Found (11 page)

I check myself one last time in the full-length mirror, even though only my upper body will be seen on camera once I’m in position. I could be wearing just my knickers for all my audience knows!

I’m not though. I’m in grey skinny jeans, a soft, baby-pink short-sleeved t-shirt and the faux granite-and-white marble bunting necklace that I picked up off Etsy – it’s my favourite necklace to wear at the moment. This is my favourite
outfit
to wear at the moment.

My hair is blow-dried, but not with too much oomph, and my make-up is natural – neutral eye shadow, peach blusher and a quick flick of mascara, just so that I don’t look washed out on camera.

I’m holed up in my parents’ bedroom which, OK, isn’t my sort of decor, but it makes a good backdrop for my video and the sound works well in here. I had originally tried filming in my old bedroom but it sounded too tinny on the test clip.

I check over my appearance again – still OK – and switch on the video camera. I’ll edit out me walking away from the camera and getting into position at Mum’s dressing table. It’s vintage and off-white in colour with a huge, ornate oval mirror and plenty of cute stacked drawers for all of Mum’s lotions and potions. I’ve cleared most of her products out of the way. Instead, I have my handbag and make-up bag on the dresser – both carefully arranged for the shot.

After I got home from the pub I spoke with Mum and Dad about Felicity’s will. Mum promised to look into the gallery for me, but only if I promised to do something on the fashion side. Last night I went through Twitter, answering questions the best I could – questions like when the next pop-up will be.

When I put out a quick blog post and tweet explaining my recent absence, as well as receiving a lot of sympathy, a lot of people asked me about my travelling style. This is why I’m about to record this quick vlog sharing what sorts of products I use on a long-haul flight. It feels a bit silly and superficial to be doing this, but those are the sorts of articles I love reading in magazines when they are genuine articles and not articles appeasing the skincare and fashion brands that have bought ads in the magazine that month.

All this sort of fits in with the wider plans that I outlined to Tabitha, and I’m hoping that this content all helps me, somehow, when I am in a position to run another pop-up or launch Frocks and Socks. Plus, it gives me something to do. I could quite easily drift into an extended holiday lifestyle when I get back to New York and I still very much want to prove to Piers that I am a wife he can be proud of. We’ll have a lot to organise wedding-wise, but I realise now I can’t keep ignoring my brand. I owe it to Flick, and also to myself.

I fly back to New York this afternoon, a worry because of what happened last time I was in the air. If I could avoid getting on the plane, I really would, which is silly because I desperately want to get back to Piers. One of his colleagues is helping him move today, which is great, except I suspect work talk will crop up.

I’m not a fan of the financial world but you don’t need a degree in economics to understand the implications of banks collapsing and businesses going bankrupt in the States. If Piers hadn’t been forced to slow down and rest, I know from past experience that he would be run off his feet at the office. This happened last year – around the time we broke up – but instead of supporting him, I behaved awfully. All I thought about was myself – my next new outfit, my next holiday – and I didn’t think about the pressure Piers was under to pay for my comfortable lifestyle.

Pulling myself back from that painful memory I shoot a quick video in one take. I’m not recording a TV show, so who cares if I sneeze halfway through it? I’m back in my bedroom, uploading it to YouTube, when Mum calls up the stairs: ‘Arielle! You’ve got a visitor.’

‘Two seconds,’ I shout back. I really want to get this uploaded and it will only be Obélix. He’s perfectly capable of making himself at home or coming up to find me.

Two seconds turn into ten minutes as I get caught up responding to tweets and blog comments. A knock on my open bedroom door and a strange voice finally pulls me away from the screen.

‘I thought I’d come up. I don’t have long.’

Definitely not Obélix.

‘Oh, hello!’ I say with a start, turning around. I catch myself in the mirror and notice I’m blushing. ‘I didn’t realise it was you, Matt. I’m so sorry. I thought it was Ob.’

He looks amused.

‘Obélix is my best friend,’ I explain.

He looks even more amused.

‘It’s a weird name, I know, but it’s what we’ve always called him.’

It’s odd that his amused silences make me warm to Matt more than any conversation I’ve ever had with Etta. He has a presence. OK, so does Etta if I recall her performance at Ronnie Scott’s, but the difference between the two siblings is that Matt is naturally charismatic – Etta is only that way when she chooses to be. 

