The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper (19 page)

It felt as if he would be being unfaithful to his wife.

The thought struck him. Of course he could justify to himself that Miriam was no longer here, so how could he be cheating? But he knew that he would feel as if he had done. Sylvie was his wife's friend. Maybe from a very long time ago, but he could not betray Miriam.

He let his arms fall by his sides. “I am so sorry, Sylvie. I would like a coffee with you very much, but...” He looked down.

Sylvie stood still. She gave a small nod. “I think I understand.”

“I hope you do. Because I think you are wonderful. You are beautiful and graceful and bright and clever. But...”

“But you are still in love with someone else?”

Arthur nodded. “With my wife. Always, I think. If there ever is anyone else, and I really can't think about that, then I need to take things slowly. I am only here for another night and that isn't enough for me. If I met someone, I would need to think that Miriam would understand.”

“I think she would want you to be happy.” Sylvie took the keys from her purse.

“I'm not sure if I would be happy afterward. And I want to be. I'd want it to be wonderful. I want to feel that it had been right.”

She touched her necklace. “You may not believe this, but there was once a time when I never had to ask. Men would wait for me, they would follow me...”

“I can completely understand that. You are
très magnifique
.” They both laughed at his attempt at French. “But—” he reached in his pocket and held out the bracelet “—until I know all the stories, I cannot move on. I'm not ready for any woman other than my wife.”

“You are honorable.” Sylvie pursed her lips. “Though if you continue on your search you may find out things that you do not like to hear.”

“I already have done.”

“There may be more.”

Arthur detected how her tone had cooled. He took hold of her hand. “Is there something you know, Sylvie?”

He saw a flicker in her eyes as she denied it. “
Non.
It was just a thought...”

“If you know something, please tell me.”

“As I said, Miriam wrote to me a few times.”

“What is it?”

Sylvie held her breath. Then she said, “If you want to find out more, you should try to find her friend Sonny.”

“Sonny?” Arthur asked.

“If I recall correctly, she made jewelry.”

Arthur thought of the bracelet. “Do you know her surname?”

“Hmm. I think it began with a
Y
. Ah, yes, Yardley. I remember it because I have a cousin who married a man with that surname. I have a good memory, yes?”

“Yes. Excellent. Sonny Yardley. The initials S.Y. are on the paint palette charm. It sounds as if there could be a connection. Do you know where I can find her?”

“No.”

“Can you think of anything else at all, to do with her?”

Sylvie frowned. “I think her brother may have been an artist, but other than that, no.”

“I will try to find her.”

“If you do, she may be able to tell you what you do, or do not, want to know.”

“What do you mean?”

Sylvie shrugged. “You will find out for yourself.”

Arthur could tell that Sylvie wanted to get inside. He had wounded her pride. All conversation had come back to his wife. He kissed her on the cheek, thanked her for her hospitality and then walked back to his hotel. He felt regret, heavy in his stomach, but he had done the right thing.

The night sky was already streaked with powder blue in preparation for the next day, the stars fading. He wrapped his fingers around the bracelet and held it tight until he reached the hotel. Before he used the revolving door he paused to straighten his collar. As he did, he caught sight of movement from the corner of his eye. Turning he saw Lucy and Claude standing together in the street. Lucy kissed him on the cheek and then broke away.

Arthur hung back so they reached the door to the hotel together.

“Oh, hi, Dad,” she said, too casually.

“Hello. Did you have a good evening?”

“Yes, very. And you?”

Arthur looked at the rising sun. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I did. Though I don't think I will see Sylvie again. I...well, I...er, your mother...”

Lucy nodded and opened the door. “I understand, Dad. Claude was for one night only, too. Sometimes that's okay.”

Bookface

IT FELT GOOD
to be back in his own bed, in his own home. After his stay in a hostel, on Mike's sofa, in a boutique Parisian hotel, in a manor house with orange-and-black striped wallpaper, his own room was where he wanted to be. It was comforting, familiar, like being in a cocoon. He could have his cups of tea when he wanted them.

He lay and thought for a while about his kiss with Sylvie, replaying the moment their lips met over and over in his mind. He could still feel the softness of her waist, the warmth of her pressed against him. A pit of heat radiated in his stomach and he moved his hands to feel it there. When he closed his eyes he was transported back to Paris. He could still smell her perfume.

He didn't regret his decision not to have coffee with her, but he did wonder where it might have led. What would have happened if he had followed her upstairs and into her bedroom? Would they have made love or would he have scuttled away into the night, unable to go through with it. He would never know now. He had only ever spent the night with his wife. The idea of being with another woman made him feel both nauseous and curious. Opening his eyes, he rolled on his side and then got out of bed, flustered by his improper thoughts. Yet a small knot of longing remained in his heart.

He dressed in the trousers and shirt that he had bought with Lucy in Paris and stuffed the shirt that smelled of Sylvie into the wash basket. When he caught sight of himself in the mirror he was surprised to see that he looked good. His hair had grown longer on top. By now Miriam would insist he visit the barber in the village, but he quite liked it. He reached up and gave it a ruffle.

