Chapter Twenty-Two #2
‘Only because you refuse to avail yourself of all the fine fillies here in the village,’ said Isaac gruffly. He had a strange way of standing, legs too wide apart, short arms down by his sides, like a stocky tripod. ‘Are you one of us?’ he asked Olivia, lasering in on her under bushy eyebrows.
‘One of us . . . ?’ Olivia looked helplessly towards Leo.
‘Public school, two Volvos in the garage, Mummy goes to Peter Jones . . .’ Isaac barked.
‘Er, no . . .’ said Olivia. ‘Not really.’
Leo looked aghast. ‘Ignore him,’ he said. ‘Sorry,’ he mouthed.
‘Oh, do!’ echoed Caroline in jolly tones, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘Come back inside and finish helping me with the dessert,’ she cajoled her husband. ‘No one dusts a zabaglione like you, Issy.’
Issy harumphed. ‘Very nice to meet you, Olivia,’ he said begrudgingly, and bringing one leg of the tripod in, and then the other, he allowed himself to be led back into the house – followed by the high-spirited hounds. ‘I hope you like lamb.’
‘Love it,’ said Olivia to his retreating back. ‘Nice to meet you both.’
‘Told you,’ Leo said, after they had gone back in. ‘Absolute nightmare.’
‘They’re . . . nice,’ Olivia mustered. She already knew she was not one of “them” and probably never would be.
‘If you like the ultimate good cop, bad cop double act. What Mum giveth, Isaac taketh away,’ he said cheerfully. He took her hand and led her back to the car, where he opened the boot. ‘Let’s get this stuff in. We’re in the Milking Shed, by the way. I hope you like it.’
‘The Milking Shed? That sounds . . . homespun. Do I get a bed?’
‘Absolutely.’ And putting on what she suspected was his mother’s voice, added, ‘The Milking Shed has four well-appointed guest rooms all with a charming view. It’s beyond the walled garden,’ he added. ‘Come on.’
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed when they were standing in its doorway.
It was indeed a shed, but a very big one, with cute cream shutters on its cute round windows and, inside, a wide hall with pale oak boards, whitewashed walls, sheepskin rugs and ditsy flower arrangements in vintage milk churns.
It was warm, too. Toasty warm, after traipsing through cold wet grass in the dark to get here, Olivia’s suede boots darkening at the toes.
‘Well, this is the most glamourous milking shed I’ve ever seen! ’
‘It is pretty great. Sleeps eight. And I’m afraid we don’t get the whole thing, as two of the other rooms will be occupied by Close Family Friends – but we do get the two nicest ones.’
Leo opened a door, revealing a room with two small double beds, a pressed giant wheatsheaf spanning the wall above both, a small tartan sofa, a country-chic en-suite bathroom and a floral window seat.
Then, the one next door, almost identical.
Leo walked into this one and drew the curtains at the four-paned round window.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said, ‘and there are even packets of biscuits on the pillows.’
‘Home-made,’ Leo confessed. ‘Mum likes everyone to feel very welcome. Are you glad you came?’
‘Yes,’ she said, setting her bag down on one bed and sitting next to it.
‘I am. Thank you for asking me. But was I always your first choice for this trip? I mean, you said you thought about it all the way to the library, but did you invite me because someone else couldn’t make it? Am I here by accident?’
‘Olivia,’ he said, sitting down next to her. ‘Nothing about this is accidental . . .’
He grinned at her. She grinned at him back.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I guess I can believe that.’
‘Now, do you want to get changed?’ he asked. ‘I’ll excuse myself to the house and bring us back a bottle of wine.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Alright, I’ll knock for you in about twenty minutes.’
He left the room. She looked through the round window up at the huge house, and Leo walking towards it.
A different world, she thought. He was like so many people she had met at university.
From good families, rich families. And she, inserted among them, faking it until she made it.
Playing the part. Walking the walk and talking the talk, in time.
Yet, she had still gone home to the house in Pimlico.
To live where she lived, and to walk those streets.
She had been drawn back, like a dog pulled on a chain.
To home. To history. She had written to Gillian to tell her she had not sold her father’s house, but was living in it; she had received no reply.
Only that postcard from Venice. Olivia also knew she was living in Charlie’s house because she felt it was a way to make things up to him, to prove, ‘Hey, Dad, I came home.’ To be close to him.
To talk to him in the still of a lonely night and tell him the things she didn’t say when he was there.
She stood up. She was going to a dinner party and this was not the time for sad thoughts.
She unpacked her new dress and hung it on the back of the door, smoothing a couple of light creases out with her hand.
She could be in a different world for the night, she thought. She could be here with Leo Greene.