The English Boys (16 page)

Twenty-Two

It was difficult, after
so many years of being out on his own, to live in the same house with his parents, but Hugh knew it was the best thing at the moment. He felt raw and moody, and the house, if not his parents, soothed him. There was a stillness here that belied the fact they were in the middle of London. Each of the rooms had a settled,
relaxed feel, and the familiarity of many long years spent in them. He knew how soft or how hard each chair was; and while he enjoyed the art his parents had collected over the years, which included a couple of Cecil Kennedy florals and a William Biscombe Gardner, he preferred the antique furnishings his mother had collected: the mahogany tables and secretaries and enormous bedsteads that reached to the ceiling. The generous size of the rooms might not have been noticeable to him had he not found so many houses wanting when he had been searching for his own. The Mayfair house served as a guide to what any good home in London should be.

He especially loved the kitchen, run by Marthe. She had been their family's cook as long as he could remember, and she was a marvel. Trays of chocolate biscuits always lay cooling on the counter alongside bowls of berries ready to be cooked into jams. Meals were stately affairs with numerous courses, and the refrigerator was always stocked with his favorite things regardless of whether he was there or not.

Since Tamsyn's death, he had perched on a chair in this kitchen for a part of each day, watching Marthe work. It was the only place to grieve. Though the old woman said very little, she commanded the room and used it in its entirety. Every bit of silver was polished and checked; china rotated so that one didn't tire of eating off the same plate; small, modern appliances were suitably stored in the pantry along with enough food to feed an army. For Hugh, being there kept his mind on something warm and real instead of Chief Inspector Murray and the excruciatingly slow investigation. He had never had any patience, anyway, but something of this magnitude was almost too painful to bear.

His parents were little distraction, neither of them knowing what to say to a bereaved son. They had been disappointed in his marriage to Tamsyn, he knew, but now that she had been murdered, things were different. They were sympathetic, though not overly solicitous. An Ashley-Hunt was expected to grieve in peace and come to terms with things in his own way. This was something he had to deal with in private.

The police hadn't yet discovered who had sent him the death threat. Every day, Hugh checked his email to see if another one had come, relieved each time to see that none had. He wasn't aware of making enemies. In fact, he usually went out of his way to be friendly to everyone he worked with, and of all his friends, he was the most polite to people who worked in bars and shops. Their lives were miserable enough without those like him making it harder. No, the death threat was truly a mystery. His present situation made him worried and anxious, and he even resented the bodyguard posted near the front door. It was Carson today, he noted. He had come to know each one. He'd told his father not to bother, he didn't feel threatened; but of course, the old man had insisted.

The sun was shining, making puddles of sunlight on the floor where Duke, the old yellow Labrador, was lying, eyes closed, perhaps imagining his younger days when he was able to run about on a leash and ferret out rabbits and mice in the park. Hugh knelt down and rubbed the dog between the ears, which was acknowledged by a slight lifting of his eyelids and a vague wag of his tail. If Duke hadn't been flagging lately, he would have taken him for a walk, but the old fellow was now beyond such simple pleasures. He could barely drag himself outside twice a day to attend to nature. Hugh made a sudden decision, going up to his room and wheeling his old bicycle from the closet. He had to get out of the house, even for a short time. Restaurants and pubs were off-limits; it would draw negative attention to be spotted out having even a simple meal or drink so soon after the funeral. He didn't feel like talking to anyone, so his London set were crossed off the list as well. He couldn't imagine how long it would be before he could have a conversation with someone that didn't focus on the horrific situation in which he now found himself. He wasn't a filmgoer,
per se, unless it was the premiere of one of his own bits of work or possibly Daniel's, so he couldn't see himself sitting in a half empty, darkened theatre in the middle of the day simply to get out of the house. Still, he couldn't be trapped inside another day.

Tucking a pair of sunglasses into the pocket of his hoodie, he maneuvered the bicycle down the stairs, remembering many previous admonishments from his mother regarding the state of the paint on the walls. Making certain no one was there to see, he parked it behind a settee and went in search of Carson, who, as he had suspected, was in the library looking at book titles and listening for sounds from the front door.

