The Next Best Thing (29 page)

Rupert saw Richard was off the phone and waiting to talk to him. ‘Of course,’ he said, more calmly. ‘What are you doing now?’

‘Working. And thinking about my garden. I’m going to plant a hot summer-bed, with only yellow and orange flowers.’

‘Are you? I hope you’re going to include geum borisii, gorgeous deep orange flower, hummocky green foliage . . .’

‘It’s on the list.’

‘Coreopsis verticillata is very striking. And Gertrude Jekyll was very keen on using dwarf evening primroses with geum borisii, you could back it with some purple leaves, like stinking
hellebore.’

‘Too tasteful, I’m only going for the really bright stuff. I want it to be truly garish!’

‘African marigolds then. Yellow Climax, with double, globular flowers, you can’t get more garish than that!’

Richard was standing beside his desk now.

‘Got to go,’ said Rupert in a businesslike voice, ‘I’ll sec you later.’

Jane hung up and pushed aside her gardening books. She was translating a book on Lacan now, a French psychoanalyst feted by the the
sobcante-huit
generation, a kind of
Freud for hippies. She was just getting to grips with the Hysterical Discourse when the doorbell rang. Probably someone selling dusters. Will told her to ignore them, but she felt sorry for them,
cold-calling like that, trying to sell stuff at twice what you’d pay at the supermarket.

She opened the door and looked up to see Rupert, standing big in the doorway, arms crossed.

‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered in delight, looking round to see if anyone was watching. She didn’t even know her neighbours’ names, though, so they were hardly
going to snitch on her. ‘We’re supposed to meet later, at the museum.’

‘I just had to see you.’

‘You’re mad. How did you know Will wasn’t here?’

‘A hunch . Anyway, I knew it would be you who answered the door. Can I come in?’

‘I don’t know . . . I suppose so.’

He grinned. ‘Very gracious of you. So this is your home. You’ve seen mine, but I’ve not seen yours, it’s only fair.’

He stepped into the hall and she closed the door behind him. It was odd seeing him there by the Perspex balustrade, out of his setting. For a moment she thought he was going to sweep her up in
his arms and ravish her there and then, but he just said, ‘Which way to the garden?’

She pointed down the stairs and followed him into the kitchen.

‘Your office,’ he said with a smile, looking at her computer and the messy pile of books, then opening the French windows.

‘Behind the shed, right?’ he said, walking outside and down the path until he came to the hot bed, newly dug over and marked with wooden sticks. ‘I just wanted to check the
site, you have to be careful about drainage for coreopsis, and they prefer some shelter. But that’s OK, you’ve done your homework.’ He looked up. ‘You can invite me in for a
drink now, before we go out to lunch.’

‘Are we still going to the museum?’

‘Of course. I never break a date.’

In the kitchen, Jane took a bottle of wine from the fridge and uncorked it. She felt clumsy and self-conscious, it was mean of him to sneak up on her like that when she wasn’t expecting
him. She hadn’t even got changed yet, but maybe her pyjamas could be passed off as a tracksuit.

She poured out two glasses and threw him a packet of Wotsits. ‘I’ll just go and get ready,’ she said, ‘don’t answer the phone or anything, will you?’

Rupert sipped his wine and started flicking through the book on Lacan. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he replied. ‘If anyone comes I’ll just hide in the garden
shed.’

She left him to it and went up to the bathroom, stepping out of her pyjamas and into her underwear, then a brown wool suit, nothing flashy. As she applied her make-up in the mirror, she kept
expecting him to appear behind her. If he came up now, she would have no choice, he would have forced her hand. It would be out of her control, unplanned, just one of those things she never meant
to happen. She applied a peachy blusher; still no sign. Then an apricot lipstick. She wished he would.

He’s not coming, she thought as she applied her mascara, listening out for his step on the stairs. If he hasn’t come by the time I’ve brushed my hair, I’ll know
he’s not coming.

Down the stairs she went, demure, correct, hair in a good-girl neat bun.

Hi,’ he said, looking up from his book, at ease as though he were in his own kitchen. ‘Is it me, or is this Lacan fellow seriously weird?’

‘He’s weird,’ Jane agreed, ‘very hung up on language, it’s like because “je veux” sounds like “cheveux”, he reckons that hair is an
expression of desire.’

