What goes around comes around (Lily’s Story) (9 page)

“Thanks Annie, I really appreciate it,” I say, hugging her
swiftly. 

We return to our companionable
silence as we continue with our descent.  The group has done well, completing
the walk in four hours, with another hour for lunch.  The weather has been
unusually kind too.  I’m proud I have managed it with apparent ease, and I take
a moment to bask in a sense of personal achievement on the coach back. 

We are back at the house by 4.30pm, so I have a bit of time
to kill before I need to start the dinner.  I nip into the bathroom first to
luxuriate in a bubble bath, using the cooking card to trump Annie, whose face
looked alight having just been asked to meet Stuart for a drink before dinner. 
As I wallow in the warm waters I feel my joints relax and the aching parts of
me ease slightly.  Hair washed and legs and armpits freshly shaved, I make my
way back into the room where Annie is lounging on the bed reading, waiting for
her turn in the bathroom.  I marvel at how glamorous she managed to look with
absolutely no effort, even when she was filthy. I grab my clean jeans, an old
shabby t-shirt and one of my favourite cardigans and begin to dress when Annie
suddenly says, “No, no, no, Lily!”

“Sorry?” I say, looking at her to see what’s wrong.

“No, Lily, I am not going to allow you to leave the room
looking like that.  You dress like you are 67 and not 37 for God’s sake,
woman.  No wonder you have no idea how lovely you are.  Show me all your other
clothes, and we’ll try and salvage a decent outfit from it.  Maybe I have
something that might work,” she adds thoughtfully.  She proceeds to rifle
through my possessions, choosing my best jeans and handing me a black capped-sleeve
shirt of hers to try.

“This won’t fit me,” I protest, trying to hand it back. 

“It will!  It’s stretchy, and my back is broader than yours –
I’m bigger than you seem to think.  And you are certainly smaller than you seem
to think.  Just try it – please? For me?”

I give in and put the shirt on.  It’s tight, and feels
revealing compared to what I’m used to wearing, but when I look in the mirror I’m
pleasantly surprised by what I see. 

“Lovely!” Annie claps her hands together, pleased with
herself.  “Now you may leave the room.”

A quick look at my watch tells me I’m already late.  “Shit!”
I worry as I sprint to the kitchen.

James has turned the oven on to warm and is already there
setting ingredients out on the sides when I walk in, trying desperately not to
look like I’ve been running or am in any way flustered.

“At last,” he says as he hears the door. “Thought you were
going to stand me up and leave me to fathom out how to cook for all these peop–”
His words stop as he turns from the worktop to look at me.  He takes me in,
eyes raking up and down my body but resting longest on my cleavage which must
have been made all the more apparent by the shirt’s plunging V-neck. “Wow!” is
all he says as he stalks towards me.  My heart thumps so loudly I’m sure he
must be able to hear it as he stops directly in front of me. 

“If we’re going to get any cooking done, I need you to wear
one of these,” he says, his voice darker sounding than I’ve heard it before. 
He reaches past me to the back of the door and unhooks an apron, swiftly putting
it over my head before placing his hands on my hips and turning me on the
spot.  I swear I can feel my skin burning at his touch, even through my jeans. 
As he swiftly ties a bow, pulling the apron tight over my hips and emphasising
my newly slimmed waist, I try to gather what remains of my wits and focus on
the task at hand.  Cooking for seventeen people is a stretch, considering the
most I’ve ever cooked for previously was eight, when both sets of parents had once
come for Christmas.  What a miserable experience that had been for everyone.  I
don’t think it was coincidence that both my parents and Greg’s tended to go
away now over Christmas – a pattern that had started pretty much from the
same year. 
Still, the principles must be the same
, I reassure myself. 
It’s just the quantities that are different, and space might be a challenge.  Although
a quick glance around the modern-styled kitchen, complete with a massive range
cooker plenty big enough for two chickens and some roast spuds, puts that
concern to bed.  Now it’s all about the timings. While I’ve been checking it
all out, James has been pouring us both large glasses of wine.

“One of the fringe benefits of offering to cook for
everyone,” he says, handing me one of the glasses.      

“Thank you,” I say, automatically taking a sip and trying to
collect myself.  “Okay,” I say, looking directly at James, “find the potatoes
and start peeling, please.”

“Yes chef,” he replies crisply in the manner of the people
I’ve seen in the T.V. chef programmes.  He dutifully finds all the
accoutrements he needs and sets to his task, while I prepare the chickens and get
them into the oven, sipping my wine as I go about my work.  When I look over to
see how he’s getting on, I’m pleasantly surprised.  He’s actually very
proficient; this is clearly not the first time he’s peeled a potato.  I put the
water on to parboil them once he was done with the peeling, and then move to
find the other vegetables that had been bought to accompany the meal.  Purple
sprouting broccoli with baby carrots and mangetout seem to be the vegetables du
jour –
wow, posh vegetables. 
Even better, they take virtually no
time to prepare or cook, so we can leave them until the last minute.