“Marthe's made something marvelous today,” Hugh said, watching the man turn around. “Fresh lemon curd and hot scones. Perfect with a cup of tea.”

He had noticed that Carson preferred tea to coffee, having spent a few days learning each bodyguard's personal idiosyncrasies. This one was rather old-fashioned, a solid Brit who loved golf played with woods instead of irons and probably stood in the privacy of his own home when the Queen gave her Christmas speech.

“That sounds rather good,” Carson answered, putting the book back on the shelf with a smile. “What about you?”

“Thanks, I've had some. I'm going upstairs to read for a while.”

“Then I may nip in and have a look.”

Hugh smiled and headed for the staircase. Upon seeing the man walk toward the kitchen, he turned around and eased the bike out of the front door. No one else was in the house. His mother was having lunch with one of her endless friends and his father was on the links, where he could be found most sunny spring days when he wasn't in the middle of a project. Hugh turned toward Hyde Park, as he so often had when he was younger. His limbs were stiff, so he took it more slowly than he otherwise might have, crossing Park Lane and South Carriage Drive through thick traffic. He hadn't put on his sunglasses yet, which seemed as though it invited people to look at his face rather than grant him the anonymity he preferred. He pumped the pedals, his calf muscles tightening as he increased his speed.

Before he reached the curb, he heard the sudden squeal of brakes and the scraping sound of metal on metal behind him. Shaken, he turned to see that he had narrowly missed being hit when someone had made a right turn into oncoming traffic. Three vehicles were affected, and no one appeared to be hurt, but his heart was thumping anyway.

“Oy! Are you all right?”

Hugh looked up to see a young man near his own age yelling at him through an open car window.

“Fine,” he replied, reaching for the sunglasses.

“Close shave, that.”

Keeping his head down, Hugh walked his bike into the park, away from the gathering crowd. Inside the safety of the gates, he steered clear of other cyclists and pedestrians, riding down abandoned paths while searching for a bench. He couldn't find one that wasn't taken, so instead rode toward a remote bank of trees and alighted to sit in the cool shade. It was possible to think here. He removed his hoodie and rolled it up for a cushion under his head, looking up at the sunlight that filtered through the tall, leafy oaks. He was alone in the world, and he felt it. He didn't even want Daniel's company now. Perhaps especially Daniel's. He couldn't stand the look of abject grief on his friend's face. Tamsyn had changed him in those few months she'd been in their lives. The truth was, she had changed them both.

By the time Hugh had met her, any hope of dating someone anonymously was long since gone. He had kept to his personal vow of eschewing public displays of affection and had never, ever smiled for the cameras that waited around every turn. The beginning of their affair, in Dorset, was the calmest their relationship would be, with the privacy of a countryside film shoot and getting to know each other slowly over several weeks. Back in London, as far as the press had been concerned, the gloves were off. He and Tamsyn had been photographed often, and in spite of the fact that she hadn't dealt with it before, she'd had an instinct for handling the press. It took a great deal of sangfroid to pull that off, he knew, and he had a healthy respect for anyone who could do it.

Above him, birds made raucous noises. The swallows and swifts were back in force after their African and Mediterranean winters, populating trees and building nests, making general nuisances of themselves. Summer was coming, he thought, without Tamsyn there to see it. The warm sun on his face made him think of his last trip to Greece, two years ago. Daniel had planned to go with him, but a last-minute opportunity to do a film prevented him from tagging along, so he had talked Marc Hayley into accompanying him. Marc was always a stalwart companion. Hugh hadn't seen him since February, when the weather had been abysmal. The cold, from which they'd had no respite, seeped through cracks in the doorways and windows of old houses, even some of the grander ones. Hugh's home had a few, in spite of the fact that he'd had contractors seal as many as he could before the onset of winter. The bedrooms upstairs were particularly drafty and hard to heat. Drizzle had tapped at the windows, threatening snow. Marc had come with him to a party at Daniel's that night, and they'd resolved, inclement weather or no, to go out the next day for drinks and dinner.

