Читать книгу What Happens in Devon… - T A Williams - Страница 16

Tom pulled up outside her cottage at 7.30. The rains had headed off to the east of the country, leaving Devon with clear skies. As a result, this February evening was absolutely freezing. As he headed for the front door, he saw her little Mini already covered in white frost. He was searching in vain for a doorbell when the door opened. He took a step backwards.

‘Evening, Tom. Sophie told me you were at the door. Fur coat and thermal undies tonight, I fear. Come in while I suit up.’ She ushered him in. He smelt her perfume. It took considerable self-control to avoid a heartfelt sigh of delight.

The spaniel rushed out and made a fuss of him. Again, she seemed especially interested in his crotch.

‘All set. Where are we going?’

He looked up from the dog. What he could see of her looked wonderful. She was enveloped in a fur hat and coat.

‘And you must be Mrs Zhivago. How is the good doctor?’ He bowed formally.

She giggled. ‘It’s faux fur. Made of old mineral water bottles, or whatever. No animals were hurt in the making of this outfit.’ She patted the dog on the head and they went out into the cold.

He had booked a table at a gastro pub a few miles away. ‘We’re going to the Red Lion at Woodford. The chef’s Italian. I know him pretty well. He’s has just won some TV cooking thing.’

‘That sounds good. I hardly know any of the places round here.’

‘What? I would have assumed a lovely girl like you would have been wined and dined all over the county. What am I saying? I mean all over the United Kingdom, the world.’

‘Not nowadays. Sophie and I don’t socialise a lot.’

He negotiated a humpbacked bridge that was white with frost. He made a mental note to watch out on the way back. It was well known for ice.

‘From choice?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ He had to wait a while for her to continue. ‘In my job I used to do an awful lot of travelling. One year I worked out I had been in two hundred and thirty different hotel rooms, spread over sixteen countries.’

‘Wow. I didn’t realise you journalists did so much travelling.’

‘That was in my previous incarnation. I have only been a journo for three years.’

‘And your previous job was?’ He saw the sign up ahead. They were still early enough to find a place in the pub car park.

‘Modelling.’

‘I did a bit of that when I was a boy. You know, Airfix Spitfires and the like.’ He backed into a space and turned off the engine. ‘So, here I am with a famous model. Should I have recognised you? I’m afraid I’m not very well up on the fashion world.’

She didn’t answer and he did not dare to ask her again.

Their table was close to the fire. The room was snug and warm. They weren’t the first. Three or four tables were already populated, their occupants choosing from the menu. He was pleased not to see anybody he knew. He very much wanted this evening to be about the two of them alone.

‘Can I take your coat? There are hooks over there by the door.’

‘Ah, a true gentleman. There aren’t many of you left these days.’ She let the coat slip off her shoulders. She was wearing a wonderfully soft polo neck jumper. It was a delicate shade of green, which, he noticed for the first time, exactly matched her eyes. It fitted her to perfection, following every curve of her body. He took the coat and hung it up on top of his old jacket. Returning to the table, he felt he was the luckiest man alive.

‘Good evening. Here’s the menu. Tonight’s specials are on the blackboard. Can I get you a drink?’ The waitress looked about fifteen. He glanced across the table and raised an eyebrow. She shook her head.

‘I’ll just have some wine with my meal, I think.’

‘Same for me. Can we see the wine list?’

After ordering food and drink they started to chat. At first, things were a little stilted, but as they settled down in each other’s company the atmosphere became more relaxed. He asked about her work.

‘I’m freelance. I do a regular two-page spread for one magazine, called From the Catwalk. The magazine provides the photos and I do a review of what’s new. Then I also do a few other articles here and there. Just about enough to keep me in chocolate Hobnobs and Sophie in dog biscuits.’

‘Buona sera, Tom.’ They both looked up. The chef had bought them out their starters himself. Tom leant back as a plate of whitebait was laid in front of him. Ros had opted for goat’s cheese salad. Both looked very appetising.

‘Buona sera, Nino? Come va?’ Tom gave him a broad smile.

‘Non c’e male. E tu?’ Ros watched and listened as the two men chatted in Italian together. She had always loved the sound of the language. After a few moments, the chef returned to more serious matters. ‘Su, su, mangiate. Qui verra freddo.’ He looked across at Ros. ‘Please do start. I mustn’t hold you up. The food needs to be eaten while it’s still hot.’ He bowed to Ros, patted Tom on the shoulder, and returned to the kitchen.

‘That didn’t sound like GCSE Italian.’ She gave him a smile.

