Rumours (16 page)

Xander shrugged. ‘It's preferable to having a relationship. It suits me just fine.'

Caroline wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘That's just some stupid motto you've decided to engrave onto your virtual shield of self-protection.'

‘A
virtual shield of self-protection
, eh? Bollocks.'

‘No, it's not. What's wrong with her, that she can't move on from one-night-standom?'

‘Nothing's
wrong
with her,' Xander snapped. ‘On the contrary, that's precisely what's right with her – it's balanced, what I give and get.'

‘You're sounding like a tosser, mate.'

‘You're sounding common.'

‘Fuck off.' Caroline glanced through to the sitting area but her children hadn't heard her. ‘So she's called Siobhan and –?'

‘Jesus, Cazza – there is no
and
.' And then Xander thought, but there is an end. And that was this morning. ‘Bloody wish you hadn't muscled in last night. And I wish you – Mum – Lydia – all had something better to do than fixate on who I'm seeing and when I'm going to settle down.'

‘So it's my fault, is it?' Caroline said it softly – she could see he was struggling a little.

Xander thought about it. ‘Of course not.' He paused. ‘Look, I'm sorry. And you know what? You're probably right – perhaps I was kidding myself I could have this on-the-side thing and keep it all separate. Because, actually, it was disturbing when the two sides of my life crossed last night. Neither fitted with the other. It just all felt – wrong.'

‘How long have you been – seeing her?' Caroline paused. ‘Or, rather, giving her a seeing-to?'

Xander laughed. He loved Caroline most when she was gutter-mouthed and irreverent because she put such heart and well-meaning into it.

‘Couple of months,' he shrugged. ‘Longer.' He was embarrassed. ‘Six, I suppose.'

‘Calling it quits?'

‘If I have the self-control,' he said. ‘It's not easy when a bloke receives a text saying fancy-a-fuck.'

‘You need to pre-empt her sending you any kind of text,' Caroline said. ‘For her sake as much as yours – because I'm telling you this, however much a woman may profess to want nothing more than a no-strings shag, you can bet before long she'll want the lot.'

Xander laughed, but he sensed she was right. He nodded. He thought back to Siobhan – it was so manufactured last night. Down to her extremely sonorous and long-lasting orgasm.

‘Is that why you skived off work?'

‘Yep,' he said. ‘I just felt – crap.'

Caroline looked into her half-drained mug while considering how badly he must have felt to have skipped work. Unheard of, for Xander. She felt a wave of sad fondness. Why hadn't he told her of Siobhan? Why did he want that – rather than what the rest of them had? Why wasn't he shacked up happily, like her and Andrew and the others? Such a bloody waste of a good bloke. Bloody Laura. No, not bloody Laura – Laura was lovely. It wasn't her fault. No one was to blame.

‘You OK now?' she ventured.

He shrugged. ‘To be honest, Siobhan is the reason for my house being spotless – but Jesus, did the day get worse.'

‘How so?'

‘Lydia,' he said. ‘You were right – the rumours are true. Longbridge is for sale.'

‘You are not serious?'

‘I am. And so is Lydia – I went round to see her this afternoon. I wasn't back long when you announced you were coming over.'

‘How did you find out?'

‘I went for a run this morning – did the top loop and saw one of those ridiculous estate-agent cars parked in the driveway of Longbridge. I ran down and some woman is mincing around the garden with a clipboard and a suit, sinking into the grass in high heels.'

‘Were you very rude?'

‘Probably,' Xander said, with a rueful smile.

‘What'll happen?' said Caroline. She'd given it little thought when she'd heard it from Mrs Patek and Nora. But to hear it from Xander made it very real. ‘What'll happen with everything – the house, everywhere?' She thought about it. ‘Christ, it's going to turn the village upside down.'

Xander nodded, his face grave. God, he was tired.

‘Will she be selling the lot? Or just the house?
Here
? But this is
yours
!'

‘She needs the whole lot valued.'

‘Hence the clipboard lady.'

Xander nodded. ‘She's coming over here on Saturday morning, apparently.'

