Bookends

Chapter ten

‘It’s not bloody funny,’ I hiss down the phone at Si, who’s laughing hysterically at Lucy’s conniving. ‘And I can’t get this bloody paint out of my hair.’

‘I thought you just said you didn’t care what you looked like?’

‘I don’t, but I’d quite like to give the Big Bird impression a rest for a while.’

Si snorts again. ‘God, I never would have guessed it of Lucy. Amazing what she hides behind that innocent face of hers. So, what are you going to wear?’

‘The usual,’ I say, smiling, waiting for Si’s predictable reaction.

‘Oh Christ. Not bloody black again. At least try. Please? For me?’

‘All right, then,’ I mutter. ‘Brown. But for God’s sake, Si, I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up. I told you before, this isn’t a date.’

‘Not yet,’ he says, ‘but give it time.’

‘You and Lucy,’ I sigh. ‘You’re both as bad as each other.’

I’ve never heard of his road before, which is odd because I thought I knew West Hampstead pretty well by now.

‘It’s off Sherriff Road,’ he said earlier, writing down the address while Lucy practically exploded with pent-up excitement. ‘It looks a bit dodgy from the front, but the house is back to front, so follow the path round to the back and you’ll see the front door.’

I’ve come empty-handed, unsure about whether to bring wine, which of course is what I would always bring when visiting someone’s home in the evening, but perhaps wine would give a mistaken impression, would make him think that I might have had an ulterior motive, and I have no wish to embarrass myself.

I realize while trudging up the path that I haven’t eaten anything since the slab of strudel earlier, and although I very much doubt that food will play even the tiniest of roles this evening, I am praying that James will not keep me long, so I can grab something on the way back home.

He did once upon a time mention he would make me supper, but this is so impromptu that there’s no way he will be thinking of food. This is a business arrangement, pure and simple.

The back of the house is almost pitch black, but I can just about make out that almost the entire back wall is a huge arched window, and next to that is a front door. I stumble over a stone and feel around the door frame for a doorbell, but before I can find one the door opens and James is standing there grinning.

‘You found it.’

‘I found it.’ I find myself grinning back at him, noting that he is holding a corkscrew in one hand and immediately wishing that I had, in fact, brought a bottle of wine because suddenly it feels like the right thing to have done.

‘Come in, come in.’ James gestures inside, and I shuffle in, apologizing for coming empty-handed, explaining that I had meant to bring wine but…

‘Don’t be silly,’ he says. ‘I’ve got plenty of wine. What would you like? Red or white?’

I’m about to answer him, but, as I walk inside, I just stand there, open-mouthed, too dumbstruck to say anything, because out of all the scenarios I had imagined, this was definitely not one of them. This house was not what I would have imagined at all.

The room is enormous. Vast. At least double height, the entire ceiling is glass, and, although all you can see now is velvety blackness, it must be like the playground of the sun during the day.

It seems to be divided into three sections. The section closest to the door is obviously James’s studio. The white varnished floors are splattered with paint, and everywhere there are canvases propped up against the wall, some finished, some blank, waiting to be started. Pots of paint are dotted around, brushes, rags, the smell of turpentine.

‘Have a wander,’ James says gently, enjoying my amazement. ‘I don’t mind. Oh, and take your shoes off, it’s probably safer.’ I kick them off, noticing that James is wearing thick red socks.

I pick my way through the pots of paint, purposefully not looking at James’s paintings, wanting to save the best until last. I walk through the large opening into the second section, the open-plan kitchen, and through again to what is evidently the living room.

Sea-grass rugs cover the scrubbed floorboards, while huge white squashy sofas dominate the room. An old wooden chair sits at an angle by an enormous stone fireplace. It is, in short, spectacular. It looks like something out of a magazine, and I tell him this.

James manages to look embarrassed. ‘It has featured in a couple, actually,’ he admits. ‘But I wouldn’t do it again. I had to spend about a week tidying up before they’d come near it. Never again. Much too stressful.’

I laugh, as it dawns on me why this looks like a home. Why, despite the designer-type furnishings, it is a house in which I feel immediately comfortable. The mess. Piles of papers dotted around, just out of sight, but nevertheless there.

In the kitchen sink there is a pile of washing-up, waiting to be tackled, and on the kitchen table there are distinct rings left by coffee cups.

James notices me noticing. ‘God, I’m sorry,’ he sighs. ‘I’m just so bloody messy. I keep meaning to get my act together, but I’m just not naturally a tidy person. You’re horrified, aren’t you?’

I laugh. ‘You’ll be happy to hear you’re not half as disgusting as I am.’

‘Really?’ His face shows the beginnings of relief.

‘Really.’

James breaks into a grin. ‘Red okay?’ I nod, and he pours me a glass of wine as I wander back into his studio.

