Chapter Eighteen
Someone has stuck a blue card to my apartment door. It’s there waiting for me after my long day in the garden. I pull it from the drawing pin and unfold it.
Hi Evie
Cheers.
Evan you rush through shower, wardrobe and make-up while the cameras wait for you.
So twenty-five minutes later, I am walking down the curving stairs looking like I’ve had an hour with a hairdryer, moisturiser, eyebrow pencil, soft plum lip gloss and Issey Miyake eau de toilette.
The ballroom is that grand hall with the stained-glass windows, mosaic panels and lots of alcoves that have a painted mural each.
I remember walking through it that first day I came here but not since because it always had someone on a ladder and dust sheets all over the floors with lots of signs saying things like ‘WET PAINT’, or ‘DO NOT TOUCH’.
Not tonight.
I pause on the step halfway down and look around, open-mouthed.
Thank God I dressed up in my pretty heather-purple maxi dress because the hall is absolutely splendid.
The floor has been waxed so it gleams. The walls – painted white, jade green and gold – look as if the emulsion was applied with a tiny artist’s brush.
And the light! The light. A magnificent crystal chandelier sparkles like a million bright suns and rainbows.
The opulence dwarfs even the long dining table and makes it look small and humble.
“Hello.” A woman looks up from placing two baskets of bread rolls on the table. I recognise her by the beautiful smile and honey-coloured hair that lies rich and thick over her shoulders. It’s Haneen Hemingway, Evan’s girlfriend or partner or… I’m not really sure.
“You look like Cinderella arriving at the ball.” She grins at my floaty maxi dress.
It’s not a party dress or anything. Yes, it’s nice, and the shade – heather – suits me, but I’d chosen it to hide my unshaven legs and all the scratches and grazes on my shins from the fall into the scratchy roses this morning.
Someone wolf whistles and a few others look up.
“You’re embarrassing her,” Haneen says, and everyone quietens.
Face warm, I continue down the stairs, very self-conscious. This would be an ideal time to trip and fall in front of everyone; my hand goes to the railing for support. Just as well, because right at that moment, I hear footsteps behind me.
“Hi.” Osian’s voice is warm and deep, pitched low so only I can hear him. “Don’t I feel like the farmer boy at the king’s banquet.”
“You and me both,” I say, walking down in step with him now.
He looks me over; his eyebrows quirk up, but he says nothing. His own dark narrow-leg trousers and slim crew-neck jumper may be casual, but on him they look like Calvin Klein’s catwalk best. I hate that he’s so effortlessly gorgeous.
Only two seats are left free at different ends of the table. Osian waves me to the nearest one and goes round to the other.
There are thirty-five of us; a mix of people.
I recognise some of the partners Evan took me to meet on my first day.
There are also five teenagers who must be the volunteers, and about a dozen older people who must be the Squad I keep hearing about.
The most eye-catching person is a blonde in a tight black top and even tighter black jeans.
As soon as Osian sits down, she pushes her chair back, gets up and makes someone switch seats so she can sit next to him.
“Nora’s a fast worker!” Rhian, on my left, says not quite under her breath. “She only just came back and made up with Llewellyn. Now she’s putting the moves on Osian.”
“Why does Llewellyn put up with it?” Leonie, on Rhian’s other side, asks quietly. “It’s embarrassingly obvious.”
“What good would that do?” the old lady beside me asks in a surprisingly acid voice. “Nymphet Nora is shameless.”
I suppress a smile at the Nymphet Nora moniker.
“She’s trying too hard.” The lady pats her red curls, gathered into a low bun. “If young Osian was going to pick up the ball, he’d be smiling a little.”
What would it look like if he did pick up the ball? He seems pleasant enough as she chats to him. She, of course, is more than obvious: leaning close to whisper something, her head almost touching his.
“Now that we’re all here,” Evan says, standing up at the head of the table nearest me.
His voice is strong and firm, stopping all gossip.
“This is the first such meeting since the start of the year and as our numbers have swelled, it’s the first meeting in the ballroom.
I want to take a moment before we eat to welcome the Jack Bevan Retirement Community, also known as”—he smiles and his dimples flash—“‘The Squad’.”