‘Ship in a load of cockroaches! Shame you've cleaned – make it mucky! The kids'll help. Make it stink!' He wasn't responding. Caroline tipped her head. ‘You needn't be in,' she said. ‘If you'd rather not be here, I'll stop in for you, if you like.' She paused. ‘Perhaps Lydia will sell the cottage to you?' She paused again. ‘Or maybe the agent might know of somewhere local up for grabs?' But then she thought, I may as well scatter all these straws I'm clutching at, all over the floor, to give Xander something else to clean up later when he needs the distraction.

‘It's slightly pathetic for me to feel so burdened by it all, because it all seems so – futile,' Xander said. ‘I mean, Lydia didn't seem that perturbed by any of it. Longbridge costs a fortune to keep going – she's broke – it's time to sell.'

‘
Broke
?' Caroline baulked.

‘Apparently so,' said Xander. ‘So it has to go – all of it.'

‘End of,' Caroline murmured.

‘End of an era,' Xander said.

‘The hoity-toity don't have feelings,' Caroline said.

Xander thought about it. ‘I know why you're saying that – but perhaps you're wrong there. Perhaps they do and perhaps they've evolved this really clever and sensible method for both not letting it show and not letting it affect themselves.'

‘Andrew's taking the children to Audley End on Saturday morning – I can come in, if you like. When the estate agent comes? If you decide you'd rather not be here?'

‘I might well take you up on that,' Xander said.

Later that evening, sitting in his pristine front room, he stared at the screen on his phone. He'd composed a text message.

Hey. Hope you're well and your day was good. Am feeling we should perhaps just let it lie and call it quits. It's been fun – but it's time. X

He had yet to send it. He reread it. She wouldn't think that was a kiss, would she? X for Xander.

Was it cowardly? Should he phone instead? Would it be better to be doing this face to face? Yet would that not give the whole thing the gravitas that he and Siobhan had prided themselves on eschewing?

Sod it.

He sent the text.

He felt like a right bastard. Not because he imagined Siobhan would be particularly distraught or lovelorn, but because he'd been in a situation for which an ending like this was appropriate. It wasn't who he was at all, really.

Deep down, sitting there alone on a Wednesday night, he knew the whole thing had been unseemly. It had been so disconnected – from emotions, from day-to-day life, from the people who meant so much to him, from his past and the relationships he'd had. Good, long, solid ones with love and sex and sharing and laughter and the company of friends and family. Suddenly, he felt a little sickened by this alter ego he'd recently thought so cool and controlled. Stupid. I'm practically forty. I don't own my home and I'm about to be evicted. My history is about to be erased.

So design yourself a future, Xander. You design and print packages for others, according to their specifications. And you do it very well. High time you made yourself one.

‘I can't see it taking me more than a couple of hours,' Stella said to Jo. ‘I've already seen the other two cottages in the row – it'll be pretty straightforward. Will? Will?'

‘Don't worry about Will,' Jo said, glancing up the stairs of her home where the children had disappeared moments ago and all was now ominously quiet.

‘Please ask the girls not to put make-up on Will,' Stella groaned. ‘Last time he came out in hives. And he has football this afternoon.'

‘Facepaint?' Jo said.

‘I'd rather they didn't,' said Stella. ‘It's his first match for the B team.'

‘Bless him,' said Jo. ‘Now go, would you – see you in a while.'

Stella blew her a kiss. ‘You're a star and I love you.' She walked briskly to her car, remembering the patronizing satisfaction with which Gill had announced that all the company cars were taken for Saturday. You need to be
in
the office to be
in
the know, she'd said. Whatever that meant.

What did it matter! Stella liked her little car. The last two days in the office had been awful; Geoff had been off sick and she found herself alternately batting away the sarcastic asides as to her performance and whereabouts, and fending off the heavy chill of being ignored. Even her uncle seemed a little irritated that, as yet, nothing was certain one way or the other with Longbridge Hall. He started muttering about whether he should phone the old dowager himself. Almost there, Stella had tried to assuage. Almost there. In truth, she still didn't feel she had a handle on it all. It was so big, so – involved. She needed not just one floor plan, but a number of them; not just a map but an atlas. A forest of family trees, a who's who and who's where on the estate. She'd gladly ask for her uncle's advice – but not before she knew whether or not Lydia wanted Elmfield Estates to handle the sale of Longbridge Hall.