‘I’m rambling,’ I apologise. ‘How can I help you? Is Etta downstairs?’

I feel as nervous as I would have felt ten years ago if this was Noah Penrose in my bedroom, the two-timing boy next door, and I fiddle with my engagement ring. I’m really jittery at the moment – all over the place – but I think it stems from my apprehension about flying.

‘Etta went back to London this morning, but I decided to stay another day. I hope you don’t mind me stopping by. I don’t have your number, and I wanted to talk to you.’

‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I say brightly. I don’t mind at all now I know that Etta isn’t here, but I do wonder why he didn’t just ask her for my number.

‘Can I sit down?’

Matt points to the bed where Atlas is regarding him with his cool kitty eyes, and I blush even more at that. What is with me today? I’m acting like a hormonal teenager. The man just wants to sit down and, given that I’m spread out in the window seat, he either sits on the bed or he sits on the floor.

‘Let’s go downstairs,’ I suggest standing up and feeling very grateful that I did get dressed for my video. ‘I’m sure Mum will have made some tea.’

‘Sure,’ he says easily as I close my laptop and put it down on the bed. Atlas pounces on it like it’s a new toy.

Matt follows me downstairs to my parents’ sitting room.

As I suspect, a few minutes later Mum brings through her bright flowery teapot, two teacups on saucers and a plate of homemade melting moments. I had a real hankering for some when I got home from the pub last night, and she’s amazingly obliged.

‘What are these?’ Matt asks, spitting out crumbs. He’s got quite a neutral London accent, though there are certain words of his that sound slightly Cockney. I get the impression that yesterday and today he is using his “Flick” voice, rather than the voice he’d use around his mates.

‘You’ve never had melting moments?’ I ask, amazed. ‘They’re just oat biscuits, though some weirdoes use coconut. Mum wouldn’t dream of doing that to me though.’

He smiles politely, but I don’t think he’s a fan. He doesn’t reach for a second biscuit – unlike me.

‘What were you doing upstairs?’ he asks. ‘It looked interesting.’

‘Oh!’

I quickly explain about the pop-up and give him a brief outline of the online promotion I did for it...
then
I remember that he knows all about the pop-up. Of course he does. He’s Felicity’s... actually, I have no idea if Matt is also Felicity’s godchild, but she clearly was like a relative to him. Still, he politely listens to my ramblings about something he already knows about – Etta would have cut me down after my first sentence with a scathing comment.

‘What is it that you do?’ I ask, and then immediately feel like an utter snob.

He probably thinks I’m going to define him by his career, which I wouldn’t do, especially since I don’t really have a career. All I have is a bit of a fashion reputation, a shop once the market is rebuilt, and ownership of an art gallery that I have no clue about. Oh, and just over five thousand Twitter followers.

‘I work at Billingsgate.’

‘That’s one of the markets, right? I only know Portobello.’

‘That’s not a market,’ Matt laughs, but it’s a kind chuckle.

‘It sort of is,’ I defend, flushing again.

He laughs. ‘Billingsgate is the fish market. Now, that’s a market,’ he teases, ‘so let me know if you ever want any eels.’

I feel sick at the thought. ‘Gross,’ I mutter.

‘Whelks?’

‘Irgh, I’ll be sick if you continue.’

I didn’t realise until now how upset my tummy has been feeling all morning. Those biscuits now feel like lead in my stomach. If I never saw another melting moment biscuit again in my life, I could cope with that.

Matt gets out his phone. ‘How about this one?’

He shows me a picture of the ugliest fish I have ever seen, and now I feel more than just queasy. The fish is a dark-grey colour with a squished-up face and what look like thin tentacles coming out of its body. For someone who is not a fan of the sea, let alone the creatures who live in it, that picture is like kryptonite to me. 

‘Excuse me,’ I say as I feel bile rising in my throat, and I quickly dash through to the downstairs loo.

‘Sorry about that,’ I say when I return to the sitting room a few minutes later. I’m so embarrassed. Matt is still sitting in my parents’ ridiculous Compton leather armchair, which is where Piers usually sits, and I have a moment of panic thinking about Piers’ stress levels and whether he’s strong enough to move from the hotel to the apartment today. ‘I must have a bug,’ I explain, pushing down my worry about Piers. ‘Not what I need when I’m flying this aft.’

