How It All Began Read online

  “Like watching Casualty,” says Rose. “Only you’re in there too.”

  They are in the patients’ Rest Room, to which the crutch-mobile shuffle, to receive their visitors. They have had the spare room conversation, Charlotte and Rose. The thing is settled; Rose is firm, Charlotte resigned. Charlotte is leaving the hospital next week; Rose will fetch her and install her in the spare room, which is being prepared, her clothes and other necessities brought from home.

  “It’s the day I was supposed to be going with Henry to Manchester,” says Rose. “I’ve told him I can’t.”

  “His lordship will be put out.”

  “He was.” Rose is unperturbed. “It’s all right—he’s roped in his niece, Marion. The interior designer. She’s got to do duty.”

  “Is she the heir?” demands Charlotte, who calls a spade a spade.

  Rose shrugs. “No idea. Well, someone has to be, I suppose.”

  “Nice girl?”

  “No girl, Mum. She’s my age.”

  Charlotte sighs. “Of course. Talking of heirs, when I hand in my dinner-plate I want you to give a little something to Jennifer next door for her baby—a couple of hundred for his piggy-bank.”

  “Mum…”

  “Not much…”

  “Don’t talk like that. You’re not going to…”

  “Well, not this afternoon, or indeed tomorrow, probably. But bear it in mind. Is she competent, this Marion? Will she get him there and back in one piece?”

  “She’s very organized. Runs a business. Doing up rich people’s houses. She’s got this showroom in her house—all too elegant for words. You can see her shuddering when she comes to Lansdale Gardens.” Rose grins.

  Charlotte has never been to Lansdale Gardens. “I thought it was quite grand?”

  “There are some nice things. And the house is. But it’s all a bit seedy, too.”

  Charlotte shifts in her seat, grimaces. Hip is giving her stick. Marion what’s-her-name is a distraction. “People pay to be told what color their curtains should be? I’m on his lordship’s side. Mail order ready-made always did me fine. Is she rich?”

  “Nice clothes,” says Rose. “But I really wouldn’t know.”

  Marion is doing money at the desk in her office next to the showroom; she is also awaiting a call from her lover, and remembering that she has a client due in half an hour. Marion is good at doing money—careful, efficient, numerate—but is not in fact rich. Comfortable, yes, an adequate sufficiency, but one needs always to keep a sharp eye on the figures, on that irritating but manageable overdraft. Right now she is checking suppliers’ bills and running through last month’s bank statements and hoping that Jeremy will ring before she has to put the phone on answer while the client is here. Her mind is flicking also to Henry, and this tiresome matter of the Manchester trip next week, when she really cannot spare the time.

  Thinking of money, she considers for a moment Henry’s resources. He is of course well off. That house. The lifestyle—his club, the pricey restaurants to which he goes from time to time. The minions—Rose, Corrie, who cleans and shops and does some cooking. Henry is…getting on. And has no relations except for Marion. Eventually someone has to inherit, unless all is destined for Oxfam or a cats’ home.

  Not that Marion considers this. Of course not. She has an affection for the old boy, he is after all her uncle, her only uncle. She respects him, too, he is something of a grand old man, no question; she has not been above dropping his name from time to time. If only he would let her do something about the Lansdale Gardens house; every time she goes there she shudders at that fearful old chintz sofa, those leather armchairs, the murky brown velvet curtains. As for the kitchen…But Henry dismisses the least proposal of change; Marion has not been able to infiltrate so much as a cushion.

  “I am beyond the reach of good taste, my dear.” A chuckle; good taste itself is in question, it would seem.

  Marion rejects the term, of course. Hackneyed, meaningless. Effective decor is a matter of surprises, coordinations, contrasts; the unexpected rug, those interesting colors, that mirror. But no point in trying to explain this to Henry, for whom her trade is an amusing diversion, something with which she fills her time, an activity beyond his horizon. Henry is interested in powerful people, past and present, in good claret, in academic gossip, in writing his memoirs, and perhaps still, marginally, in eighteenth-century party politics, his original field of study. All of these are the central and seminal issues, so far as Henry is concerned; anything beyond can be a matter for idle and transitory comment but nothing more. Searching for conversational departures, Marion has sometimes talked of her clients; if they are prominent in some way Henry will be intrigued, even if their prominence is in areas unfamiliar to him. “Goldman Sachs? I’ve heard of it. What did you say this man earns? Outrageous!” Actors catch his attention: “The name rings a bell—not that I get to the theater so much these days. Of course I knew Alastair Sim at one time—did I ever tell you that?”