For just a moment he considered taking up his old routine, to make sense of the day. He caught himself looking at his watch, to see if it was time to make his toast yet. But then he thought,
Sod it
. He was going to go with the flow today, see what happened.

In the kitchen he ate an apple while he stood barefoot looking out of the window over the garden. He was surprised to see that the fencing around the garden looked much too high. Why had he and Miriam ever chosen such a tall structure that blocked out the view of their neighbors' gardens? A small picket-style fence would be better.

There were only three charms left to discover the stories behind. His only lead, however, was a name. Sonny Yardley. Even though he racked his brains he couldn't recall Miriam ever mentioning anyone called Sonny.

He started his search with the phone directory, running his finger carefully down the
Y
's. There were two S. Yardleys listed, but when he phoned, one was a Steve and the other was a Stuart. He supposed she could have married and changed her name, or she might not even be alive any longer. Frustrated that he didn't have the resources to carry on his search, he cleaned the house from top to bottom. This wasn't as part of his routine, but because it needed it. Having been out and about for the best part of two weeks, there was a thin layer of dust covering every surface. He sang the tune played by the accordionist in the little bar that he had visited with Sylvie. He watered Frederica and placed her outside in the rockery so she could get some fresh air.

He had just made himself a ham sandwich and glass of milk when the doorbell rang.
Bernadette.
He jumped to his feet, then ran a hand over his new shirt. He didn't even think about going into National Trust statue mode. It would be really good to see her. He was sure she would like to hear about Paris. He had even bought her a small gift—a cotton lavender bag with a bird carrying an envelope embroidered on it. Smiling, he opened the door. He was most surprised to find that it was Nathan rather than Bernadette who stood on his doorstep.

“All right, Tiger Man.”

“Oh. Nathan. Hello.”

“You weren't expecting me, right?”

“No, er, I thought it might be your mum.”

“Is she not here?” Nathan said. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. His white T-shirt was printed with large black capital letters. Parental Advice.

“No. I haven't seen her. I've been to France with my daughter.”

He expected the young man to shrug and shuffle off, to mumble that he'd find her elsewhere, but he stayed put as if rooted to the doorstep. They looked at each other. “Would you perhaps like to come in for a cup of tea?” Arthur asked.

Nathan shrugged but came inside.

“Go through. Please. Make yourself at home.”

“Your house is a bit like ours.” Nathan walked into the sitting room. He sank into the sofa and swung his legs over the arm. “It's the same layout, except Mum likes loud colors, obviously.” He rolled his eyes. “Yours is kind of all neutral and calm.”

“Really? It's looking kind of old-fashioned to me.”

Nathan shrugged. “Looks fine.”

Again there was a strange silence, as if they were both waiting for the other to speak, or as they realized that they actually had nothing to say. “I'll put the kettle on,” Arthur said.

He bustled out and made a pot of tea in the kitchen and then added a saucer of cookies to the tray. When he carried it through he found Nathan was studying his photographs on the mantelpiece. There were a couple of the kids when they were toddlers and a family shot taken on Lucy's eighteenth, when they had hired the local community hall and Vera from the post office turned up even though she hadn't been invited.

“Did you find François De Chauffant?” Nathan asked.

“Yes. I visited his house.” He set the tea tray down. “It was the address you gave me.”

“A big white mansiony thing?”

“That's the one.”

Nathan clicked his tongue and sat back down. “That's pretty cool, you know, visiting a living legend. Was his house, like, lined with loads of books? Did he swan around in a velvet dressing gown while smoking those thin cigar things? I bet he had a girlfriend and she was only twenty-one or something.”

Arthur thought about the wizened old man who sat alone in the attic. However, he didn't want to shatter Nathan's illusions. “It was a most enlightening visit,” he said. “Yes, he had lots of books. He was rather, er, busy so I only stayed a short while.”

“Did you get his autograph?”

“No. I didn't. But I did get a book of his poetry.”

“Cool. Can I take a look?”

Arthur then remembered when he'd last seen it, glowing orange under a streetlamp on a bench in London. “I'm afraid that I promptly lost it.”

“Oh.” Nathan looked down. His bangs flopped over his face.

Arthur poured the tea and held a cup out. “I was actually going to call on your help.”

“Yeah?”

“I once overheard Vera in the post office talking about something called Bookface. Apparently you can look people's names up, to try and find them.” Or stalk them, in the case of Vera, who was trying to locate an ex from her school days. “I need to find another person.”

“You mean Facebook?”

“Oh, do I? Facebook, then. What does it do?”

“Like the biddy at the post office says, you can look people up and ‘friend' them online, post statuses, upload pics and stuff.”

This was like a foreign language but Arthur nodded as if he understood.