“What do I do with these?” James asks, looking at the pile
of potatoes in front of him, all freshly peeled and cut.

“Put them in the pan of water on the cooker, please.”  He
proceeds to deftly do as I ask – I’m beginning to suspect he’s at least as
well qualified as I am to be cooking this meal.  Once done he wanders to the
fridge and retrieves the bottle of white wine before collecting our now empty glasses,
sitting down beside me at the big oak table and pouring us each another large
glassful.

“You must let us know how much we owe you for all this,” I
say as I reach for my glass, sipping nervously.  My mouth feels dry from the
proximity of his body to mine.  I know if I just flexed my knee we would be
touching.  I keep sipping my wine to give myself something to do.  At this rate
I’m going to be legless before the chicken is cooked.

“What?” he says, sounding mystified.

“All the food and drink,” I say, indicating the purple
sprouting broccoli and wine, “it must be costing a fortune, and you’re already
providing the house – which is amazing, by the way.”

“Glad you like it,” he says, looking genuinely pleased.

“It’s stunning.  I don’t know how you could ever leave it,
although I guess when you rent it out it must feel less like home, and you
probably have somewhere equally gorgeous at home.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Yes,” I say slowly, wondering what I’m about to hear as I take
a large, undignified gulp of the rather fine wine.

“I don’t actually rent it out,” he whispers.  “It just
stands waiting for when I, or anyone else in the family, want to come and use
it.  The housekeeper, Mrs Edge, looks after everything while the family aren’t
here.  She’s the one who got all the food in.”

“Why did you say you rent it, then?” I ask, genuinely
bemused.

“Because, in my experience, people feel uncomfortable when
you rub their face in your wealth.  I thought the group would be more relaxed
if they thought it was a rental house.  So, really my contribution is only the
food and drink because the house would be here anyway and it’s a waste not to
make use of it when people are trying to raise money for a good cause.”

“That is actually surprisingly sweet of you,” I say, the
alcohol starting to make me bold.  It’s hit my bloodstream fast thanks to my
empty stomach, all evidence of my half a sandwich at lunch having disappeared
long since.  “So just what is it that you do, James, that has made you wealthy
enough to have a house like this standing waiting for you, all fitted out with the
latest mod cons and dining out on purple sprouting broccoli every day?” 

He laughs, hesitating before answering,

“I was totally unaware purple sprouting broccoli was an
indicator of wealth.  Whatever made you think I wasn’t sweet, by the way?”

“I don’t know.  Men like you don’t have to be, maybe?”

“Men like me, Lily?  We are so going to have to explore what
you mean by that sometime soon.”  I’m beginning to wish I weren’t drinking
quite so freely as he continues, “you asked what I do – nothing special, I’m
just an investor.  I came into some money a while ago and I’ve used it to
invest in various things – a few films, a couple of good innovations, some
of the dot-com businesses a few years back which I got out of in good time.  It’s
made me enough that I’m okay.”

“More than okay, I would say, judging by all this,” I say,
indicating the space around us.

“I guess.  Look, I know it’s a cliché, but money really
doesn’t make you happy, you know, Lily.”  The way he keeps using my name feels
strangely intimate.  I need to distract myself away from the physical response
I have from hearing my name on his lips.

“Oh my God, I didn’t expect you to play the ‘poor little
rich boy’ card,” I say before I can stop myself, once again rueing my runaway
tongue. 

He raises his eyebrow at that.  “Why don’t you say what you
really think, Lily?” he says drily.

“Well, okay I will, and while I’m at it, stop with the ironic
eyebrow thing.  It’s doing my head in,” I say, indicating the offending
feature. 
Oh my God, what is the matter with me!
  “Sorry I’m being
incredibly rude.  You really shouldn’t have let me drink so much; it tends to
make me frighteningly honest.”

“Don’t be sorry, I like it,” he says, his eyes softening.  “Too
many people tend to tell me what they think I want to hear.”

“Look, no disrespect…”

“Which is always the precursor to a disrespectful comment,”
he interrupts, laughing.

“Touché,” I smile. “But I can’t feel sorry for your apparent
wealth.  What you choose to do with it might not make you happy, but surely
that’s your own choice.  Trust me,
not
having money can make you
unhappy.  Not having to worry about money can only be a good thing.”

“Voice of experience?” He’s really looking at me intently
now – like I’m some sort of curiosity.

“Yes, sadly very experienced.”

“What does your husband do?”

“He’s an artist – how very traditional of you to assume
my husband should take care of me.”

