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It was difficult for even Amy to understand why it was so important to her to find a great and romantic passion. To be able to live to the fullest in it one more time – or else to give up sex altogether because she would settle for nothing less. Obviously it was rather more than important, something deep-seated, since celibacy had been so easy to sustain. In some ways it had been a relief to have taken a sabbatical from the erotic, living for pure pleasure and nothing else. At her age she needed more
than that. Or, as the case had been, less. Was that age or just maturity?

She didn’t have the answer but she did have the good grace to laugh at herself. Age or maturity indeed! No amount of soul searching, the past edging in on her or an unwanted dream, could dull the good feelings she had about herself and life in general. She simply wished she had not grown up in a country whose dictum was: ‘Life is a candy box full of delicious sweets, a bowl of ripe red cherries, the rainbow
and
the pot of gold. It’s all there for the taking …’ It had not prepared her for reality. The world as it really is: hard and cruel, where things do not always go your way because you expect them to, and people are evil to other people, and countries rape and despoil other countries. Amy Ross was a happy and lucky lady, who, having learned the hard way the reality of life on earth, was grateful for every good day that came along, seeing it as a bonus for surviving to live another day.

A lingering hot bath, bed, and television – not a bad way to end a good day.

Chapter 3

‘Hello.’

Pete hesitated. He had received her note when on the way to the Opera House. He looked at it, felt surprised Amy had left it, then slipped it into the pocket of his evening jacket, and put her firmly out of his mind. He hadn’t allowed anything to distract him from that momentous evening. It was Cosima’s night. And Annie’s. If only she had lived to see it, to be there with them. Well, she hadn’t. His wife had died two years before and had missed seeing her dreams for Cosima come to fruition.

The night had been a great success, and the next day and the day after, he and the children had more celebrating to distract him from thoughts of Amy. But then, as two of his children left for Paris and Rome, and the others made ready to return with him to New York, he found space to think about whether he should or should not do anything about Amy Ross. Clearly leaving the note was an invitation for him to do so.

From the moment Amy re-entered his thoughts and the question was raised he could not erase the sound of her laughter from his mind. How beautiful and sensuous she was still, after several decades. Time seemed to have stood still longer for her than anyone he still knew from
that period of his life. What had happened to her? What sort of life had she lived? Was she married? Did she have children? The young man with her, was he part of her life? Curiosity, and no more than that, made him dial the telephone number she had left … or so he told himself, and believed it to be true, until he heard her voice. One word, ‘Hello’, triggered desires in him he had thought dead long since. Did he want that? He was about to put down the receiver but had hesitated too long. She repeated, ‘Hello.’

There seemed nothing to do but speak. ‘It was nice of you to leave a way for us to make contact again.’

Amy was surprised to hear his voice. She had given up on him. It had been nearly a week since she had seen him and impulsively left her address and phone number. He had looked so good, so big and comfortable, still with a sexy macho quality to him. And so American. That amused her – that after all these years abroad she should still find that all-American male look so attractive.

‘How nice to hear from you again. I’d given you up, thought you’d returned to Long Island.’

‘I’d like to see you, for lunch or dinner, maybe. How about today?’

‘I’d like that but it’s too short notice, I’m having friends in for lunch. I could make tomorrow.’

‘We’re leaving tomorrow morning.’

A pause, so long it rang like thunder. It was becoming embarrassing, and embarrassment was the last thing either of them wanted. They broke the silence, both speaking at the same time, which seemed to bridge the
distance between them. They laughed and then Amy said, ‘Come to me, and bring your beautiful children. Is there a beautiful wife too?’

‘I’m a widower. Is there a husband?’

‘I’ve never married.’

‘May I come alone and arrange for them to join us later if they want to? I promise that will make life much easier. They’re all young adults with ideas of their own as to how they want to spend their last day in London.’

‘Fine. Come as early as you like and spend as long as you care to.’

Amy gave instructions and timetables for the best trains and directions for the taxi from there to her house. Having hung up, she was surprised by how excited and pleased she was that Peter had called, that he wanted to see her again, and was coming for the day. She looked at her watch. Nine-fifteen. An early riser, she had already fed the ducks, had been out for a morning walk along the river, and had placed the canvas cushions on
Arcadia
’s wooden benches.

To make lunch for one more person was no problem for Tillie Tyler who was quite used to changes of plan in Amy’s household. Tillie had her favourites among the people who came and went through Amy’s life, and those were the ones Amy’s housekeeper pulled out all the culinary stops for.