‘Not really. I lived there for eight years. You can’t help picking it up if you’re there for that long.’

They started eating. His fish was excellent. He told her some of his experiences of life in Italy. ‘But you must have spent lots of your time in Italy as well, surely? Isn’t that the home of fashion?’

She looked up from a piece of toast. ‘There are a few French fashion houses that might debate that one. But, yes, I have spent quite a bit of time over there, but only working. I’ve always wanted a proper holiday in Italy. Maybe now that I’ve got a bit more time on my hands.’

The conversation became more animated. The food was delicious and he couldn’t have wanted for a better companion. He began to relax. Even when she asked about his current writing project he was able to sidestep it with ease.

‘So much of writing is research, as you well know. I am researching all sorts of things at the moment. I am trying to settle on the historical setting for my next book.’

‘Middle Ages once more?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll go for something more recent. I was wondering about the 1920s.’

‘Ah, the flappers and the Beautiful Young Things. The clothes from those years keep coming back into fashion over and over again.’

‘So what sort of clothes did they wear then? Say, in the period between the wars?’

‘You realise,’ she fixed him with serious eyes, ‘you are courting disaster here.’

He grunted, unsure where this was leading.

She smiled broadly as she explained. ‘Asking me about fashion is like asking you about the Cathars or the Knights Templar. Promise me you’ll give me a smack if I go on for more than a couple of hours.’

‘The night is young.’ He sat back and listened.

‘Well, the 1920s were the time when things changed drastically in the battle of the sexes. I’m not talking about Votes for Women or the Wall Street Crash: I don’t mean politically. It was during the 1920s that women started dressing to show off again. In the century before it was the men who wore frilly shirts, velvet breeches, gaudy waistcoats and so on. Victorian women were imprisoned in corsets and pretty universally dressed in dark colours. During the World War I lots of women wore trousers and more utilitarian clothing. In the 1920s it all changed. Imagine a male bullfinch with his glorious red plumage swapping feathers with his drab little wife, or a cockerel swapping with a dowdy hen.’

Her use of the word ‘breeches’ reminded him for a moment of the ‘breachers’, ripped off in one of the erotic stories he had been reading but he managed to stay focused.

‘Men started wearing the sort of boring grey or black suits we still see today, while women blossomed.’

She gave up on her Dover sole and set down her knife and fork. He had already finished eating. He topped up her wineglass, filling his own with water from the jug.

‘And the real revolution,’ she was grinning mischievously, ‘was in underwear. All sorts of new slinky fabrics were coming out at that time. Nylon wasn’t invented till a bit later, but they had stuff called rayon: far cheaper than silk and mass produced. It allowed women to get rid of the bulky old corsets and slip into sexy little numbers. Does the word “camiknickers” mean anything to you?’

He saw the waitress lurking in the background, ready to pounce on the plates, but he avoided her eye.

‘A whole new world. A whole new language.’

‘A camisole joined to a pair of knickers.’ He didn’t know what a camisole was, but he could make an educated guess. She went on. ‘And of course the 1920s were when women all wanted to be slim, flat-chested and androgynous.’

‘And what about ladies with, what I believe you refer to as, a fuller figure?’

‘Ah, that was where the Symington Side Lacer came in. I bet you’ve never heard of that before. An apparatus laced with a vicious series of strings and straps designed to crush your boobs into your chest and make them disappear.’

‘What a terrible shame.’

She caught his eyes as they involuntarily flicked back up from her bust to her face. He looked so guilty, she laughed out loud. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have needed a Symingtom Side Lacer.’

‘Nobody could possibly accuse you of being androgynous.’

‘Well, that was all the rage back then.’ She ignored the compliment. ‘I could go on to tell you about the invention of bras that separated the breasts for the first time, directoire knickers and any number of other innovations, but I sense I am getting too technical. Is that enough?’

It certainly was. His head was reeling. The 1920s certainly sounded interesting. Maybe the book really should be set at that time.

The waitress pounced. ‘Would you like to see the dessert board?’

He looked across at Ros. ‘Dessert?’

‘I couldn’t eat a thing. But don’t let me stop you.’

‘Coffee, tea?’

‘I’m fine, thanks. I haven’t eaten so much, or so well, for months.’

‘Just the bill please.’ The waitress walked off. He sat back in his chair. ‘You know, it has been a really wonderful evening. Will you allow me a personal question?’

She smiled back across the table.

‘How is it that a gorgeous woman like you – beautiful, intelligent, funny – hasn’t been snapped up long ago?’

