The Next Best Thing (20 page)

That’s one thing Lydia won’t be getting as part of the marriage package,’ he said. ‘An interesting and imaginative lover. Beyond all price, wouldn’t you say,
Jane?’ He smiled a rakish, crooked smile at her, the kind of smile that she’d fallen in love with, but now she felt a chill in her heart. Was she destined to only ever sleep with this
man for the rest of her life? Would she grow old and grey by his side, and never know the thrill of someone new? Married or not, that was what loyalty demanded. She turned her back on him and went
to sleep, thinking of Rupert and reliving their stolen kisses at his engagement party.

He was there first, as she knew he would be. He was waiting downstairs, by the door, and touched her on the shoulder as she came in.

She turned to him and he wrapped his arms around her, bulky in his heavy overcoat. ‘You came, thank goodness,’ he murmured into her hair.

‘Of course,’ she said, detaching herself gently from his embrace, ‘I promised, didn’t I?’

‘You did.’

He smiled in relief. The fear that had been plaguing him for the past week, that she wouldn’t show up, that she would say there was no point, had evaporated, leaving him light-headed and
full of plans.

‘I thought we might skip the film,’ he said. ‘As we haven’t got very long, I thought we should go somewhere we can talk. There’s something I want to show you at the
V&A, a tiny pair of Chinese shoes, from when they used to bind their feet. It’s only a five minute walk from here.’

‘Fine,’ said Jane, catching his enthusiasm, ‘whatever you want.’

He opened the door for her, and they stepped out into the cold, like two children excited at the prospect of an outing. The pavement was still sparkling with the morning frost, and the shop
windows were filled with tinsel and Santa Claus, angels and the occasional Christ child.

Walking into the Victoria and Albert Museum was like stepping into an Aladdin’s cave of possibility. An enormous green and blue glass chandelier hung like a giant bauble in the middle of
the cavernous entrance hall, a modern head of Medusa bristling with snaky twists of glass. Off one side, there was a room of marble statues, cool and light and empty. Far busier, on the other side,
the shop was packed with people thinking of Christmas, stuffing glittery tree decorations, miniature gothic treasure chests, Victorian jigsaw puzzles into wire baskets.

Museums were so much more satisfying now you could take a bit of them home with you.

Rupert put his arm around Jane’s shoulders, directing her straight ahead, on to the Chinese rooms. He then took her hand and led her to the glass cabinet where a pair of blue satin shoes
were on display, the size of a baby’s foot, but once worn by a woman. They stared at them, compared them to another purple pair above, talked about the pain the children must have felt,
having their toes broken and folded back beneath their feet, then bound with tight bandages. They moved on to the next cabinet to see richly embroidered robes from the Qing dynasty, alive with
flowers and birds, then back to the eighteenth century, a folding ivory fun and a cabinet laquered with a different landscape on each drawer. Everywhere were scenes of idyllic life.

Jane felt the warmth of his hand, and rubbed her thumb against his, feeling the dry skin. She had forgotten what it felt like to hold hands with someone other than her daughter. She
couldn’t remember the last time she had held Will’s hand, and wondered if perhaps she never had.

‘You know that Chinese proverb, don’t your?’ he said, as they stood in front of a screen panel from the Ming dynasty depicting phoenixes playing amid rocks and flowers.
‘If you want to be happy for an hour, make love to a woman; if you want to be happy for a day, read a book; but if you want to be happy for a lifetime, plant a garden.’

‘Why not all three?’ she said, pulling at his hand to make him stand still, ‘then you’d be really, really happy’

‘I suppose,’ he said, standing closely over her. ‘I feel quite happy now, actually, without doing any of those things.’

They finished with China and headed down a corridor in search of the café. On either side, rooms led off, revealing further treasures: 1950s ball gowns, Indian art treasures, fascinating
artefacts from history, carefully assembled from all around the world and displayed for their pleasure. Jane felt lucky to be there, walking along beside this man.

They bought their coffees and sat down at a table behind a pillar. Around them were ladies who lunch, some dishevelled students, and a lot of older people making the most of their freedom passes
to cruise around the city’s treasures. Embarked upon the thirty-year jamboree that made up modern retirement, as opposed to digging the allotment for a year before dropping dead, which was
how it used to be.