Mr Fletcher's gate was creaky, his front garden as plain as the one next door was colourful and Miss Gilbey's, at number one, was overgrown. Just lawn at Mr Fletcher's Stella noticed; a little mossy in places, either side of a paved pathway. She rang the doorbell, checked her watch and mobile phone and thought, if I'm lucky I can grab a sandwich with Jo before we head off to football.

‘Click click clickety click,' Xander muttered under his breath. ‘Miss Clippity Clipboard and her clickety high heels is here.'

He slung the tea towel over his shoulder, picked up his mug of tea and went to answer the door.

‘Oh,' said Stella, confused that the demon jogger should open the door.

Xander didn't answer, he just executed one of his expansive sweeping gestures with his free hand to welcome her in, as if genuflecting with his tongue firmly in his cheek.

‘Is Mr Fletcher home?' Stella said. ‘Lady Barbary-Fortescue told me I was to ask for him.'

‘I am he,' said Xander, doing another sweep of his arm because Stella was still standing on the doorstep, determined to hold out for a Mr Fletcher.

‘No,' she said, rather formally, ‘I don't think so.' She looked through sheaves of paper on her clipboard. ‘No.' She looked up. ‘You're the Jogging Man.'

Xander was momentarily silenced. There was something unnerving about her conviction, her eyes unblinking. Brown. A strange brown – pale fawn flecked with auburn, striated with amber. ‘Pardon?'

‘The two times I've seen you, you've been out jogging – and both times you've practically tripped me up.' That should wipe that cocky smile off your face.

‘I
run
, I don't “jog”,' Xander said, as if he was a Michelin-starred chef being asked for a Big Mac. They stared at each other a moment longer, unsure who was quarry, who was prey. ‘I am Xander Fletcher – and if you want to call me Mr Fletcher, that's fine, Mrs? Miss?'

‘Hutton,' said Stella briskly. ‘
Ms
Hutton.' She wasn't going to pander to this pompous prick and argue the toss between jogging and running.

‘Come in,
Ms
Hutton,' he said wearily, walking ahead of her. ‘And it's “Lady Lydia Fortescue”,' he said over his shoulder. ‘Or she'll have your guts for garters.'

To Xander, Stella today looked younger than he had first thought; less confident, less officious – and he felt a fool for having been remotely threatened in the first place. Look at her, hugging her clipboard as though it contains trade secrets or revision notes for an exam she's eagerly prepared for.

‘Please, Ms Hutton,' he said, annoyed with himself. ‘Let me show you around.'

You're not getting my first name out of me, thank you very much. ‘I'm just here to have a quick look – I won't keep you long,' said Stella, thinking to herself, I can't believe
he's
Mr Fletcher. She thought, I bet his cupboards are full of stinky jogging trainers.

Running shoes.

She thought, I could murder a cup of tea.

‘Tea?' he offered, taking a sip of his.

‘No, thank you,' said Stella, primly. ‘I'd like to get cracking.'

‘It's no bother,' he said and she noticed his face was open, his head tilted, his offer simple and friendly. He was running his hand across his hair, smiling with grey-blue eyes.

‘Well, OK then. Tea. Thank you.' She watched him walk off to the kitchen, open plan with the sitting room. She wondered whether he'd been out running today too. She wondered what exactly was the difference between jogging and running? Just speed? Or distance covered? Or some physiological distinction between types of footfall? Was he having to stay in because of her visit? He'd seemed pissed off initially, now no longer. He looked comfortable in his home, whistling softly as he made her tea. Black jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt. It was grey and had a darker grey print of a native American Indian. She wondered, what made him choose that? He looked, today, like someone she might know, like someone who might well be part of her milieu. But she decided swiftly to un-notice all of that. And then she thought, it's silly to wonder about any of this – I have work to do and football to get to.

She loosened her hug on the clipboard and made notes on the room. It wasn't dissimilar in layout from next door's, identical in size and yet with a very different feel. Number One had appeared tiny on account of Peg Gilbey's dark furniture, swirly carpets and whatnots crammed with, well, whatnots. Number Two had seemed airier and yet cooler too with all those Farrow & Ball neutrals. Here at number three there was exposed brickwork and beams; flagstones partly covered by a rug in autumnal shades and an Aztec design, a coffee table hectic with books and newspapers and a scatter of mail. The sofa, indented from where the last person sat. An armchair with a sweatshirt draped over the back and an Iain Banks open halfway through, face down. Number Three was homely.