‘Are you OK?’

I shake my hand dismissively in the air; I don’t want to talk about being sick because I’ll be sick again.

‘Is Etta planning to sell the house when she can?’ I ask politely. I still don’t know why Matt is here, and I want to check if my video has uploaded and finish off my promo work before I go to the airport. I only have an hour.

‘No, but she’ll rent it out until she can bring herself to live there. Etta is a complicated creature.’

‘I think I worked that one out myself,’ I tease, and he laughs.

Eek, I hope he doesn’t think I’m flirting with him. I’m not, even if he is super attractive and very easy to talk to. Why couldn’t Felicity have made Matt and I business partners? I could have coped with that a lot easier than Etta. Etta and I will try and get along the best we can, but I’m not naive enough to think that the next three years are going to be pleasant. It’s going to be a very hard slog.

He stares at me like he’s weighing me up. ‘Look, go easy on her,’ he finally says. ‘That’s what I came here to say.’

I think Matt is confusing me with Etta – Etta is the one who always has a cruel word to say to me whenever our paths cross. I can still vividly recall her vile screeches at me the day I found out that Piers was having his operation and, yes, I know we’ve cleared the air but I suspect that whilst I’ll try to be pleasant to her, she may forget to be nice back – especially if she’s using again. I’m uncertain as to whether I should ask Matt about that; would he think I was overstepping the mark if I did?

‘She’s not as tough as she looks,’ Matt points out. ‘She can be a bitch, sure, but she’s not had what you had. After Mum and Rosie died, and with what happened...’ He falters slightly. ‘Look, I’ve taken up too much of your time. All I meant to say is it would help Etta to have someone like you in her corner, now that Felicity has gone. Be patient with her, and be as kind as you can. Felicity always said that to me about people who I thought didn’t like me: kill them with kindness. I know she’d want me to tell you that too given the circumstances.’

He stands up and puts his teacup on the coffee table as I try to process his words.

‘I’ll see myself out, but have a safe flight and feel better soon.’

He leaves before I can work out what he’s trying to say without actually saying it. All I know is that it was a very odd conversation, and that’s saying a lot since I’ve had many an odd conversation with Felicity Farrell in my time.

‘Pony!’

I throw myself into Piers’ arms and squeeze him gently. I know I’ve only been away a few days, but I’ve missed him so much. I have hated the idea of him being alone in New York. I know I had to go back for the funeral, but I’m home now because home is alongside Piers.
Always
.

‘Ummmm, the bag?’ he says with a grin, and I feel a little tug in my tummy at the sight of my soon-to-be husband. He’s not shaved in my absence and his beard is making him look very rugged and delicious. It’s a look he should go for more often.

‘Oops!’

I step back from Piers and see that he’s right. The bag containing his wedding suit is crumpled from me hugging him.

‘Is that your dress in there?’ He has a mischievous smirk on his face as he reaches for the zip.

‘I’ll go and hang that up,’ I say as I bat his hand away, ‘but, no. It’s your wedding suit. They’re still finishing off my dress.’

‘Brave!’

‘It was either that or delay coming back to you,’ I call as I walk past him into the apartment. I put the suit bag down, for now, on a sofa that I spy. ‘It will be fine though. Mum and Dad will bring it across.’

I cross my fingers as I walk back over to him and spot the doorman looking expectant in the doorway. Ah yes, I’d forgotten he was following me up.

‘Where would you like your things, Miss Lockley?’ he asks as I catch his eye. Piers turns around and an amused expression spreads across his face when he clocks the large suitcases that have appeared outside our front door. OK, I may have brought too much, but packing for a few months, when that includes a wedding and a honeymoon, was quite challenging.

‘There is perfect,’ I nod. ‘Thanks so much.’

A few minutes later we have a large pile of luggage in the hallway, we’ve tipped the doorman, and I’m exploring our new home like a delighted child.

We’re been moved into a pre-war townhouse in Gramercy Park, which is around the corner from the hotel, though I do wish we could have stayed in the hotel for the rest of our stay. We’re in one of four apartments in this building, which means the others must be a lot bigger than ours. The kitchen is tiny – I didn’t know kitchens could be this small – but I like the exposed red brickwork that runs along one wall and how it contrasts with the light-coloured parquet wooden floor.