‘I’m glad you liked the Chinese slippers, I thought you would,’ said Rupert.

‘We should always come here,’ Jane said. ‘There’s so much to see, you could come every Friday for the rest of your life and still not have done it all.’

‘What shall we do next time?’

‘I quite fancy the Gothic stuff.’

‘I quite fancy you.’

Her legs were crossed beneath the table and he slipped his hand between her knees.

She laughed at him across the table, she felt feckless and free. ‘When are you off to Chile?’

By tacit agreement, they hadn’t discussed the party, or Lydia, or Will; it was understood that their time together was not about the other stuff that made up their daily lives. But Jane
felt confident enough now to ask the question: holidays were safe ground, it wasn’t like she was asking him if they had set a date for the wedding. Even so, he looked uncomfortable.

‘Tomorrow night. I wish I was going with you.’

‘Only because you don’t know me well enough yet to find me disappointing.’

He laughed. ‘Do yourself down, why don’t you?’ Then, seriously, ‘You could never disappoint me, I know that.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because you’re perfect. Scruffy perfect, that is, not shiny perfect.’

He rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled brown paper bag.

‘I won’t see you again before Christmas, obviously, so I’ve brought you your present. Sorry I didn’t get round to wrapping it.’

She opened the bag and found it was full of tiny bulbs, like dolly-sized onions.

‘They’re fritillaries,’ he said, ‘rare and exquisite, they made me think of you.’

She ran her fingers over them and in her mind’s eye saw how the flowers would look, dainty and bell-like on slender stems.

‘I didn’t get you anything,’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘It’s not a barter, it’s a present. They do quite well in pots, but you need to protect the shoots from frost.’

‘It’s a lovely present. I’ll think of you when I plant them, then when they flower they’ll remind me of you again.’

That would be in spring, the most exciting time in the garden, culminating in the Chelsea Flower Show. Maybe they could go together next year and look out for other fritillaries, make notes
together on the back of nursery brochures. Have a glass of champagne in the Veuve Clicquot tent and argue about which garden they liked best. Her favourite this year had been a Mediterranean garden
with a rusty old shed and mauve and grey herbs self-seeded in the cracks between the stones. She thought he would like that too.

‘Did you go to Chelsea this year?’ she asked.

‘I went with some clients, which slightly took the edge off it. Nothing like a dose of corporate hospitality to rob an event of its atmosphere, and for some reason they all want to go to
Chelsea.’

‘Just think,’ she said, ‘I might have seen you there, jostling along behind the rope to look at that dreadful garden with the double staircase.’

‘I know the one you mean, with the grotto at the bottom.’

‘In that fake stone that looks sort of luminous . . .’

‘We’ll go together next year,’ he said, ‘so we can spot the shockers together.’

He would still be single in May. The wedding was planned for June; it would be his last Chelsea Flower Show as a single man.

Jane carefully put the fritillaries into her handbag, zipping them up in the centre compartment. ‘You should bring me back some seeds from South America,’ she said, ‘like a
Victorian botanist returning from an expedition. I could be your faithful assistant, labelling them up and nurturing their growth at home while you go off round the world for another five
years.’

‘No, you could come with me. I’d like to see you in a pair of plus fours and knee-high explorer boots. I’d especially like to see you take them off in the flickering torchlight
of our two-man tent.’

He touched her knee again, and his hand burned against her skin. She felt exhilarated. She was also aware that it was nearly time to leave.

‘I must go.’ Those three dreary, disappointing words.

‘Have you got the car today?’

‘Yes, it’s in the car park by the Institute.’

‘Good, you can give me a lift.’

‘I’m going the wrong way . . .’

‘Doesn’t matter. You can drop me off by the school and I’ll get a cab from there.’

‘It’ll take you twice as long . . .’

‘But I get to see you for longer.’

There was a moment of panic when they arrived at the car and Jane thought she’d lost her keys, but they were eventually unearthed , hidden beneath the bag of
fritillaries.

‘Shall I drive?’ Rupert asked as she unlocked the car. ‘Only if you want me to, obviously.’