“It was, like, sick once but now everyone is so over it, unless you're ancient. All the thirty-pluses use it.”

“I'm trying to find a Sonny Yardley. Could you use your computer skills to help me?”

Nathan slurped his tea noisily. “I'll look tonight for you. My phone is playing up. Do you know that everyone who has an iPhone drops it? Mine went down the bog this morning. Do you have any more on this Sonny? How old?”

“Around my age.”

“Jurassic period, ha, ha.”

“Definitely prehistoric.”

“Leave it with me.”

They drank their tea and Nathan ate all the cookies. “So you can't find your mum,” Arthur said.

“No. She's probably in the village, looking out for her lost causes.”

“She's a very kind lady, your mum.”

“I know.” He hesitated with his mouth open, and then gave a toss of his head. “I wonder sometimes why she wants me to go to a university so far away. I mean, I suppose I'm an awkward git sometimes, but...you know, it's like she wants to get rid of me.”

“I think she's just looking at the best place for you, what is best for you.”

“I did think she might want me to go to a uni close by, so I could live at home with her, but...” He shrugged.

“Have you told her that?”

“Nah. She's got it in her head that I'm going to university and that it should be to study a proper subject. So I can get a good job when I leave, blah, blah, so I get on the housing ladder, blah, blah. I have no idea what I am going to do with an English degree. I mean, I can speak English so what is the point of learning about it?”

“Well,” Arthur said, aware that he probably wasn't best placed to give advice to an eighteen-year-old. “What do you want to study, then?”

Nathan shook his head. “If I tell you, you won't believe me.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Because you wouldn't. Because my mum won't listen to me, either.”

Arthur thought of sitting with Lucy in the garden when he had promised to listen, how it had been the catalyst to start building bridges and becoming a family again.

“I'm a good listener,” he said. “I have all day.”

Nathan bit his bottom lip. “Do you have any more cookies?”

“Bourbons?”

“I prefer custard creams.”

“I'll see what I've got.”

In the kitchen Arthur purposefully gave Nathan longer to think about whether he wanted to talk or not. He always seemed to have so few words. Back in the sitting room he handed over the refreshed saucer with jammy dodgers and party rings.

“Party rings,” Nathan exclaimed. “I love those.” He then seemed to remember that it wasn't cool to get so excited over iced cookies. “Okay, then, Tiger Man...you want to know what I want to do at college. Well, I want to bake cakes.”

Arthur digested this information. He took great care not to smile or look surprised. “Cakes?” he said without expression.

“Told you.” Nathan blew into his bangs. “When I told Mum she looked at me like I'd gone mad.”

Arthur placed a hand on his shoulder. “I don't think you've gone mad. I'm not judging you.”

Nathan gave a deep breath. “I know. Sorry about that. I like baking, though. Always have done. I help Mum in the kitchen sometimes. She tells me that baking is not a real subject, that I have to do something useful. When I speak to her she won't listen. It's okay for her to make her sausage rolls and her pies, but not me.”

“Baking is useful. You could be a chef, or own a cake shop...”

“Or have my own restaurant or range of products. I know this. She just doesn't get it. She's always so busy looking after other people.”

“She cares about you more than anyone.”

Nathan looked away. “I know. I suppose. Look, do you think that, er, you could have another word with her, Arthur? Get her on my side?”

“I don't think she'd listen to me.”

“No. She would,” Nathan said quickly. “She thinks a lot of you. I can tell.”

Arthur felt his chest puff up a little. “I can try.” He nodded. Bernadette was asking him to be a good influence for her son, and now, vice versa, Nathan was asking for his help, too.

“Thanks. Do you mind if I ask you another question? I want you to be honest with me, though,” Nathan said.

Arthur lowered his teacup. “Yes, of course.”

Nathan rubbed his nose. “Is my mum going to die?”

Arthur spluttered. Tea slopped over the side of his cup and onto his lap. He leaped up and jerked backward, the tea spilling over his groin so it looked as if he'd had an accident. “Is she going to do what?”

Nathan spoke without any emotion. “I just want to be more prepared this time. When my dad died it was a shock. I found her hospital appointments...”

What hospital appointments? Arthur didn't know anything about them. Bernadette hadn't confided in him. When she visited it was always about him—how he was feeling, what he was up to. He never asked about her. “You really shouldn't read other people's things.” He dabbed at his trousers with a tissue.

Nathan shrugged. “She should have hid it better, not left them lying around. She has to go to the cancer unit. Is that what it is?” He didn't wait for Arthur's response. “I figured I should know more so I can look after her. But she thinks by keeping things secret that it protects me. But it just makes things worse. I thought that you'd know. She must have told you something...”

“No. Nothing.” Maybe if he had been here to listen. How had Bernadette put up with his maudlin moping around, his hiding from her? He had taken her for granted. “I think you need to speak to her,” he said quietly. “You should be honest with each other. Tell her how you feel about uni. Tell her that you're worried about her. Have a proper conversation.”