‘But only if you’re French.’

‘Exactly. Shall we go then?’

Rupert stood up. ‘That’s a nice coat,’ he said, nodding towards her fitted jacket.

She smiled. ‘Normally we call this a jacket,’ she said, ‘coats tend to be bigger.’

He shrugged. ‘As you know, clothes aren’t my bag. I just meant you looked lovely, that’s all.’

She blushed.

‘Shall we leave by separate entrances?’ he suggested.

‘I could escape through the back gardens.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

She wished he had been stupid, that he had carried her away so she didn’t have to think about the consequences.

He followed her out to the car.

‘I’m going to park near the school,’ she said, ‘then we can get a bus.’

‘Fine by me.’ He got into the passenger side and put an expansive arm round the back of her seat. ‘I’m putty in your hands,’ he teased, ‘just do with me what
you will. And meanwhile I shall enjoy taking in your profile, which I don’t often have the opportunity to admire.’ He saw a straight temple, a gentle retrousse nose and lips that curved
into a firmer line than you noticed from the front.

She glanced sideways at him as she pulled out. ‘Stop it, you’re embarrassing me.’

‘All right.’ He looked ahead instead. ‘So, a week together in Provence. Who’d have predicted that? What does Will think about it?’

‘He’s keen for us to go now there might be some money in it. I’ve set up a meeting with a French comedian who’s looking for a translator. He’s at La Garde Freinet,
not far from you. I’m going to see him on the Tuesday. Leaving you free to bond with Will. You never know, you might become best buddies.’

Rupert pulled a face.

‘At least we’ll get to see each other every day,’ she said.

He stared stonily ahead. ‘And how do you think that will make me feel? Knowing you’re there, but not for me.’

‘It’s what we agreed, remember,’ she said gently. ‘The point is that we can do this, we can go on holiday all together, because we haven’t let things . . . develop.
It is perfectly within the bounds of our friendship.’

‘Friendship!’ He laughed. ‘I feel like that Victorian painting,
The Long Engagement,
with the po-faced vicar standing next to the girl he’s supposed to marry in
about fifty years once he’s saved up . . . I tell you what, why don’t you just stick me in a frame and hang me up in that museum we’re going to? It’s where I
belong.’

Three hours later they were saying goodbye at Holborn tube.

‘That museum’s fabulous, isn’t it?’ said Jane. ‘Makes you want to turn back the years and become a Victorian collector. Though obviously with access to
antibiotics.’

‘I suppose I could have been, if I’d been born earlier,’ said Rupert, ‘like my grandfather: he filled our house in the country with a whole load of paintings and stuff he
bought on his travels.’

‘Yet here you are in the twenty-first century with your hedge fund. It still makes me think of cockerels cut out of privet. Or a row of beech edging a green field, or box plants edging a
herb garden.’

‘I wish.’

‘Don’t you miss being able to go to your country house, though?’ she asked, ‘It must feel odd, having it rented out to strangers.’

‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘It’s quite a bind, a big house like that, it comes with a terrible sense of duty. And memories of being by myself in the school holidays —
I’d look forward to coming home at the end of term, and then be enormously bored when I got there. And I don’t see the point of having forty-seven rooms when you can only be in one at a
time. You end up sitting in one room and worrying about what needs doing in all the others. I prefer a simpler life.’

‘I’m not sure Lydia would agree,’ said Jane. ‘I don’t think “simple” features among her life goals.’

‘That’s true, but then she hates the country, except for the snob value of me having a country seat. It suits her the way it is, rented out. But you’re right, a simple life is
not what she’s about, very far from it. Lydia likes her life to be as crammed and as complicated and filled with stuff as it can be. Which is her charm, of course, all that energy. Saving me
from my simple tendencies to wear drab clothes and stay at home. But let’s not talk about my fiancee.’

‘No.’

‘Better get back to work.’

‘Me too.’

He couldn’t bring himself to leave. ‘Have you ever thought of stopping work?’ he asked.

‘Do I get the impression you’re looking for an excuse to avoid going back to the office?’

‘Of course.’

‘Not really. I like it and I need the money. I couldn’t spend my life hanging round tile shops or looking for the ultimate sofa. And if I didn’t work, my daughter would become
the entire focus of my life, which isn’t fair on her.’