“Only to our friends,” a voice shouts from the far end of the table.
“‘The Naughty Squad’,” another man in a wheelchair calls out. “‘The Young at Heart’, or if you really know us then—”
“‘The Sent to Bed Without Supper Squad’ if you don’t pipe down,” the lady with the red hair next to me snaps. Everyone laughs because the man in the wheelchair shuts up very quickly.
“We also welcome Evie Palmer.” Evan gives me a nod.
Feeling a little self conscious, I stand up to a lot of people saying “hi”, “hello” and “nice to meet you”.
When the greetings fade, I can just catch a flirty half-intimate laugh from Nora.
She seems to be whispering something to Osian but her eyes are on me in a way that makes me flush with embarrassment.
All my life I’ve been too sensitive to mockery.
Evan cuts in firmly, “Evie will be restoring the North Park. We’re very excited to see her hit the ground running. She exposed and cleaned the blue wall on her first day and now has cleared a significant section of the land. We cannot wait to see what else is on her agenda.”
He has to stop for enthusiastic applause.
“If you’d been here last autumn”—Leonie cups a hand in front of her mouth so only I can hear—“during the infamous Watson days, you’d know why everyone is so excited. He spent three months doing bugger all.”
Evan must either have great hearing or he guessed Leonie’s words because he gives her a conspiratorial look before moving on with his introductions.
Now that I’m here, it’s a good chance for me to find the man I need to talk to: Alexander McLaverty, who’s responsible for restoring the mosaics in the house.
After uncovering the blue wall, I’d read a lot about Victorian ornamental gardens searching for any mention of using ceramic tiling or mosaics in this way, but I didn’t find a single record.
Something keeps nagging at me that there’s more to that message.
Yet after all the work in the gardens – the slates, the roses – it doesn’t seem enough to have gone to the trouble of creating a mosaic about it.
That’s why I want a word with Alexander McLaverty.
When Evan introduced me to all the partners, Alexander was up a ladder in overalls and a back-to-front baseball cap. Now, scanning the table, I can’t see him.
“…for the residents of the Jack Bevan Retirement Community.” Evan’s voice draws me out of my inner thoughts and I realise I’ve missed a chunk. “We are thrilled to have such a vibrant addition to Kendric House.”
An elderly man stands up to a scattering of applause and offers a bow. “Thank you, and we would like to return the compliment and offer any kind of help you need—”
“As long as it can be done sitting down.” This shouted interruption from the man in the wheelchair again. He clearly meant it as a joke, but it sails so close to bad taste that most of those around the table look uncomfortable; only the elderly people laugh.
Nora, at the far end, whispers something into Osian’s ear, her hand on his shoulder.
The way she snuggles up to him makes me angry with Osian for letting this go on.
Llewellyn is a lovely person and a very kind man.
He doesn’t deserve to be forced to watch his girlfriend all but sliding off her chair and into another man’s lap.
There’s a sudden round of applause and I realise I’ve drifted again and missed what Evan said. It must have been about Leonie because she’s blushing and murmurs a short thank you.
“The heart of the Kendric Park collective is partnership and cooperation,” Evan continues, and I make myself pay attention.
“We’re now nine partners and profit participants.
It’s important to have a monthly meeting to update everyone on the various projects.
Also, we can see if there’s anything anyone can contribute to help.
An added bonus, we do this over dinner.”
Right on cue, Haneen comes in from the kitchen with Meredith pushing a trolley heavy with baking dishes.
Evan looks at her with a soft, intimate smile. “Tonight it’s toad in the hole, cooked by my gorgeous lady.”
A chorus of whistles and claps follows, including “Whoop whoop” from Ricky and another skinny youth.
“It’s only grilled sausages and batter.” Haneen arranges the six baking dishes on the table, and four large bowls heaped high with creamy mash. Meredith follows with several jugs of onion gravy on a tray.
It may be only sausages and batter, but Haneen has a magic touch because everyone asks for seconds. Llewellyn, who is trying to be a vegetarian, asks her to hold the toad but give him more hole, please.
Haneen is more than prepared. “I made you mushrooms in the hole.”
“You didn’t need to make it especially for me, I’m happy with whatever.”