“Why wouldn’t he want to if you’re his wife?” He actually
sounds genuinely surprised.  “I take it he’s not a tremendously successful
artist, then?”

“Not so far,” I say, depressed by the topic now.  “Look, can
we change the subject?  I think we need to move the potatoes from the water to
the oil to roast now anyway.”  I’m already moving across the kitchen and away
from his scrutiny.

“Do you work?” he calls over to me.

“Yes.”

“So… as what?  Why are you being evasive, Lily?”  There it is,
my name again.  It sounds strange coming from his lips, kind of refined and
less dowdy.  Almost like a caress.

“I’m not being evasive; it’s just not very interesting when
you work as a receptionist.”

“What about your children, then?  Does he look after them?”

“No, I looked after them until they went to school, and then
worked during school hours.  I’m pretty much full-time now they’re eighteen and
they don’t need looking after anymore.  Adam has just left for university.”

“Eighteen!  Bloody hell, how old were you when you had them,
then, twelve?”  I guess there was a compliment there if I really looked for it,
but this was a conversation I’ve had too many times in my life to take any
pleasure from.

“I was nineteen, and no, they weren’t planned, but I got on
with it – that’s life.” I really hope this will be the end to the whole
conversation.  All these reminders of home are killing my buzz.

“So let me summarise what I’ve heard.  You fell pregnant at nineteen,
married the father,” he makes this sound like a question, as if I may have got
pregnant by one man and married another –
Jeez, he must have a low
opinion of me
 – I just nod as he continues: “brought up the children
and have supported their father while he has struggled to make a career as an
artist?”

“Yeah, sounds about right,” I respond, fiddling with the
food, while he sits there gazing at me as if I were some strange exotic
creature he had never seen before.  He gets up from the table and moves to
where I’m standing.

“And what about what you wanted?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I can see how everyone else has benefitted, but I’m
not sure what you got from it all.”

“Husband, children?”

“So you’re happy?” he says, piercing me with those blue eyes
which when he focused them on me seemed to delve straight into my soul. 
Was
I happy?
  I know I should just say ‘yes’ and be done with the conversation,
that if I do he’ll back off and leave me alone.  I just can’t seem to form the
word.  My deafening silence, it seems, is an answer in itself for him, and I
watch his expression move from questioning intensity to pleasure.  The final
expression before I turn away is almost predatory. I force myself to move,
trying to escape from a situation I’m not ready to face.  I feel afraid, unsure
what just happened, cold fingers of fear grasping at my chest and making my
breathing become shallower.
What have I done?
I think, before turning to
face him.

We stand there just looking at each other for a few seconds from
opposite sides of the room, and then suddenly he’s moving with purpose towards
me, his hands reaching to cup my face, his face moving towards mine until our
lips touch.  It is beautiful and gentle and like no other kiss I’ve received
before.  When he pulls away my legs feel like jelly, and I stand there looking
at him for a moment before my limbs seem to work again and I can stagger away
to the safety of the oven.

“So this is where the party is,” Sarah’s voice cuts into the
silence. She’s dressed to the nines in skinny black jeans tucked into high-heeled
boots, showing off acres of long, lean legs and topped with a tight t-shirt. 
She goes straight over to place a hand possessively on James’ chest, calling
over her shoulder to me: “Is dinner ready?” She actually sounds a lot like
Ethan and Adam do at home.  To be fair she is probably far closer to their age
than my own.  But I catch the look of disgust that passes over James’ features
as she says it, as does she.  He moves away from her, suddenly keen to be
checking the food.  The vitriolic look she sends my way indicates she thinks I’m
entirely to blame for his sudden lack of interest.

“About forty minutes, if you could let the others know?” I say
as politely as I’m able, not wanting to stir the situation any further than I
already have.  She mutters something I don’t quite catch as she flounces out
the room.

“What did she say?” I ask James, mystified.

“I think it was ‘whatever’,” he says,
and we both fall about laughing at how the slang phrase sounds in his refined
tones.  It takes me a few minutes to compose myself again.  I’m immensely
grateful to Sarah for the break in the tension she inadvertently caused,
because for the rest of the time as we set the table, finish the vegetables and
make some gravy, the silence is just companionable, as other guests drift into
the room ready to eat what we had prepared. 

The dinner is a resounding success, no doubt helped by James,
who acts as a perfect host, and the copious bottles of wine that are flowing
throughout the meal.  I’ve eased off drinking, anxious about getting too
inebriated to think straight when every instinct I have is telling me I’m in
danger.  When everyone toasts the chef I blush, until Sarah asks if I will be
cooking again tomorrow evening.  The thought of cooking in my new dress is
horrific, but before I can answer James announces he has asked Mrs Edge to come
and prepare the food, with some support from a couple of locals, so we could
all enjoy the evening.  His eyes linger on me as he says it.