‘This place truly is incredible.’ I turn to him. ‘It’s the sort of home we all dream of living in but none of us could ever afford.’

‘The one perk of being an estate agent,’ he says with a smile. ‘Not only are the commissions extremely welcome, you also get to hear about things way before anyone else.’ He pulls out a chair for me in the kitchen and I sit down, wanting to hear more.

‘How did you find this, then?’

‘It was about four years ago,’ he says, taking a sip of the wine and murmuring with pleasure, his expression inviting me to do the same. ’It was one of those ridiculous situations where this had been on the market for ages and the owner was desperate.

‘He didn’t live here, he’d moved to the country years before, and this place was slowly falling down. Everyone knew about it, but nobody wanted to touch it. In fact, everyone knew about it by reputation. Somehow word got round that there were problems of some kind, and it just sat here slowly rotting.’

‘Until you came in and saved the day?’

‘Well, sort of,’ he grins. ‘I’d always been curious, but I’d heard all the negative stuff, and then one day I heard a couple of other agents talking about it and I decided to come along and have a look.’

‘And was it love at first sight?’

‘Yes and no. I couldn’t believe the building. The potential. But it was disgusting. There were rats here, rubbish that had been left for years. It had been lived in by squatters for a while, and you could hardly walk around for the smell.’ He gestures up at the gallery. ‘That was completely rotten, you couldn’t even walk up the stairs to see what was there.’

‘But you took a chance.’

‘I’d never seen somewhere with such enormous potential in my life.’

‘And did you get it for a knock-down price?’

‘Yup.’ He grins. ‘And a week after I exchanged I was offered double for it.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘Nope. That’s property for you. As soon as one person’s interested, everyone wants it.’

‘But double the price? Weren’t you tempted?’

‘Are you kidding? This was my dream home. And now I love it. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Do you want the guided tour?’

‘You mean there’s more?’ And as I say this I suddenly blush slightly because I realize I haven’t seen any bedrooms, and there is something uncomfortably intimate about going into a strange man’s bedroom, and what else could there be left to show me?

James stands up and walks to the arched window, flicking a switch to the left. Suddenly the outside lights up, and he opens two double doors hidden in the window, and we walk outside.

And I realize that the pitch blackness outside through which I stumbled to get here is in fact a huge garden, not particularly well tended, but breathtaking by the sheer fact of its size.

‘Bit of a mess, but at least I get to grow my own tomatoes.’

‘You are joking?’ I start to laugh.

‘No, I’m serious.’ He points to a patch at the back where I can just about make out large black shapes that are evidently tomato plants. ‘What else would you expect from a farmer’s son?’

We go back indoors, James pours me another glass of wine – I didn’t realize I’d finished the last quite so quickly – and makes me laugh with stories of drunken rides on tractors and escaping the clutches of braying horsy women at Young Farmers events, saying how moving to London when he was twenty-one felt much like winning the lottery.

‘So where’s your yokel accent, then?’ I ask, after a while.

‘You mean my Worzel Gummidge accent?’ he says, doing a perfect impression as I splutter out my wine with laughter. ‘I haven’t spoken like that since my first day in London,’ he laughs. ‘It took about five minutes to realize that I didn’t have a hope in hell of surviving here unless I changed the accent.’

‘Did you really speak like that?’ I’m amazed.

He raises an eyebrow and grins, pushing his hair out of his eyes. ‘You’ll never know now, will you?’

‘Come and see the rest of the house,’ he says, and I follow him upstairs, where he proudly shows me two bedrooms and a bathroom, and I manage to control any lascivious thoughts that may or may not have been lurking somewhere in the depths of my mind.

And then it’s back downstairs to sit in the kitchen, still chattering away.

‘Look, I don’t know about you,’ James says after a while, ‘but I’m starving. Are you hungry?’

I nod, although to be honest by this time it’s a reflex answer, because the hunger seems to have disappeared completely, and I really couldn’t care whether we eat or not.

‘You saw me in the corner shop, so you know that my fridge is not exactly the most well stocked in the world. Would you mind getting takeout?’

‘Whatever you want,’ I say. ‘I really don’t mind.’

‘Curry?’

‘Great.’

James picks up a sheaf of papers from the kitchen counter and starts leafing through them. I stand up to see what they are, and laugh out loud when I realize that all of them are leaflets for Indian, Chinese, Thai and Pizza.

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ I admonish playfully. ‘Thirty-six years old and you can’t cook?’

‘It’s not that I can’t,’ James says seriously. ‘It’s that I won’t. Actually, to be completely honest, I absolutely adore cooking for other people.’

I raise an eyebrow in doubt.

‘No, seriously. There’s nothing I love more than having my closest friends round and cooking for them, it’s just that when it’s only for me I really can’t be bothered.’

