Chapter 28
‘Can we make a detour to my house for clothes?’ I ask as we pull out of the Shard.
‘Ahh, she’s back in the land of the living.’
‘I guess it’s quite funny,’ I concede. ‘Thinking about it, it’s really funny. The look on her face was priceless.’
‘The look on your face was better.’
I scoff. ‘It’s strange, I’ve always thought of Sandy as a kind of mother figure but without realising, she’s become a friend. She always seemed much older than me when I was a child and, well, when she was looking after me and putting pigtails in my hair, but she isn’t old at all.’
‘I think the older you get, the more age becomes just a number, don’t you?’
‘I guess you’re right. Sometimes, she looks out for me and others, we’re in role reversal. I’m glad she’s having a chance to do things she’s missed out on.’
That thought reminds me of my dad and I have to force his ill face from my mind.
My street is grey and forlorn when we pull onto it.
The red post-box seems a deeper shade than I’d left it and the leafless trees look tarnished by death.
I sense Gregory’s concern but continue looking straight ahead as he rolls the car to a stop outside the townhouse.
I stare at the porch and the Saturday edition of The Times that Dad will never read, wasting on the welcome mat.
‘Do you want me to come in?’
I shake my head. ‘I won’t be long.’
I look around the street nervously, feeling like an intruder as I walk through the wrought-iron gate and up the pathway to the house.
Cold penetrates from the metal handle and the door creaks as I push it open, a sound I’ve not noticed before.
The hallway is empty, lifeless. I take two steps into the house and jump when the floor squeaks under my feet.
I dash up the staircase, slamming my bedroom door shut behind me, leaning my back against the door until I catch my breath.
Fear consumes me, a fear of something irrational and intangible.
I rub the balls of my hands into my sockets, trying to convince myself that if I can close my eyes, I can’t be scared.
Taking a deep breath, I open my eyelids and start to undress.
I pull on some jeans and a shirt and pass a belt through the loops as fast as I can.
After throwing my suit into my wash basket, combing my hair and cleaning my teeth, I spritz myself with perfume.
Pulling on my black, knee-high boots, the pair Gregory likes, then grabbing my black, wool coat and crimson scarf, I leave the house as quickly as I can.
I’m breathless when I sit back into the passenger seat of the DB9. Sinking into the warmth of the heated seat, I try to calm my breathing.
‘Are you okay?’ Gregory asks, placing a hand on my thigh.
‘It doesn’t feel right any more.’
‘The house?’
‘It’s cold and miserable.’
He runs a hand down my hair. His mouth parts and closes silently, his eyes betraying his anxiety. He wants to say something but doesn’t know how. His palm moves to my cheek, my body responding by leaning into his anchor.
‘Why don’t you come and stay with me this week? I don’t want you to stay here alone.’
‘Stay? With you? At the Shard?’
He takes his hand away, moving his gaze to the front window. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, I?—’
‘It’s only a week, Scarlett; I’m not asking you to marry me,’ he almost snarls.
Unsure which of us is wounded more, I twist my lip between my finger and thumb. A week of Gregory and a week away from this house whilst I figure out what to do with it.
‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
He pulls his key out of the ignition. ‘Let’s get your stuff then.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay.’
* * *
He’s looking at an old photograph of my dad and me hanging on the wall in the hallway when I finally arrive at the top of the staircase.
‘That was my eighth birthday. Dad threw me a party in Richmond Park. It was a teddy bears’ picnic,’ I say with an enormous smile.
‘He invited all the kids from my class. Sandy made far too much picnic food, as ever, and the best birthday cake. She made a giant bear wearing dungarees. I loved dungarees. I was also going through a phase of being obsessed with teddy bears and the idea that all my toys came to life at night when I was sleeping.’
Gregory looks at me, amused I think, and gives me his stunning half-smile.
‘I read A Toy’s Palace a lot during my phase.’
‘Let me help you,’ he says, climbing the stairs to take my suitcase and shoulder bag. ‘I’ll be outside.’
I look around the house one more time. ‘Goodbye, Dad.’
After lugging my last three bags onto the porch, I pull the door shut behind me.
‘Flip, Scarlett, these cars aren’t made for their boot space,’ Gregory says, getting back out of the car to help me.
Raising my arms at my sides, I look down to my luggage. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he picks up all three bags as if they’re stuffed with air.
‘And I thought you were scared about staying for a week. You’ve got enough stuff for year.’
