Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Oops!’
Olivia’s heels sank into the grass as she and Leo made their way to the house. She grabbed on to his arm, his sleeve silky to the touch in a navy paisley shirt.
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yes, my heels are like tees on a green, but, yes, I’m good.’
‘Well, you look beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’ She did feel lovely, she had to admit. She had bought this dress – calf length, deep olive-green velvet, one shoulder, with one close-fitting sleeve – on a whim last week from Portobello Market.
Leo was wearing black jeans, slightly startling but incredibly sexy snakeskin boots.
His hair smelled amazing as it had some kind of new product in it.
She felt they were playing the role of an established couple, her hand on his arm, walking through the damp grass to a dinner party, not two people who had bumped into each other the night before in Piccadilly Circus, had got into a car together outside a library and had driven down the M4.
It was cold, but there was no wind. The flames from a line of tealights either side of the path to Foxes were steady. The trees at the edge of the property stood dense and motionless. And every star in the purple-black bruise of the sky stood out against its velvet backdrop.
The front door was wide open, revealing a hallway with red-and-gold chequered tiles, black-and-white prints on tropical-papered walls, and an aspidistra bowing its head from a black Chinoiserie console table.
A mynah bird chirped in a blur of turquoise and gold from a gilt cage hanging from the high ceiling, and Stevie Nicks’ ‘Gypsy’ rose to meet it.
It was both lush and bohemian, Olivia thought – a magical stage set.
They walked through a door at the end to a living room, or it could have been a dining room, or a library, or study.
Three walls were lined floor to ceiling with books and the fourth was painted a rich, dark green.
Sumptuous, mismatched sofas competed with occasional tables and tall lamps, dripping with beaded fringes.
Heavy velvet curtains in shocking pink, restrained by gold tassels, made theatre with two enormous chandeliers.
‘Wow!’ said Olivia.
‘Yeah,’ replied Leo, grabbing two glasses of champagne off a passing tray.
There were people everywhere. Whispering on the low, plump sofas; leaning on the edges of the bookcases, or against door frames; standing in clusters on the antique Chinese rug in the centre of the room.
Glasses rested on palms, clutch bags were delved into for cigarettes, chunky whiskey tumblers were brought to lips.
The men were in suits and smoking jackets.
The women were in ball gowns or cashmere dresses, with skyscraper heels.
A fabulous lady in a man’s suit, thin as a rail and already smoking a cigar, had bent herself over the arm of a sofa like an Anglepoise lamp.
‘Bubbly OK?’ Leo asked her. Three young girls, dressed in black, were walking around the room, topping up drinks from long-necked bottles.
She nodded and took the glass gratefully. ‘Where are your parents?’
‘Still in the kitchen, I expect, either rowing over the lamb or snogging in the pantry – you never know with Isaac and Caroline. They’ll emerge in a cloud of glory at some point, all rosy-cheeked.’
‘Really?’
People were suddenly rising from sofas, and the clusters at the centre of the room morphed and started moving to a pair of double doors at the side of the room.
‘I didn’t hear the gong,’ Leo said. ‘But dinner must be served.’
This was the dining room. It was painted a vivid duck-egg blue, with gold cornicing.
It had a rich teal carpet, soft underfoot.
Two huge, leaded floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking wide stone steps and a lit-up back garden.
A long dining table, a stately candelabra at each end with wax stalactites and stalagmites.
Huge gold plates and heavy-looking cutlery.
Sideboards, either edge of the room, thick with framed family photos: Isaac, Caroline, Leo.
Skiing. Wedding day. Disneyworld. There was another boy with them. Blond. Smiley.
‘Who’s that?’ Olivia asked.
‘Balth. My stepbrother. Don’t worry, he’s not coming tonight.’
‘Why should I—’
‘Good Lord, is that you, Leo?’
A man – loud floral shirt and red cord trousers, sitting side-saddle on one of the ornate dining chairs – beckoned them over. David Bowie was playing in here, ‘Rebel Rebel’.
‘Dominic,’ said Leo politely, and he and the man shook hands.
‘Dragged back from London, then, boy?’ The man had ruddy cheeks, translucent teeth, button eyes.
‘Thought it was time I showed my face.’
‘How’s it going up there?’ He was one of those men who would completely ignore a plus one, Olivia realised.
‘Good, good.’
‘How’s Isaac? I hear there’s trouble at mill.’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘I know of investment troubles. Building regs. Something. Thank goodness for Caroline, eh? For putting up with it all.’
‘Yes,’ muttered Leo. ‘Thank goodness for Caroline. Let’s sit down,’ he said to Olivia. ‘I’ll see you later, Dom.’ He nodded at the man, pulled Olivia subtly away. ‘It doesn’t matter where . . . Mother doesn’t do place cards . . .’