Amanda Whately was one of them. She was Amy Ross’s best friend. Amanda and her record producer husband were glamorous members of the pop world. They and their three young children lived across the
river and upstream about a quarter of a mile, in a rambling Edwardian pile.

Tillie was looking forward to cooking lunch today. She liked Amanda but was dazzled by Dick who always brought her the latest CDs for her children. She could remember him in the sixties when he’d started out with a guitar and had written songs for famous pop groups. The Whatelys were nice, simple, plain-talking people, he with a Geordie accent and Amanda with a very upper-class one. This was his third wife, his third set of children. They came for lunch often but this time had been invited especially to meet Edward Silberzog who wanted to look at their collection of Francis Bacon paintings.

Now Mr Silberzog was a handsome young man, and always charming to Tillie, often bringing her some little gift. He would always tell her, ‘For being such a grand cook, and for taking such good care of Amy.’ People did worry about Amy and the reclusive life she lived. Her friends all thought her solitude odd for someone so attractive and sought after, someone who enjoyed people and had such a happy grasp on life.

Five mornings a week, Tillie rode in to work on her moped. This morning her mind was on the menu. For the first course, spinach soufflé, perhaps. But Amanda was always late, not a good thing for the perfect soufflé … Tillie had the habit of warning Amy of her arrival by ringing the old ship’s bell outside the door. She rang it now as she placed the key in the lock. Then, with a basket of fresh vegetables over her arm, pushed open the door and called out, ‘I’m here, Miss Ross.’

‘So am I.’

Tillie, taken by surprise, jumped and nearly dropped her basket. ‘You frightened me! Lord, did you frighten me.’

It was Amy’s habit not to come down from her bedroom or the library before Tillie’s arrival. The drill was: arrival, greetings, breakfast brought upstairs, a discussion of the work to be done that day, then each of the women would get on with her workload. Only rarely did Amy go down to the kitchen before Tillie’s arrival. It was different on week-ends.

‘Sorry, Tillie.’

‘Have you had your breakfast?’

‘Yes. You have so much to do I thought I’d get it and me out of the way as soon as possible. We’re going to have another guest for lunch.’

‘Sir Charles?’

‘No, someone new. An old friend I bumped into last week in London.’

They sat down and discussed the menu, and Tillie, who had been working for Amy for fourteen years, was very much aware of how happy she was. She seemed to be more exhilarated than usual, and that was always more fun for Tillie. More fun for the luncheon party too. It meant that Amy would not be locked away in the library dealing with the endless stream of correspondence or research that seemed to be such a large part of her work, but popping in and out of the kitchen all morning. The housekeeper and the mistress of the house had an easygoing relationship. One thing
they always did together was to dress the table. Amy Ross liked the table to be as beautiful as the food when she entertained.

Two hours later Tillie opened the door to Peter Smith. He handed her a large box of Belgian chocolates. ‘Oh, Miss Ross will like these. She’s partial to Loeonidas white chocolates,’ Tillie exclaimed.

‘Well, that was a successful guess.’

The moment he smiled, Peter Smith went on Tillie’s A list. ‘Come in.’

On the way from the railway station – Edwardian, with tubs of shrubs and wooden benches on the platform, the building itself reflecting the hey-day of rail travel – Pete had been enchanted. He had felt he was stepping back in time to the England most Americans want to see. All that had been missing was a grey day, fog and a chill in the air.

Instead he had found the sun high in the sky and drenching what was left of the autumn leaves on the trees and the carpet of them on the roads with a luminescent light that made them glow dramatically against the evergreens and shrubs. The air had been unusually warm for the time of year. Altogether he had been surprised and charmed but somehow could not equate the setting with Amy. He was even less able to do so when the taxi took a turn off the country lane on to the dirt track that led to her house with its barnlike proportions and unprepossessing entrance. She was still full of surprises evidently. Stepping through the front door, he was jolted into Amy Ross’s world and yet again
caught off guard by the splendid environment she had created for herself.

He stood with Tillie in the entrance hall among lifesize eighteenth-century terracotta statues, three of them: beautifully draped Roman ladies standing majestically among Kentia palms and flowering azaleas in front of a clear glass folding screen. His eyes could hardly take in everything. Besides the ladies and the pair of armoires, one either side of the front door he had just walked through, there were fishing rods neatly stacked in a rack, huge old baskets filled with gum boots, a pair of eighteenth-century curve-backed chairs with lion’s heads for arms carved out of blocks of red marble. Tables – one of wood, dark and rich, round and on a chunky pedestal base; another of grey marble, octagonal, on an elegant urn-like pedestal – were covered with books piled high among fishing reels, a basket of apples, another of pears, several hats, a pair of gloves, and a canvas fisherman’s bag.