She didn’t reply immediately. He watched her formulate her answer. ‘I seem to have been asked that a lot over the years. I suppose people think that a reasonably attractive woman only has to click her fingers and men come running.’

‘Well, don’t they?’

‘Some do, of course. But they aren’t very often the right type. Don’t forget that I worked very hard all the way through my twenties. I’ve slowed up a bit now but I’m still engulfed by the fashion industry. You don’t need to be a genius to know that most of the men in that profession are not the right type.’

‘Batting for the other team?’

‘Batting, bowling and keeping wicket. I rarely meet straight men.’

‘I don’t play cricket.’ He thought he had better get that out there. ‘No objection to the game, just don’t play it.’

‘I have already worked that out, Tom. And what about you? How come you have taken a year off? Is that a regular sabbatical thing you professors get?’

He had been dreading this moment, but he had promised himself he would tell her the truth. He took a deep breath.

‘My wife died two years ago.’ He saw her look up. ‘I’m afraid I sort of went to pieces after that. Last summer we all agreed that it would be better if I had a bit of time off.’ His eyes were firmly locked on the table.

She reached across and laid her hand on his. He looked up into her eyes.

‘What was it?’

‘Cancer,’ he replied miserably. ‘Breast cancer that spread.’

‘Oh, Tom, I am so very sorry. It’s such a horrendous thing.’ She gave him a gentle squeeze, before removing her hand. She excused herself and, while she was away, he paid the bill and got the coats. When she reappeared, he helped her into hers in silence. They headed out to the car. The roof and windscreen were white, but it hadn’t hardened into ice yet. A few sweeps of the wipers and a blast of warm air, and he could see clearly enough to drive.

‘That was a lovely treat. Thank you, Tom.’

He managed little more than a grunt in reply. His head was spinning with thoughts of his wife, memories of times together and the misery of her final weeks. As they reached the humpbacked bridge he managed to put some of his thoughts into words.

‘I’m sorry about this, Ros. I don’t mean to be antisocial. I’ve just found myself thinking about Diane … my wife. Do you know, this is the first time I have been out to dinner since her death?’ He felt the wheels slip a fraction on the icy surface but he was going slowly enough to keep control of the vehicle. ‘Whoops, a bit slippery back there. Of course I’ve been out to dinner quite a few times over the last couple of years, but this is the first time I’ve been alone with someone–’ he hesitated, searching for the right words ‘– with someone who means something to me. Sorry if that sounds a bit lame.’

‘Nothing to be sorry about.’ He could hear the warmth in her voice. ‘It must have been awful for you. I can imagine some of what is going through your head. Anyway, I’ve enjoyed this evening a lot. If you feel like repeating the experience you know how to contact me.’ They pulled up outside her cottage. ‘Take as long as you need. I’ll still be here. And it’s my treat next time.’

While he was still trying to decide whether to turn the engine off, get out of the car, accompany her to the door, kiss her goodnight and any number of other imponderables, she opened her door and jumped out.

‘Can you wait here a moment? I have something for you.’ She left him in the car and made her way up the path to her door. He hesitated a bit longer before deciding. He switched off the engine and climbed out in his turn.

He had only reached her garden gate when the spaniel came rushing out in great excitement. He was shielding his genitals when Ros appeared at the door.

‘Here, Tom. This is for you. I would value your opinion.’ She handed him a bag. It was evident that there was a book inside. ‘And thank you again for a very pleasant evening. I’ve enjoyed myself . Very much.’ She reached out, caught him by the arm and gave it a friendly squeeze. ‘Like I said, take your time. Goodnight.’

She and the dog turned and made for the warmth of the house. He returned to the car, the feel of her still on his arm. His mind was miles away. She waved from the doorway. He put the book on the front seat and switched on the engine. He raised his hand in a vague salute and headed for home.

He parked outside his house and climbed out. Remembering her book, he reached back in for it. It had slid out of the plastic bag. It was a hardback book. The interior light showed the title clearly: The Case of the Velvet Ball Gown. His befuddled brain was suddenly catapulted back to reality. Surely it couldn’t be …

‘Oh, no. Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger!’

Forgetting to lock the car, he walked up to his front door in a daze. He opened it. A cold wet nose was waiting for him. Absently, he reached down to scratch the dog’s ears.

‘Noah, old buddy, we are deep, deep, deep in the proverbial.’

The dog did not appear to realise the seriousness of the situation.

‘When she gets to London tomorrow and checks her mail, I’m screwed, Noah, totally screwed.’