They sat halfway down the table, Leo to Olivia’s right.
To her left, the seat was quickly filled by a beautiful middle-aged woman – former model?
– with a strapless black dress and a brass breastplate necklace.
She smiled wanly at Olivia, then turned to the gentleman to her own left, a beaver of a man with a bristling hairline and a cravat.
‘OK?’ Leo asked her.
‘Perfectly.’ Olivia felt . . . starstruck, to be honest. Like she’d joined a whole new constellation.
Quickly, places were filled, clutch bags laid on the table, jackets on the back of chairs. Hands reaching for water glasses and wine bottles and into bowls of olives. Faces smiling, searching. An air of expectancy. Murmurs of ‘Isaac’ and shrugs of ‘Caroline’. Where were they?
The music changed. It went from Bowie to Bach. There was a riptide of applause, a chiming of spoons on glass stems, a lusty holler of ‘There you are, you old buggers!’ and Caroline and Isaac walked into the room holding hands, like a bride and groom entering a wedding reception.
Caroline was in a column of a petrol-blue chiffon dress, her dark hair swept up into an elegant chignon, plus the fringe; Isaac had been cushioned into a white ruffle-yoke shirt and a black dinner suit, face scrubbed and eyebrows combed.
He slipped his hand from Caroline’s and held out his palms to the assembled.
‘Welcome to Foxes!’ he bellowed. ‘Feast like it’s your last night on this godforsaken earth!’
Caroline smiled accommodatingly and they took their seats at the head of the table. Immediately, three girls were bringing bowls in and setting them in front of guests – a fiery red pepper soup with a comma of crème fraiche and a sprinkle of toasted onions.
‘Looks delicious,’ Olivia remarked to Leo.
‘So do you,’ Leo replied.
She soaked up the atmosphere of the room, the zing of the wine and the piquancy of the soup. She was on a wild ride, an adventure. She felt like she had no idea what was going to happen.
‘. . . aren’t you, Leo?’ Isaac was addressing him from the head of the table. Shouting down.
‘Am I what?’ Leo called up.
‘Writing a book?’ boomed Isaac.
‘Maybe,’ Leo responded sheepishly. ‘Early days.’
Isaac roared with laughter as though Leo’s words had constituted a joke. ‘What’s it about, lad?’
Leo looked mortified. ‘Knock it off, Isaac,’ he said confidently, but his fingers were tapping on the edge of the tablecloth. ‘I’ll tell you some other time.’
‘Tell us now!’ Isaac would not be satisfied.
Leo shook his head. He bent his head back over his soup.
‘Idiot,’ Leo muttered good-naturedly, but Olivia caught Caroline glancing down the table at her son – her eyes momentarily grave – before being re-engaged by a female guest with a chattering-joke-teeth smile, and the moment disappearing into the air with the last steam of the soup.
‘I bet it’s going to be a splendid book,’ said an elderly lady across from them.
‘Oh, it is,’ fibbed Olivia effusively. ‘I’ve read some of it. It’s absolutely marvellous.’
Leo smiled at her gratefully. The soup dishes were taken away and the main course arrived: Moroccan lamb studded with sultanas, accompanied by pearly couscous and glistening vegetables.
Isaac’s voice was getting louder and louder.
He was recounting endless stories about London restaurant kitchens, the useless underlings he had to order around, the wet-behind-the-ears, incompetent boys and girls who turned up not knowing a chicory from a chowder. Who he had nurtured, who he had fired.
His audience was eating up every word and Isaac was growing larger than life as a result, like a great slab of beef, rippled and bloody, soaking up all of life’s good juices.
He now had someone’s arm pinned good-naturedly to the table with his beefy hand – a man who had just confessed he had been to Confit last week – and was growling throatily, ‘Did you actually eat the canard?’
‘Isaac believes that food is the one true art,’ said Leo at her side.
‘One that can be swallowed up and devoured in three seconds. He believes art should be bold, beautiful, and then gone. I want to create something a little longer lasting. With my writing. Does that sound like pretentious rubbish?’
‘No, of course it doesn’t. I feel the same way.’
‘Why do you want to write?’ he asked her. ‘I know you said about your godmother’s house and the books, but is it something more?’
‘It’s always something more, isn’t it? Creative satisfaction, the joy of writing, getting things out of your head and on to the page. Money, success . . .’
‘It’s not the money for me.’ He frowned.
‘Of course it’s not. Look around you . . .’
‘I can make it on my own.’
‘Of course you can.’
‘I will make it on my own.’
She had touched a nerve. ‘I know that, Leo.’