‘Scared for you,’ I say with a purposeful mischievous glint in my eye.
I follow him to the car where he’s forced to put the final bag on the almost back seat. Buildings disappear, the road opens up and the clouds begin to part as we drive into the evergreen of the country with Elton John’s ‘I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues , ’ playing through the speakers.
‘So you’re taking me to a farm?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like a farm with animals? Or like a country retreat?’
‘Like my house in the country that used to be a farm.’
‘You have a house in the country?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? You live and work in the city.’
‘That’s exactly why. The press don’t seem to know about it and?—’
‘The press?’
‘Once your name is published in The Times ’s Rich List, your life becomes public property.’
‘ The Times ’s Rich List? So if I Google you?—’
‘Don’t do that,’ he snaps. ‘The press prints all kinds of rubbish and I’d rather you make up your own mind.’
I already have .
‘You see the problem is, Mr Ryans, when you tell a person not to do something, generally, they have a greater desire to do that exact thing.’
He continues to focus on the road ahead but his jaw rolls stiffly.
We turn left at a roundabout then right onto what’s little more than a dirt track.
The Aston Martin bounces as it flies across loose stones and uneven road.
The daylight dims as we drive through a small forest with pine trees flanking us on either side.
Then the light increases again and the trees disappear so that I can see the farm.
I gawp in Gregory’s direction but he pretends not to notice.
The farm is really more of an estate. The red-brick building with white, Georgian windows continues to grow as we drive closer.
The long, old barn has been extended into an L shape and the old farmhouse stands tall at one end so the whole thing looks like an angular horseshoe.
The uneven surface beneath the car has been replaced by soft gravel.
We drive up to a circular, stone fountain in the middle of the horseshoe.
I close my open mouth with the back of my hand as Gregory walks around the back of the DB9 to open the passenger door for me.
Perfectly spherical trees mark the start of the path to the house.
I turn at the sound of the DB9 being driven away from the fountain by an elderly, grey-haired man and see a younger, slim, mousey-blond man carrying our bags behind us.
We continue up the pathway passing stylised trees: noughts and crosses, a figure of eight, love hearts.
At the end of the path, an archway made from one unbroken tree decorates the porch entrance.
‘Wow, these are amazing!’ I say almost inwardly. ‘I take it you have a gardener?’
‘As much as I’d like to say they’re my handy work, yes, I do have a gardener, though an old friend actually did the trees. He’s a sculptor. He dabbles in quite a lot of techniques and materials. These are essentially made from one tree. It’s a process called?—’
‘Grafting. I’ve heard of it. Two different species grown together to make one purposely designed tree.’
‘Exactly. This one,’ Gregory says, resting onto the tree that looks like a noughts and crosses board, ‘is based on a piece called Needle and Thread by Axel Erlandson. He created an entire place called The Tree Circus in California and displayed his work there.’
I nod, running a hand over the marvel. ‘My dad had a book about him. I remember looking through it as a child. Your friend is really fantastic.’
‘He has an exhibition right now at The Saatchi Gallery. Maybe we could go.’
‘I’d like that.’
He opens the door into the vestibule and two dogs bark wildly until they realise it’s Gregory walking into the house. He bends to stroke them as they spin and wag their tails excitedly.
‘They’re gorgeous,’ I say, bending to knee height to stroke the liver-and-white-spotted dog. ‘I didn’t have you down as a dog man.’
‘Well, they live here and they’re supposed to be guard dogs, aren’t you?’ he says, ruffling the head of the almost entirely liver-coloured dog. ‘They’re pointers; they come on shoots and hunts.’
‘You hunt?’
‘In season, yes.’
‘Do you ride horses?’
‘For the hunts, yes. The shoots are on foot.’
Lord Sexy Bazillionaire CEO Ryans.
The young man carrying our bags is Kian. Gregory makes introductions then instructs Kian to take the rest of the day off.
‘Yes, sir,’ Kian quickly agrees.
‘That goes for John and Marian too,’ Gregory adds.
‘Yes, sir.’
Gregory shakes Kian’s hand. Despite his subtlety, I catch a glimpse of notes sliding from Gregory’s hand into Kian’s.
‘Come on, I want to show you the other reason I have this house.’ There’s a mischievous glint in his eye that’s a rare but beautiful show of his age.
He presses a remote control and the doors to the triple garage rise from the ground. Gregory grins as we wait. Soon, the doors are high enough for me to understand why. The garage opens to expose six motorbikes – big, immaculate and shiny.