  Henry has known many people. His conversation is laced with names, most of them unknown to Marion, though there pops up the occasional recognizable celebrity. Henry has hobnobbed with leading politicians, has consorted with men and women of letters, he has known everyone who was anyone in the academic world.

  Macmillan consulted him, as did Harold Wilson; he has tales to tell of Stephen Spender; Maurice Bowra was a chum. Oh, there is fuel enough for the memoirs, even if Marion’s eyes glaze over, periodically, during tea or one of Corrie’s rather awful lunches (Scotch broth, steak and kidney pie, treacle sponge pudding—Henry is a culinary conservative; Marion used to wonder how he managed in those posh restaurants to which he goes, but it seems that he knows the ones that cater for gastronomic retards). The names flow forth, and are rubbished or extolled, while Marion declines a sandwich or asks for a small helping, and wishes she could sneak in a new tablecloth. Sometimes, with Henry settled into cathartic discourse, she wistfully designs the entire room, sources wallpaper and curtain material, installs a lovely old Provençal table.

  Marion has her own style, of course, her signature style, but where clients are concerned she is flexible—she wants to know what sort of thing they have in mind and then infuses that with her own suggestions and ideas. And of course they will have sought her out in the first place because they fancy the sort of thing she does—that fresh, appealing marriage of New England simplicity—the blues, the buffs, the painted floorboards—with French rustic and a touch of Kettle’s Yard: the Arts and Crafts chair, the clever arrangement of shells or stones on a sill, an intriguing painting above the mantelpiece.

  Marion’s own house is the expression of all this. It is also her showcase: clients come there to be shown, and also to wander around the big ground floor room which displays fabrics, wallpapers, paint colors, objets d’art that Marion has picked up, the odd chair, table, lamp that nicely tunes in with the house style. Henry has seldom been here; when he has come he appeared to notice nothing. He would ensconce himself in one of the pretty pale linen-covered armchairs in the upstairs sitting-room, and hold forth as if in his own habitat. Henry does not see what does not concern him.

  As someone who sees compulsively, Marion finds this both irritating and incomprehensible. Her mother shared her own interest in domestic interiors—home was elegant and considered. How can her brother be so entirely impervious? His own childhood backdrop was rather imposing—a Dorset country house stiff with antique pieces, good rugs, silver, the works. Not especially considered or contrived, but effective in its way. A few objects from there have fetched up at Lansdale Gardens, looking out of place: the seventeenth-century Italian cabinet amid the sagging leather armchairs of the sitting-room, the Regency mirror against the floral flock wallpaper of the hall. They are there not because Henry particularly appreciates them but because they are furnishings.

  Marion’s clients are people who furnish as an occupation. They have become rich by one means or another, they may as well spend
the dosh, and their surroundings are of prime importance to them. They change house frequently, each new abode will require dressing from top to toe, and even if they stay put periodic make-overs will be necessary. Prime spenders will lay out many thousands on a single room; even Marion is sometimes surprised at their capacity, while grateful. She will find herself supervising the disposal of a whole lot of stuff not that long installed because the client got tired of swagged curtains and urban chic and likes the idea of Marion’s calm palette and elegantly casual compositions. Sometimes sofas, chairs, hangings can be sold back to the original suppliers, who will be unsurprised. There is a cargo of interior adornments forever on the move, filtering from one mansion flat or bijou Chelsea terrace house to another.

  This is how Marion met Jeremy Dalton—sourcing, not disposing. She was in need of the perfect fire surround for a client and had heard of this new place, just opened, in south London—an emporium, apparently, a cut above reclamation, just crammed with good things, run by some man with a genius for acquisition. So she had ferreted her way through an unfamiliar area and found this immense warehouse—a wealth of fire surrounds, Georgian through to art deco and beyond, you name it; stained glass panels, claw-foot baths, some mouthwatering Arts and Crafts pieces. And presently there was this man at her side, Jeremy someone—helpful, charming, funny, absolutely on her wavelength. They spent ages talking, then coffee in his office, with just the right fire surround sorted, and she’d have to come back when she’d had a further think about the little cane settee…And so it all began, the way things do.

