over them.

‘No. No, I suppose not.’

A silence ensued. He shuffled some papers awkwardly.
‘She was only on a basic salary because she’d been promised a share in the business when it was sold later this year. If that
had happened, incidentally, it would have made millions. It won’t now. Not without your husband at the helm and his Midas
touch. Investors have lost confidence, it seems. It won’t affect your inheritance but it’s not in such good shape. It’s still
trading, but Miss Harding has been eased out.’

‘She’s lost her job?’

‘So it seems. And of course she’s lost your husband’s protection. The other directors were jealous of what they felt to be
her elevated position. It appears she also sailed close to the wind trading-wise, which worried them. She was a bit of a chancer.’

‘Right. Good.’ I clenched my fists. That nice Robert Shaw, who Phil had also taken with him from Lehman’s. Ted Barker too,
with whom we’d been to dinner. Classy men; old school tie. Too right she was a chancer.

He cleared his throat. ‘Her claim, however, has the backing of your late husband’s mother and sister. They both support it.’

I stared at him. Could feel my mouth opening and hanging. ‘Marjorie and Cecilia?’

‘Yes.’

‘They knew her?’

‘It appears so.’

‘How come?’ But I knew how come.

‘They met her. Originally, they’re keen to stress, in a business context. As a colleague of Phil’s, and in order to discuss
their own personal finances. But later, under more friendly circumstances. They had lunch together after various meetings
in London, apparently. And she was a visitor to their house in Kent.’

My heart began to hammer. Sam looked deeply uncomfortable.

‘But … why? Why would they do that, support her?’ The walls of my throat were closing in, but I got the words out.

‘The letters I have from both parties state that Mr Shilling was, ah, miserable at home, and only stayed for the sake of the
children.’ He looked studiously down at the letter before him, avoiding eye contact with me. ‘Quoting this one from Mrs Shilling,
she says, “My son had wanted to leave his wife for years.” ’

I was shocked. Profoundly shocked. Over the weeks I’d come to terms with the fact that a whole world had been continuing somewhere
without me; a world of Phil and Emma, Emma and Phil, and these visits of Emma’s to Phil’s family home only sketched in additional
appalling detail. More grotesque background. But before, it was just the two of them. More people somehow gave the picture
a density that I knew I was going to struggle to push against. It would be like holding back the tide to suggest that all
four of these people had been wrong, had judged me unfairly, and that I was a perfectly pleasant human being. A doddle to
be married to. Why should they all be mistaken? And yet it wasn’t true. It wasn’t fair. My breathing became laboured. I was
a nice girl, surely? Not the girl in this picture?