Chapter 21 ALEX
“LORD TOVERTON, MONSIEUR DUPONT and the caterers have arrived,” Nathan informed me through the video intercom.
“Send them up.” I’d organised Sunday brunch at the apartment for our casual meeting with the estate manager after leaving Nancy and Tracy to settle for the night.
“It’s so weird having someone on the door just waiting for visitors.” Nancy walked over barefoot in jeans and a tee, looking relaxed and recharged from her sickness the day before.
“He’s a fountain of knowledge, just ask if you want to order in. He’ll charge it to my account.”
“Actually, Mum’s already gone to the supermarket.”
“Why?”
“Because some of us peasants cook our meals,” she mocked, giving me that same errant look from the night before. It brought a vision to mind of her spread over my knee.
I tilted my head. “Is that an offer?”
“I’m not playing wifey, thanks. When you’re here, you’ll help with the cooking.”
“How egalitarian.”
“More like a basic life skill. I saw you trying to chop an onion. You’re lucky you didn’t lose a finger.” She pinched my cheek and grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re a fast learner.”
I swiped at her bottom but missed as she hopped just out of reach. She laughed. “Too bad, Mr Bond. Or should I call you Timothy Dalton? I still haven’t decided.”
“You better be joking,” I said, horrified. “He’s the worst.”
There was a knock on the door, and I opened it to a short, moustachioed man, suited in grey pinstripe, with a Poirot-esque air about him.
“Monsieur,” he enunciated in a strong Parisian accent and presented his hand.
In the other, he carried his signature attaché case, which I was fairly sure I’d never seen him without.
“Come in, DuPont.” I held the door for the caterers. “Just over there on the table, please.” They began to arrange fresh pastries, fruit, conserves, and a variety of artisanal breads. Nancy joined them, nabbing a Danish, and popped the champagne I’d got out for the bellinis.
Tracy came out of her bedroom looking fresh and awake, and considerably younger than her forty-odd years in an airy white boho dress that met the Roman sandal straps crisscrossing up her shins.
Her complexion was classic English rose.
Waves of ash-brown hair hung below her shoulders, and her arms and cheeks bloomed with the same spread of freckles as Nancy.
“Sorry I slept in. That bed is ridiculously comfortable.” She held out her hand. “You must be Monsieur DuPont. It’s a pleasure. I’ll just come clean now and say I don’t have the foggiest when it comes to renovating.”
DuPont’s lip curled as he eyed her full figure head to toe. He took her hand and kissed the knuckles. “Madam, I assure you, you are in good hands. By the end of our creative journey together, I will understand each and every one of your wants and needs.”
Dear god, is he flirting?
I shot a look at Nancy, whose wide eyes showed she had the same thought.
“Well, that sounds…intense, but I’m always up for trying new things.” Tracy giggled.
“Mum!” Nancy scolded.
Monsieur DuPont released Tracy’s hand and clicked the hinges of the huge case, opening it in a grand presentation to us. Inside was a neatly arranged accordion of swatches and colour samples. “Then let us begin.”
“I may need more than one of these,” Nancy whispered, handing me a bellini and knocking hers back in one.
I attempted to cover my snicker.
Over the following week, Nancy and I managed to keep things subtle at work by devising a routine to meet in secret.
When lunchtime arrived, I exited my office first, taking the private lift to the basement, and waited for Nancy to join me five minutes later.
We picnicked in the back of the blacked-out Bentley and made out like teenagers for the rest of our lunch break.
If David knew something was happening between us, he didn’t show it, and he wasn’t the sort to let it pass given my reputation.
After work, we made dinner together under Nancy’s watchful guidance, necked in front of some trashy TV once Tracy had left for her shift, then cuddled on the bed while sharing our favourite music.
I was especially taken with the sixties singers that Nancy bopped around the bedroom to while lip-syncing into her hair-comb microphone.
In return, she listened to the passionately sung arias from my favourite Italian operas. I watched as she rested her head on my stomach, her eyes closed, looking serene.
As each day passed, we grew closer, and I watched with satisfaction as Nancy slowly transformed in front of me. She talked more freely, laughed louder, and looked at me with increasing longing as each of her barriers fell away. It was the most exquisite time I could remember.
How could lying together in comfortable silence be so affirming? I’d never experienced it before. Hell, I’d never even seen it before. It might as well have been a myth. But it wasn’t. It was real, and I had it.