Jane threw him the keys over the car and walked round to change sides. ‘I would
love
you to drive,’ she said. ‘Do you realise I have never once sat in the passenger seat
of this car in the six years I’ve had it.’

‘Does Will not . . . ?’

‘Nope. He doesn’t do machines.’

Rupert curled his lip in amused contempt. How affected was that, in the twenty-first century, to say you didn’t do machines?

‘Still uses a quill and ink does he, for his work?’

‘Apart from his computer, I was about to say.’

She settled back and relaxed, enjoying the novelty of being driven. He drove calmly, confidently, as she knew he would.

‘It’s in Leinster Square,’ she said, ‘off Bayswater.’

He parked just round the corner, in Leinster Terrace, and switched off the engine. Jane went to open her door, but he reached across and caught her arm, pulling her towards him.

‘You’ve got five minutes to go,’ he said, ‘let’s not waste them.’

When he kissed her, she was squeezed over the gearbox, bringing back memories of teenage dating.

‘We have to swap telephone numbers now,’ he said, ‘it’s no use pretending any more.’

He passed her his phone and she gave him hers and they keyed in their numbers. They’d got each other logged now and there would be no more chance meetings, no more tragic thoughts of
happiness lost if one of them failed to show. It was up to them and fate had nothing to do with it. She got out of the car and stood awkwardly on the pavement, waiting for him to join her.

‘Have a lovely holiday,’ she said, insincere and conventional all of a sudden. She wouldn’t see him for three whole weeks.

‘I’ll think of you,’ he said, standing beside her, unwilling to leave.

The moment was lost as Portia’s mother appeared from nowhere.

‘Hallo, Jane,’ she said, looking approvingly at Rupert. Her eye was evidently trained to identify moneyed bankers from two hundred paces. ‘Is this your husband?’

‘No, no . . . as a matter of fact, I don’t have a husband,’ said Jane, as though that made things better. ‘This is just a friend.’

Rupert nodded at Portia’s mother. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he said to Jane, ‘have a nice Christmas.’

And then he was gone. As she walked towards the school, Jane saw him climb into a taxi and drive away. Beside her, Portia’s mother was giving a detailed account of her holiday plans:
Christmas in Cambodia followed by a river cruise in Burma; they wouldn’t normally risk a cruise but this one should be all right as there were only forty cabins, totally luxurious and the
obscure location meant it wouldn’t attract the wrong sort.

Liberty came out bristling with rolled-up paintings and tinselly bits of stuff, and a plate piled high with gaudy marzipan angels. Her end-of-term excitement washed over Jane and lifted her
spirits. That was the glory of children: they were the ultimate consolation prize, putting everything into perspective.

‘We played a game today, mama,’ she said. ‘Miss Evans divided the room into five continents and everyone had to go and stand in the continent where they were going for
Christmas.’

‘Oh, so did you stand in Europe then?’

‘No, I sat at the back, because we’re not going anywhere. You weren’t allowed to play if you weren’t going anywhere,’ she added, without resentment. ‘It was
only me and Phoenix sitting at the back: she can’t go anywhere because her mum’s having a baby. Guess which continent had the most?’

‘Asia,’ said Jane, thinking of Portia.

‘Yes! Well done, Mum, you are the cleverest mummy in the world. And the prettiest.’

They got to the car and Jane began fishing around in her bag for the keys. She pulled out the fritillaries, her address book, her Christmas lists, a smashed-up Dime bar, but they weren’t
there. How stupid of her, she must have forgotten to take them back from Rupert. It was Portia’s mum’s fault, putting them off like that, but lucidly she had his number, she’d
have to call him right away. She walked away from her daughter, calling up his number. Come on, she wanted to say to him, please come here right now and take me away with you.

Clutching her Christmas booty to her chest, Liberty looked on resentfully. ‘Why haven’t you got the keys, mummy, who are you ringing?’

But before she had made the call, a taxi drew up alongside them, and Rupert was calling to her through the opened window, dangling the keys.

She ran up to take them, relieved.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘No, my fault.’

‘Is that your daughter?’ He smiled at Liberty who glowered back at him.

‘Sorry, she’s not normally that cross, just a bit overwrought, you know, all the excitement.’