Chapter 5
Chapter Five
When she heard Benedict’s voice on her intercom, Stella buzzed him in without speaking then stood in her doorway waiting for the lift to clank its way up the shaft.
‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ she said, when he emerged from the lift.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and followed her into the flat. ‘Lovely place, Stella.’
‘Agreed, even though I can’t take any credit as it’s only on loan to me.’
It was a lovely flat. The oak floorboards were sanded and oiled so they were rich and warm, covered in part with a large rug in early autumnal shades of gold and green. The high waffle ceiling was matt white, as were the walls, which made the open-plan apartment fresh and clean. Heavy cream curtains framed both the bay window and the French doors. There was little furniture other than a small table, two wooden chairs and a sumptuous cream sofa that was very unforgiving of stains.
‘Well, you agreed to hear me out, so shall we?’ He hovered near the sofa until she indicated that he could sit down.
‘I suppose you’ll want tea? ’
‘Please,’ he said, consulting his watch. ‘Although coffee would be fine. It’s still morning, just about.’
Stella went into the kitchen to make coffee, unable to believe that anyone had to check the time to decide whether to drink tea or coffee. And who even wore wristwatches these days? She whizzed some beans in the grinder and poured the ground coffee into the pot before sticking it on the hob. While the pot boiled, she clanked around with mugs to cover her nervousness. This was a very bad idea. Her visitor was even better looking than she’d remembered, and now he was here in her flat being all proper. She allowed herself a quick peek at him. He was standing looking out of the bay window, where the morning rays caught his hair, setting it alight so he was haloed in gold. Unfair. Even the sun was taking his side. He turned then, and caught her looking at him. Stella’s heart thumped, but she managed to force out some words.
‘Um, I forgot to ask how you like it. Coffee, that is. You know. Cream, sugar, that sort of thing.’
‘On its own, please.’
Should have been obvious, really. Anyone so straight and upright wouldn’t have any soft edges, so that would rule out cream and sugar. She paused before heaping her own cup with four sugars and a double portion of cream. She carried the coffee in along with a small plateful of shortbread that she’d made – guiltily – especially for this meeting, reasoning that she had to occupy her time somehow while she waited as it was impossible to concentrate on work and she couldn’t settle into her new book.
He took the tray from her and set it on the table. ‘Well, these look too good to resist,’ he said, helping himself. ‘Home-made?’
She nodded and tried not to stare at him while he ate. Instead, she reminded herself that she only needed to hear what he had to say and then get rid of him. This had to end now. Or at least it had to end once he’d finished eating his third biscuit .
‘You might as well say your piece,’ she said. ‘It must be good since you’ve travelled all this way.’
‘I’m not so sure about good. It’s just rather complicated, that’s all.’
‘Something told me it might be. Go on then, spill your guts.’
‘Charmingly put.’ He crossed his legs, revealing a couple of inches of leg above a striped sock.
‘Any time today will be fine.’ Stella forced herself to be hard.
He was reaching for a fourth biscuit, thought better of it and rubbed his ear instead.
‘First and foremost, you seem to be under the impression that I’m married.’
‘Oh, please. There’s no impression about it, my friend. I even saw you being ticked off for talking to me the first time we met at Greenwich. And then that night at South Ken, your mate with all the loopy hair went out of his way to tell me as much.’
‘Loopy hair?’
‘Corduroy suit the colour of quinoa.’
‘Oh,’ he said, realisation dawning, ‘you must mean Nigel. More colleague than friend. What did he say to you.’
‘He more or less warned me off you. Saying Miranda wouldn’t be happy.’
‘Miranda wouldn’t be happy?’
‘Yes, the blonde woman from the observatory. Miranda, your wife.’
On hearing this, his eyebrows shot up. ‘Well, Nigel’s not wrong. Miranda probably won’t be happy, but not because she’s my wife. Miranda is my sister.’
‘Your sister?’ Oh, no. This was embarrassing to the power of ten, and what a nasty piece of work this Nigel had turned out to be.
‘In fact, she’s my twin sister. We’re monozygotic twins.’
‘Mono-zy-what-ic?’
‘It just means we’re identical because we’re from the same egg. Whereas fraternal twins are no more identical than any other pair of siblings – they’ve shared the womb, but nothing more. Sorry, Stella I’m off into lecture mode. Bad habit of mine, I’m afraid.’