The one long solid wall was used to display a Hans Hoffman painting, two large Motherwells, three richly framed Matisse drawings, and many more works of art Pete did not recognise, rising one above the other up the three-storey-high wall. The view from the hall encompassed the entire boat house from floor to rafters and exhibited the two galleries, one above the other, as well. It was impressive yet comfortable, exciting and inviting, from the fire in the huge hearth to the many paintings and sculptures, the rare, worn and faded oriental carpets on the floor, and the furniture in original
coverings or else upholstered in antique pieces of tapestry and fabric.

Tillie pushed open the glass screen and they stepped into the drawing-room where she called out, ‘Miss Ross, it’s Mr …’ She looked to Peter for help.

‘Mr Smith,’ he told her.

‘Mr Smith is here.’

From the top gallery at the far end of the boat house, high above them, Amy called down, ‘Peter.’

His name seemed to echo through the house. He felt disorientated, out of his depth, and wondered what had possessed him to make that call and accept this invitation – until Amy appeared at the gallery’s balustrade. She waved a shoe at him and called down, ‘Just finishing dressing. Your timing is perfect. We’ll have some time to ourselves before the other guests arrive.’

He watched her drop the shoe and slip into it. He followed her with his eyes as she walked from what he guessed was her bedroom, down the stairs, across the library and down another flight of stairs, into the drawing-room towards him.

‘How are you?’ she asked.

There was something in the way she spoke, an intimacy in her voice, that drew him towards her. Finally he managed, ‘Somehow I don’t know how to answer that. I think I’m suffering from culture shock. England
and
Amy Ross!’

He had always had an honest wit about him that had been endearing. She smiled at him. ‘Surely not?’

‘Surely yes! This place – it’s marvellous. What a setting
to live in: English countryside an hour from London, a garden, and on the river. And the house … well, I didn’t think about where or how you lived, but if I had, I wouldn’t have imagined anything like this. Would it be awful to ask for a tour before the others get here? There’s so much to see.’

Amy had no idea what made her do it. His genuine enthusiasm for her and her house? There being no awkward moments where there could have been? Or was it mere instinct, happiness at meeting him again, at having him in her home? Whatever the reason, she raised her hand and very gently ran her fingers through the locks of hair that had fallen to one side on his forehead. She smiled at him. That was too intimate for Peter. Very gently he removed her hand and, clasping it in his, smiled at her.

‘Come on, I’ll show you round. Shall we start at the top and work down?’ Amy asked him.

They had two hours before the other guests arrived. And when they did Peter and Amy were not in the house but sitting in the sun on faded, flower-patterned linen cushions on a wooden bench aboard
Arcadia
.

It was a joyous two hours for them both, greatly resembling a first date. They were cautious with each other, flirtatious, accepting of the sexual chemistry between them but cleverly dancing round it. They were two people discovering each other and liking what they were finding. It was not so much that they were avoiding talking about the past as that they were more interested in discovering each other all over again. They talked
about many things, none of them intimate. Intimacy did not seem to be on their agenda. Friendship did. And yet … there was something there for Amy, something she hadn’t felt for a man in a long time.

Edward Silberzog and Amy had never been lovers. Edward had only male lovers. The clever thirty-two-year-old art historian and Amy were close friends, sharing a love of art and the art world. They confided in and helped each other. Therefore Edward was surprised that he had not been told about the mystery guest sitting in the steamboat with Amy. As he crossed the lawn to join them Edward could see quite plainly this was no one from their world but an outsider, a stray. Not like Amy at all.

The Whatelys arrived in a rowing boat and tied it to Amy’s dock, then the party all went into the house for drinks. Throughout the lunch of soufflé, followed by a whole poached turbot served with hollandaise sauce and an assortment of baby vegetables, then bread-and-butter pudding with lashings of double cream, followed by a ripe Camembert, the conversation was entertaining. There was much laughter, helped no doubt by several bottles of perfectly chilled Montrachet.

Pete found Amy, in every way, to be much more than he’d expected. Maybe too much so. She barely resembled the woman he had once known, though that was to be anticipated. He was certain he no longer resembled the man he had been. They had lived whole lives apart, full and rich lives, but very different – he could see that in the way Amy lived now. She had left him for a great love, for adventure, to grab the world with both hands
and shake it. Had it been worth the price she paid? He didn’t ask her that, nor if she had found all she had been looking for. Had she been happy? Was she happy now? He had the answer to that last question, could see with his own eyes. Here was a woman content with herself, and her life. What more could one ask for?