‘Mmm. I know what you mean.’ I think of my own empty fridge.

‘Okay,’ he says triumphantly. ‘Found it. What do you fancy?’ He brings the leaflet over and stands behind me, looking over my shoulder as I read.

‘What are you having?’

‘Maybe a vindaloo. You?’

‘Chicken korma, I think.’

‘Okay. Plain rice?’

I nod as he picks up the phone.

‘Hello,’ he says, ‘It’s Mr Painting here.’ I stifle a laugh as he shrugs his shoulders in resignation at the name they’ve evidently given him. ‘I’d like to order a delivery. No, no. Not the usual. We’ll have a chicken korma…’

I watch him with a smile, because he’s the most un-estate agenty estate agent I’ve ever met. Not that I’ve met a lot, but James is so normal. So nice. And it’s been so long since I’ve met someone new with whom I immediately bond. And although it might be a little early to jump to conclusions, I would say that James is exactly the sort of new friend I’ve been looking for.

It’s not just that he seems to fit in with me, I think, as I watch him put the plates in the oven to warm them up. It’s that I could also see him fitting in with my friends. I mean, I know that Lucy already adores him, and I could see Si adoring him too. All in all, I would say he’d make an extremely welcome new addition to our cosy little gang.

‘Onion bhaji?’ He looks at me for approval and I shrug my shoulders. ‘A nan and a peshwari nan. Oh, and vegetables. Maybe a sag aloo?’ I throw caution to the winds and just nod, slightly bewildered at the amount he’s ordering, but he must be a man with a big appetite.

Oh, and by the way. Just in case you’re wondering, I do mean all of the aforementioned – all of that stuff about James fitting in – platonically. Okay?

‘I’ve got a stomach ache,’ I groan, sliding down the sofa until my head is practically on the seat, undoing the button on my waistband and rubbing my stomach to try to ease the pain of over-stuffing.

‘Oh God, me too,’ says James, grinning at me.

‘I know this is a bit weird,’ I say, downing the last glass of our second bottle of wine, ‘especially because I hardly know you, but it is a bit weird that I feel comfortable enough to make a complete pig of myself in front of you.’

‘That is weird,’ James says. ‘Does that mean that if you didn’t feel comfortable with me you would only have eaten six grains of rice and a thimbleful of chicken korma?’

‘Quite probably,’ I say sternly, realizing that I have had an awful lot to drink, and that unless I sit up straight I’m quite liable to fall asleep in this position. Then I remember with horror that this is supposed to be a business evening.

‘Oh God.’ I manage to force myself upright. ‘We’ve been having far too much fun. I’m supposed to be here on business.’

‘Are you?’ James looks completely bemused, which isn’t surprising, bearing in mind he’s matched me mouthful for mouthful. ‘What kind of business?’

‘I’m supposed to be looking at your paintings.’ I stand up, in my best impression of an imperious gallery owner. ‘In fact, as you already know, Lucy and I are considering giving you the opportunity to exhibit your work in our super-duper fab and trendy new gallery café/bookshop type thing. And I’ – I pause dramatically – ‘am here to do the dirty deed and decide whether to give you a chance.’

‘Right-oh,’ James says, trooping into the studio bit, as I stumble in after him. ‘Let’s see what you think, then.’

One by one he starts gently pulling canvases out, laying them against walls, standing back to look at them, and as he pulls them out my heart starts beating faster and faster.

‘James,’ I say finally, when there are nearly twenty paintings displayed in front of me. ‘I’m not an expert, but what the fuck are you doing working as an estate agent?’

James turns to look at me in confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘No. What are you talking about? These are incredible. They are the most beautiful, subtle, inspiring paintings I’ve seen for years. And I don’t even know what I’m talking about.’

James looks embarrassed. ‘Does that mean you like them?’

I start to laugh. ‘Jesus Christ, James. I love them. In fact, to quote Woody Allen, I don’t just love them, I lurrrve them. I loooove them. We’ll take ’em.’

‘Are you serious?’

I ignore the fact that I’ve just done exactly what Lucy did earlier and have taken a decision without consulting Lucy. But what the hell.

‘More serious,’ I say, ‘than I’ve ever been in my life.’ Unfortunately I ruin that last statement somewhat by hiccuping at the end of it, but nevertheless the sentiment remains the same.

‘James,’ I say, extending my right hand, ‘it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’

‘And where the hell have you been until this time on a Sunday night?’

‘Having sex.’ I keep a straight face for a while but the silence becomes too much for me and I collapse with amusement at my little joke.

‘That’s not your line, that’s my line. I hope you’re joking.’

‘Why? What would be so terrible if I wasn’t?’

‘It wouldn’t be terrible, as it happens,’ Si muses. ‘It would be pretty bloody cataclysmic, that’s all. Headline-making stuff, as it happens. Big Bird Bonks Again.’