Looking into his pale-blue eyes, she could forgive this man any number of bad habits. She was fizzing inside. He wasn’t married and Miranda was his sister. Result!
‘Did you really not notice any resemblance?’
‘None at all. I suppose you have similar colouring, but personality-wise, it’s hard to believe that you two are even related, let alone twins. Sorry. I shouldn’t be so rude about a member of your family.’
‘My sister can appear quite frosty, I suppose. It’s the barrister in her, I imagine.’
Of course she was a barrister, but most importantly, a barrister who was a twin sister. Stella felt warmer towards Miranda already and passed the plate to Benedict, who took another biscuit.
‘You might as well finish them off. There are loads left in the kitchen. Shall I pack them up and you can take them home for Daniel?’
‘That’s very kind. He does enjoy shortbread although he might have to fight me off.’
‘No fighting necessary. I batch-baked, so you’ll struggle to carry them all on the train.’
‘The more the merrier. It’s been a long time since we’ve had anything home-baked by anyone other than me.’
He looked wistful and she felt a catch in her throat. Now that he’d mentioned Daniel, she couldn’t avoid the question lurking in the back of her mind.
‘Benedict, may I ask you a question?’
He nodded, obviously knowing what was coming because he put his half-eaten biscuit down and looked at her.
‘We’ve established that Miranda’s your sister, and we’re clear that Daniel’s your son, right?’
‘Er, yes. Right. ’
‘Well, he must have a mother. Sorry, I don’t mean to intrude. It’s just, you know...’
‘I know.’ He looked down at the floor between his feet. ‘Daniel’s mother – my wife, Anna.’
On hearing this, her heart sank. Whatever he said next was awful for Daniel. Stella wasn’t sure she was ready to tread through someone else’s pain, but she’d asked the question and would have to face whatever came by way of answer.
‘Daniel’s mother. My wife, Anna.’ Benedict seemed to reach deep inside himself and stared into the middle distance as if looking into a different time. ‘She died shortly after giving birth to Daniel. There were complications.’
‘I’m so sorry, Benedict.’ It was heartfelt. Stella could see the man before her crumpling. Perhaps he was back in that time, remembering his wife, and feeling the loss for himself and his baby boy. There was nothing more she could say, and they sat for a few moments in uneasy silence. When Benedict looked back at her, tears glazed his eyes.
‘It was nearly seven years ago, but I still find it difficult to talk about. Do you mind if we change the subject?’
‘Of course not. I’m sorry for putting you on the spot like that.’
‘It’s my own fault for not explaining sooner that I’m a widower and not a married man.’
He gave a rueful smile and Stella yearned to comfort him, but she was frozen. He was still in pain for his wife, and it would be wrong to touch him. She was ashamed now for her tantrummy behaviour. The poor man had done nothing wrong at all. Far from being an unfaithful husband looking for some extra-curricular activity, he’d been widowed many years ago, and it broke her heart that both he and his little boy had gone through so much tragedy. This was a different man to the assured professor he’d appeared to be at his lectures. It went some way to explaining why Daniel wasn’t quite as boisterous or as cheeky as the average six-year-old.
By now, the coffee had gone cold. ‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said, for the sake of something to say. ‘It’s afternoon now. Just.’
When she came back, bearing a tray holding two cups and a teapot, Benedict had composed himself and took the tray from her. They drank their tea quietly while Stella kicked herself for storming off the other night instead of just asking for an explanation there and then. When he’d finished his tea, Benedict set down his empty cup, picked up the tray and headed for the kitchen, with Stella following behind.
‘I have to get back for Daniel, but how would you feel about coming to spend some time with us? You could come for a weekend if you like and suffer some of my home-baking. Fair exchange being no robbery and all that.’
This was a very welcome invitation, but Stella had to turn it down and explained that she’d only just booked train tickets to go north to visit her old family home in Durham. She avoided any mention of her parents. There was enough death in the room for one day. Because her flat-sitting contract only allowed her one weekend away per month, it would be ages before she could visit Benedict.
‘Say hi to Daniel for me.’ She handed him a greaseproof paper package, neatly tied. ‘Ask him what his favourites are, and I’ll make some before I see you next time.’
‘You’re too kind, Stella. He’ll enjoy these, thank you. Well, I must be off. Good luck in Durham.’