It looks like there will be a lot of light in the living room in the daytime judging from the floor to ceiling windows, though I’m not so keen that it doubles up as a dining room since you couldn’t squash a table and chairs into the kitchen.

The second bedroom is less of a bedroom and more of a study – I notice Piers has already set up his laptop in there; he’d better not have been working – though we have a decent-sized master bedroom and bathroom. It’s nice, but I definitely prefer the hotel.

‘Guess how much?’

‘Free.’ I stick my tongue out at him as we collapse on the sofa now the tour is over. I’d hung up his suit bag in the wardrobe during the tour.

‘OK,’ he concedes. ‘That’s true because the insurance is paying for this, but how much do you think this would cost if we were renting it.’

‘I have no idea,’ I admit because I’m clueless when it comes to property prices. All I know is that in London if I was working in financial PR, I certainly wouldn’t be able to afford to own a Chelsea townhouse, ever, and I’d probably struggle to even rent a bedroom unless I only wanted to spend my wages on rent, food and Tube fares. London, huh?

‘I’d need the same amount of money that I paid for our home in London.’

I’m flabbergasted. This place is
tiny
in comparison, and I know where I’d rather live. Sure, New York is New York, but that is a
crazy
amount of money for an apartment. We have a four-bedroom Georgian townhouse with two bathrooms, a massive kitchen and a yard in London. There’s no comparison. I appreciate that Piers bought it before the property boom, but, still...

‘If we want to buy in New York,’ he adds, almost conversationally, ‘we should do so in the next few months.’

I gape at Piers. ‘Are you mad?’ I ask.

Has he knocked his head? Who has that sort of money to drop on a small apartment that we’d maybe use two or three times a year? Though, that’s not the point. The point is that for Piers to have had that sort of market tip he has most definitely been talking shop and not having a clean break from work as ordered by Doctor Teddy. He’s supposed to be recovering.

‘Property prices are going to plummet,’ he shares, ‘and then they’ll boom again. Tony told me. It’s a good time to buy over here, if we want to, and definitely a good time to start thinking about where we’ll live next in London.’

‘That was a work-gleaned titbit?’ I pointedly ask. See, I knew he couldn’t refrain from bringing up the markets, even if the property market isn’t strictly work-related for Piers.

‘It is,’ Piers admits, ‘but it’s been a long time coming. This is what I’ve been working on for the past six months. You see–’

I lean over and kiss him wildly on the mouth to shut him up.

‘What–’

I kiss him again.

‘No work talk,’ I sternly say when we break apart, though we both have smiles on our faces. ‘God, I’ve missed you.’

‘I’ve missed you too, Pony,’ Piers says. ‘So, what do you think? Do we want to buy?’

I pull him a look. ‘Don’t be silly. We can stay in hotels when we come to New York. Why do we need an apartment?’

What has gotten into him?

‘It’s a–’

‘How about we have a catch-up in the bedroom?’ I silkily interrupt as I leap up and grab him by the hand. ‘I don’t think you showed me the bed properly.’

Later over a midnight snack of takeaway pizza – I spent most of our time in the bedroom napping because Piers is still recovering and I’m shattered – we talk about Felicity, her will, and our future. Piers should be asleep but he insisted on getting up to help me eat my pizza. We won’t tell Doctor Teddy. This time.

‘An art gallery, huh? You should call that woman,’ he says with a chuckle as he eats his slice. The pizza is loaded with red onions, garlicky fennel sausage and gooey Romano cheese – it’s delicious.

I’ve been craving it since I got on the plane – wanting that liquorice-garlic taste to delightfully hit the back of my mouth – and I’ve already guzzled down two slices. I’m regretting ordering a small, though a small pizza here is like a large one back home.

‘The one I swore at on the phone,’ he reminds me as I pull a puzzled face at him, my mouth too busy chomping to answer. ‘When they wanted you to work at the weekend. Get her to find you someone to run the place.’

It takes me a second to recall what he means.

‘Oh, her!’ I laugh, then curl up my lip in mock disgust.