‘Si! That’s not nice. Anyway. No bonking. I’ve been with James.’ I slur ever so slightly, but enough for Si to pick up on.

‘James? James who? Oh my God! I’ve been so wrapped up in myself I completely forgot.’ Si plays the innocent as I laugh, knowing that he’ll have been sitting by his phone for hours, waiting for me to call him back, to give him the full report on my evening.

‘But more to the point,’ he continues, ‘you, Catherine Warner, are drunk as a skunk, aren’t you? Aren’t you?’

‘Shut up, Mum,’ I intone in my best truculent teenager impression. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘Good God. Wonders will never cease. You don’t mean to tell me, Cath, that you’ve been out having a good time? With a man, no less? Until…’ He pauses, presumably to look at his watch. ‘Quarter to midnight?’

‘Yup, yup and yup.’

‘So tell me about James, then, sweets. Is he delicious?’ He smacks his lips together wickedly. ‘Did you eat him up.’

‘Whatever that means, Si,’ I laugh, ‘no. He’s just a nice guy. A new friend. A new addition to the family.’

‘We can’t have any new additions until I’ve vetted them,’ Si grumbles. ‘Which means that I’ll have to meet him pretty soon. So how was the evening from heaven with James the hunky estate agent who’s got a crush on you? Was it heavenly?’

‘Someone’s been talking to Lucy a bit too much these days. He’s not hunky and neither does he have a crush on me. He’s just nice. And a fantastic artist.’

‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much…’

‘Si!’ I stop him.

‘Anway, you can’t blame me for talking to Lucy too much these days. You’re never around.’

I can’t tell him that I’m still trying to avoid the Will issue, but perhaps now that drink has loosened my tongue, perhaps I can be honest with Si, tell him what I’ve heard, warn him to be careful.

‘Si, I did speak to Alison Bailey.’

‘You cow! I knew you had. When? I bet you spoke to her weeks ago, didn’t you?’

‘No,’ I lie expertly, knowing that the truth would send him into a fury. ‘Actually she phoned me back this morning.’

‘So what’s the story with William the Conqueror?’

‘Well, he doesn’t seem to conquer people’s hearts. Their hatred, more like.’

There’s a shocked silence and I know I’ve pushed it too far.

‘Joke, Si.’

‘Was it?’

‘Of course,’ I sigh. ‘But she did say he’s…’ I pause, trying to think of a way to put the message across, yet couch it in terms that aren’t too bitchy, ‘he’s got a side.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I think she meant he’s a bit two-faced. She just said be careful, that’s all.’

‘Oh God,’ Si mutters. ‘First you hate him, now I’m told to be careful. Why is it that Will’s the first man I’ve met in ages whom I’ve really liked, and everyone hates him?’

‘Sod’s law, I suppose.’

‘Ha! Got you. Everyone does hate him, don’t they?’

‘Oh, Si, I’m sorry. I just think you can do so much better.’

‘Well, if I can do so much better, how come I’m not doing so much better?’

‘I don’t know, my darling. I do know that I’d go out with you in a flash. If I were a bloke, that is.’

‘Why? Why would you go out with me in a flash?’ I know instantly that Si’s in one of his miserable moods, feeling sorry for himself, sitting, as it were, on the pity pot. And I also know that most of the time I pull him up sharply, but tonight he needs to have his ego stroked. Just for a short time.

‘Because you’re handsome. And funny. And you’re the second-greatest cook I know.’

‘Is Lucy the greatest?’

‘Yup.’

‘Well, that’s okay, then.’

There’s a silence.

‘You haven’t finished,’ Si says.

‘Oh?’ I smile affectionately. ‘Haven’t I?’

‘No. You’ve forgotten about me being kind, and sensitive, and individual, and hating Barbra Streisand.’

‘You hate Barbra Streisand?’ I’m shocked.

‘Well, no. But I can’t stand being such a cliché.’

‘Oh, Si. I do love you. Even though you are a pain.’

‘I love you too, Cath. So tell me more about James. Is he a boxer shorts or briefs kind of guy? Or,’ and he pauses, ‘heaven forbid, a Y-front man?’

‘Not heaven forbid if they’re Calvin Klein,’ I state seriously. ‘You have taught me well, Si.’

‘True,’ he muses. ‘Calvins will always pass. So which is he?’

‘I think probably a boxer shorts kind of guy.’

‘You think? You think? You mean you didn’t find out?’

‘Forgive me. Next time I go to his house I promise I’ll rifle through his underwear drawers.’

‘Next time you go to his house I expect you to strip him personally. So what’s his house like anyway?’

‘Oh, Si.’ I snuggle down under the duvet and get ready for a long gossip. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. You would have loved it.’ And off I go.