She set him to the door and they stood by the lift, with the ghost of his wife still in the air. When the lift dinged, Benedict stuck out his hand and Stella, hiding her disappointment, shook it.
Once he was away in the lift, Stella ran to the balcony and watched for him coming out of her building and walking down the street. Even though it was warm, he pulled his brown suede jacket around him before digging his phone from his pocket, frowning over it, then looking up at the street signs. She laughed as he disappeared around the corner. So, the man who was at home in the universe was entirely lost in the streets of London.
She hugged herself, cursing her flat-sitting contract. At the time of signing, she’d been impressed at the owner’s generosity – this was a lovely flat in a desirable area, so the owner would have probably got any number of takers, even if they’d had to spend every single night here. But now, only being allowed out for one weekend a month felt like being in a prison cell – albeit a rather luxurious one.
In the morning, Stella woke up feeling under the weather, and her head felt too thick to do the three client readings booked in for later that afternoon. She hated letting people down, so she ran herself a hot bath in the hope it would get rid of her sniffles and leave her well enough to work.
From the bathroom cabinet, she took a wooden box containing six dark glass bottles, each an inch high. First, she checked the labels, then added six drops from the bottle of lavender, three from the rosemary and two from the peppermint. This was one of her mother’s many recipes, and until medical science found a cure for the common cold, Stella would also rely on the old ways. She pinned up her hair and breathed deeply as she lowered herself into the tub, where the fragrant steam started to clear her head and the hot water drew the aches out of her long bones.
Hopefully, she’d just caught a chill from swimming in pond water or running home with wet hair and wasn’t coming down with Covid. She’d had it once and was in no hurry to repeat that particular experience. More likely, the emotional turmoil of the last couple of days had affected her. While she was pleased to have resolved things with Benedict, it was difficult dealing with the fact that he was free only because his wife had died tragically. Her heart went out to him. It must have been very hard facing such pain as he brought up his little boy alone. And how hard it must have been for Daniel. At least Stella had known her parents before losing them and she had twelve years of happy memories. Poor kid didn’t even have those.
Later that evening, after she’d finished her client readings, Stella was in her pyjamas, sipping a hot brew of lemon, garlic and honey when her phone rang.
‘Hello, Benedict. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, yes it is. I felt bad for dashing off without making firm arrangements to see you again.’
‘No worries, I know you had a train to catch. Did you make it back in time?’
‘Yes, thank you, and thank you also for the biscuits. Daniel adores them. I’m going to struggle to fob him off with the shop-bought kind from now on.’
‘You don’t need to, I can send some up for him. It’s good to have an appreciative audience for a change.’
‘Well, I was wondering… Your flat-sitting contract. Does it stipulate one weekend off per calendar month, or is it once every four weeks?’
Odd question. ‘Once per calendar month.’
‘Excellent news. Now, you’re away this weekend, and I’m out of the country the following weekend, but how do you feel about coming to see us the weekend after that? It will be a new calendar month, I’m reliably informed, so you have no excuse.’
He was right. Her contract stated one weekend every calendar month, so there was no need for ages. Even so, two-and-a-half weeks might as well be two-and-a-half years.
‘I’d like that.’ I’d love that was what she really meant, but love was a dangerous word to bandy about. ‘Just tell me where and when. ’
‘I’ll give it some thought and drop you a line. So you’re all set for Durham this weekend, then?’
‘Yes, all set.’ By dropping her a line, did he mean he was going to send something by snail mail? Curious behaviour, but it would be nice to get an actual letter, she supposed.
‘Which train are you getting?’
‘The nine-thirty from King’s Cross on Saturday morning, which should get me there for not too long after midday.’
‘I hope you have a wonderful time.’
This was highly unlikely, but Benedict wasn’t to know that; she’d have to tell him about her parents some time, but not just now.
They chatted for a minute or two more and then rang off. It was good that they’d arranged to meet again, even if it was over a fortnight away, but that couldn’t be helped. Benedict had a busy work schedule, plus he had Daniel, and she wasn’t exactly just around the corner either. She should have invited them to Durham, but that felt like too big an imposition.
Still, the time would pass. She’d have an early night and hopefully shake off whatever was ailing her. The next few days would fill up with packing and organising, and the weekend in Durham would fly over. Then there’d only be eleven days to go until she saw Benedict again. Eleven days. It felt like a long time.