Tamsyn was off somewhere the following evening, in spite of the weather. Hugh had no idea where, shopping perhaps, but more likely she was with Daniel. She saw a good deal more of his friend than he did, but he never worried about them being together. In fact, he encouraged it. Daniel was more trustworthy than the Pope. When he'd chosen a best friend, he had chosen well.

Marc had come to the house that evening to pick him up. “Traffic's fucking atrocious,” he said as he walked through the door.

“Want to take a cab?” Hugh had asked, pulling on his coat. “It's too far to walk.”

“Yeah. Then we won't have to leave the car when we've had a few too many.”

They had to walk three blocks before a cab finally stopped for them, and Hugh gave the driver directions. A few minutes later, they were deposited in front of the restaurant. Watley's, which had opened within the past year, was bustling with eager patrons. A waiter took their order and the two of them settled back in their chairs.

“I'm starving,” Hugh said. “It's been a while since I've had a really good meal.”

“What, the new fiancée doesn't cook?” Marc asked.

Their wine arrived and Hugh poured for them both. “I'm pretty sure she hasn't even been in the kitchen yet,” he said with a laugh. “I think she still feels like a guest.”

“I can't believe you let someone move in with you, let alone got engaged.” Marc gestured around the room. “Look, there are pretty girls everywhere. Why give it all up for just one?”

“When you find the right girl, you'll see what I mean.”

“I'd rather die, thank you very much.”

“What about Anna Parrish?”

“Anna?” Hayley shrugged. “We see each other when we're in the same place. When I'm on another continent, I consider myself unattached. Don't you?”

Hugh smiled. “Marriage vows are serious things. Why bother with them if you don't plan to hold up your end of the bargain?”

Marc shook his head. “Really, Hugh, I'd never have expected it from you.”

“You underestimate me, Marc.”

Hugh listened to a brief rundown of the past year of Marc's career, along with his friend's hopes for the next. He was suddenly tired. Spending time with Marc in the past had been great fun, but after the stimulation of his time in Dorset with Tamsyn and Daniel, keeping up with him was more of a chore than he'd expected. After they finished the meal, he raised his hand to signal for the waiter.

“Let's have a coffee.”

“Forget the coffee, old man. Let's hit a bar.”

Hugh paid the bill while Marc hailed a cab, already regretting his decision to go along with him. A quiet coffee would have suited him better; that and getting back to the house to see if Tamsyn had returned. He thought of texting her, but they'd made it a point not to check on each other constantly, as if there were no trust in the relationship. Instead, he got in the cab and they went to one of Marc's favorite bars nearby. They ordered drinks and sat back on the stools.

“So, how is your mother?” Hugh asked. The last he'd heard, a couple of months before, she had been undergoing radiation treatments for something rather serious. The liver, if he remembered correctly.

“She's doing better, actually,” Marc answered. “The treatments were successful, at least for now.”

“She must be relieved.” Hugh couldn't imagine going through that. His mother wasn't particularly strong, and dealing with a life-or-death situation would take every ounce of fortitude they could muster. Yet it wasn't such a far-fetched idea. He was nearly thirty, and although she didn't look it, his mother was almost sixty. He couldn't expect her to be in perfect health forever.

A female bartender came over to wipe the counter in front of them, no doubt to get a closer look at a couple of film stars who had wandered in off the street on a cold, wet night. Hugh was tired of the conversation before it even began.

“What can I get for you boys?” she asked, looking up at them from under dark fake lashes. It was one of the bad things about being an actor; he could always spot artifice in women.

“I'm fine,” he murmured.

Marc smiled and set down his glass. “Well, I'll have to think about that.”

As Marc began a flirtatious banter with the girl, Hugh gazed up at the fireplace along the back wall, lost in thought. He was engaged to be married, and one didn't do unseemly things when one was engaged. At least, he didn't. It occurred to Hugh suddenly that neither he nor Marc had sisters. He was an only child, of course, and Marc had three brothers, two younger and one older. Neither of them had the deference toward the fair sex that they might have had if a sister had been raised in their midst. As it were, women were objectified. Not because they wanted them to be, but Hugh suspected that growing up with a complete lack of experience, along with the combined cultural norms of the day, had left them without the empathetic feelings they might have had toward the opposite sex.