Back when I first moved in with Piers and had recovered from my broken ankle, I had a temporary job at an art gallery. The hours were long but I had quite enjoyed it – until I got an early Saturday morning phone call asking me where I was. I’d already worked between half-past nine and eight in the evening five days running so, understandably, I didn’t really fancy working on Saturday, too. That was the one and only job I had in London.

‘What was her name?’ I mutter as I reach for another slice of pizza. It tastes so good! ‘Sophie, was it?’

‘Sabine?’

‘Sabrina!’ I shout out through a mouthful of pizza. ‘She was awful,’ I admit as I swallow my pizza and reach for my glass of water.

‘Just think if it’s the same place.’

‘Can you imagine? What would be the chances of that?’ I chuckle as I take a drink and then reach for another slice.

‘Crazier things have happened,’ Piers dryly remarks, ‘and, slow down! You’re giving me heartburn watching you devour that. I don’t think you’ve paused to breathe.’

I think back. ‘True, though that was near the park. I remember passing The Ritz when I got off the Tube. Felicity’s gallery is more towards Nobu, in one of the squares. Oh, and this pizza is too good to slow down.’ I reach for another slice; I can’t get enough of it. ‘I’ve been lusting after some garlicky fennel sausage since I got on the plane. Not fish though,’ I add with a shudder. ‘I never want to eat fish again.’

I had a whiff of someone’s cod in white sauce airline meal and wanted to hurl, especially when I remembered the hideous fish Matt showed me on his phone – more of a monster than a fish, if you ask me. It put me off my beef bourguignon.

‘
Your
gallery,’ Piers corrects. ‘And that’s just odd. I know you have your sea phobia, but to never want to eat crab or lobster again is a big statement.’

‘Crab and lobster are different,’ I protest, ‘and it’s Etta’s gallery, too. I can’t believe she made us partners.’

I put my plate down on the coffee table, finally satisfied by my pizza intake, and I swivel my legs so they are resting on Piers’ body.

‘Actually I can,’ I continue. ‘Bloody Felicity Farrell,’ I mutter, though I don’t really mean that.

My one regret is not asking her more about her life when I had the chance. I know bits that I’ve heard from her – her time teaching at Serafina’s after the Second World War, turning down marriage proposals and being a hippy in San Francisco – but those stories were always on Felicity’s terms. She told me snippets, gave me glimpses into her life, but she never revealed who she really was.

Why didn’t she ever marry and have children? From what I’ve seen of her relationship with Etta and how she helped out Etta’s mother, and from my own relationship with her, I can’t believe she never wanted children. She would have made a fantastic mother. Was she unable to, or did she choose not to? Whatever her reason it’s a great loss that Felicity won’t live on in that way, though Matt’s cryptic goodbye to me was very Felicity in style. She’ll live on through us, I realise. We’ve all developed some of her quirky ways.

‘Pony?’

‘Sorry,’ I sniffle, wiping away the tears from my cheeks. I still can’t believe she’s gone, but I should be accepting this.

‘Don’t be sorry,’ Piers says softly, stroking my leg. ‘It’s the first death you’ve known, and Felicity was special to you. Of course you’re going to be upset. It will get easier, I promise.’

‘Do you think about your parents a lot?’ I ask bluntly. I never met Piers’ parents, and I usually let him bring them up – he rarely does.

‘Sometimes,’ he admits, ‘and more recently than I have in a long time.’

I study him. He looks upset; that was the last thing I wanted to happen. This was supposed to be us catching up, reconnecting, not going down a sad memory lane.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask as I wipe my nose and yawn. Suddenly I’m knackered. I’m so up and down of late – going from one extreme to the other.

He stares at me intently with those big brown eyes that I have loved from the moment I first met him. ‘With you back by my side I am more than OK, Mrs soon-to-be-Bramley. Are you OK though?’ He asks this in a strange way.

‘Yes,’ I say slowly, yawning again. My jet lag is usually fine flying from East to West, but I feel like I’ve been hit by a ton of bricks.

‘You seem a little–’

I turn my body so I’m snuggled into Piers’ body. ‘I love you,’ I interrupt, ‘and I seem a little what?’

He strokes my hair. ‘I love you, too,’ he says, ‘but you’re going to have to get up and walk through to the bedroom if you want to sleep. I can’t carry you through in my condition.’

He doesn’t expand on his observation.