‘No.’ He kicked a stone against the gutter. ‘Listen, Jane, I haven’t told Lydia this, but I’m thinking of starting up a business. Exporting plants to France and
offering a gardening service. You know how envious the French are of English gardens, and they really don’t have a clue about garden design, apart from formal rigid box-beds in front of
classical chateaux. All their best gardens have been done by Englishmen. The typical self-made French affair is a wall of evergreen enclosing a dull expanse of grass they call a
pare
with a
solitary clump of pampas grass stuck in the middle.’

‘I think that sounds wonderful. But you’ll have to be a little more tactful if you want to get their business.’

‘Oh, I will, but it’s a growing market over there, they’re gagging to be shown how to do it.’

‘And this new business, would you run it from France?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you wouldn’t be living in London?’

‘No.’

There would be no more Friday-afternoon trysts. She wouldn’t see him any more.

‘I see,’ she said.

While Rupert and Jane were talking over his plans for a new business, Lydia was putting in a rare appearance at the office. It wasn’t necessary to he there, she could
just as easily research her articles at home, but it was important to show her face once in a while. She especially enjoyed leaving early, reminding those obliged to stay behind that she got to
choose her own hours.

So Will was lucky to catch her there when he rang the magazine. He no longer had her mobile number, it was years since they had been on intimate phone terms.

‘Will, what a surprise!’ she bellowed at him, for the benefit of the girls sitting at desks around her. It was important here to speak loudly on the phone, to sound confident and as
if you knew everyone.

He had forgotten about that grating voice, and was momentarily put off. The last time he’d seen her had been at the engagement party when the general noise level would have flattened the
sound of a foghorn. But what the hell, it would be fun.

‘I’m just round the corner,’ he said, ‘and thought you might fancy joining me for a drink.’

She looked at her watch: it was 12.45.

‘Still as mean as ever I see,’ she said. ‘I won’t meet you for a drink but I might take you up on lunch. Although I don’t want to push you into wanton extravagance
when you should be saving up for our Easter holiday.’

‘All right then, lunch,’ said Will, smiling down the phone. ‘I’m in the Soho wine bar.’

Will looked up as Lydia came in five minutes later, turning a few heads with her striking red hair. She certainly knew how to make an entrance, and her dress sense was
terrific. Unlike Jane, who seemed to be getting less and less interested in clothes.

‘Ha-llo,’ he said, raising an ironic Gary Grant eyebrow. ‘Hallo to you, Will,’ she replied, sitting down opposite him as he poured her a glass of wine. ‘This is all
a bit of a surprise. May I ask to what I owe the pleasure?’

He sniffed the gooseberry high notes of his wine before replying, ‘Do I need a reason? As Pascal so eloquently put it, “Man is born for pleasure: he feels it, no further proof is
needed”. Or in French,
“L’homme est ne pour le plaisir: il le . . .
”.’

‘All right, all right, no need to show off. I see you’re still doing a good job of playing Mr Boasty. Cheers!’

They clinked glasses.

‘You obviously believe I still have something to boast about,’ he said. ‘Why else would you have invited me to your fiancé’s clichéd holiday home in the
sun? What I’m really curious to know is whether it is my fine conversation you are after, or something more . . . primal.’

Lydia threw her head back and laughed. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘You’ve invited me today to see if you can prearrange a little bit of “how’s your father”
for the Easter holidays. The answer’s no.’

He shrugged. ‘Pity. But it was worth a try.’

‘I’m engaged now, you know.’

‘Oh don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ve no intention of snatching the ageing bride from the altar, far from it. T was merely proposing some light relief from the rather
stolid charms of your betrothed. Or are you going to tell me he’s dynamite in the sack?’

‘I’m not going to tell you any of my bedroom secrets, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Fine,’ he said, picking up the menu. ‘Shall we order?’

‘And I might remind you that Jane is my oldest friend.’

‘Didn’t stop you before.’

‘That was when I was going through a turbulent time.’

‘Beautifully turbulent, as I recall . . .’

The waiter came to take their order and Lydia made a point of choosing from the upper end of the menu. She folded her arms as if in defence of her position, as though further justification were
necessary. ‘Rupert’s a lovely guy,’ she said, ‘and he is a proper gentleman, in the best sense of the word.’