  That was nearly a year ago. Jeremy’s wife Stella was not working with him in the business. She lived in Oxted, where he had had his previous, smaller, outlet, and was a doctor’s receptionist. There were two teenage daughters. Complications, then. Marion herself was uncomplicated, being childless and tidily divorced a while back.

  The situation must be kept under wraps, they agreed—at least for the foreseeable future: the daughters; Stella, who was excitable and had had a depressive episode in the past. But with Jeremy in London most of the time, spending many nights in the small rented flat near the warehouse, there was really no problem about seeing each other. Of course, he was away quite a bit in pursuit of stock, but that had made for several happy periods deep in Wales or up in Cumbria, with Marion snatching some time off. There were plans for an excursion to Provence in the summer, in search of old armoires and bedheads.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Daltons’ marriage broke up because Charlotte Rainsford was mugged. They did not know Charlotte, and never would; she would sit on the perimeter of their lives, a fateful presence.

  The mobile phone was the smoking gun—Jeremy’s mobile phone. He was at home in Oxted, unknown to Marion, when she left the message; she had thought him to be in the flat, had left a message on the mobile, which as it happened was in his coat pocket in the hall of the family home in Oxted. Jeremy had gone home for the night, at Stella’s behest, to sort out a problem with a blocked wastepipe; Stella had a tendency to get in a state about minor domestic mishaps.

  Jeremy had found himself without a requisite tool, and had driven off to see if a neighbor could help (the Daltons lived down an isolated lane). Meanwhile, Stella was anxious about the daughters, who were late back, and had discovered that the land-line was out of order. She searched for her own mobile, and realized that she had left it at the surgery. She would have to use Jeremy’s to try to locate Daisy and Emma. Taking it from his coat pocket, she went first to Messages: conceivably they would have left a message here, foiled by the errant land-line and Stella’s own not-answering phone.

  Thus, Stella found Marion’s message: “I can’t make it on Friday. Have to escort Uncle Henry to Manchester—his PA out of action. Bother, bother. I’m so sorry. Love you.”

  It was the “love you” that did it, of course. Otherwise—just a message from some female associate who might not have given pause for thought (though perhaps a bit intimate in tone…).

  Oh, this betraying technology. Jeremy deletes his messages; he is assiduous about this, given the circumstances, but this time the technology was one step ahead (just doing its job); he has not had the chance. When he returned, Stella was waiting by the door, and all hell broke loose.

  Marion arrived at Lansdale Gardens in a taxi to collect Henry and go on to Euston for the Manchester train. She was slightly late, and much distracted. She had slept badly, unsettled by a long phone conversation with Jeremy the evening before. Apparently Stella had initially tried to throw him out, there and then, charging back upstairs to hurl his clothes into a suitcase. He had managed to talk her into a holding position (the girls would be back at any moment, simply not fair to upset them, talk things through tomorrow, stupid to rush into something they might regret) but the position had not held: Stella had gone on the rampage the next day—hysterical outbursts, tearful phone call to her sister, renewed demands for his departure. Jeremy was now in London, continuing to negotiate with the increasingly volatile Stella. She was talking lawyers. Her sister had got on to Jeremy and told him that he would be held responsible if this situation compromised Stella’s fragile mental equilibrium: did he not remember that breakdown four years ago?

  Marion had tried to be soothing and level-headed. She felt her own situation to be eminently undesirable. No one wants to break up a marriage; no one wants to be seen as the blunt instrument. Both she and Jeremy had thought that the status quo could go on indefinitely; both were a touch uncertain that this relationship was forever, though neither would have admitted as much to the other, at this relatively early stage. Time would tell, both had been privately thinking, while enjoying an invigorating liaison, an unexpected tonic. But now they were scuppered.

  So Marion lay awake, then plunged into fitful sleep at five in the morning, and surfaced to a rushed shower and breakfast. When she reached Lansdale Gardens she felt light-headed; Henry’s robust welcome was jarring. Here was a man who had clearly had a good night’s sleep and was looking forward to the day ahead.

  “Hello, hello. Taxi all set, is it? Rose has left the tickets and everything on my desk—just a question of grabbing them and we’re off.” He vanished into the downstairs cloakroom. Marion looked at herself in the Regency mirror, yawned, attempted a quick makeup repair. Henry emerged, fussed around the house looking for his keys and getting into his coat, and they went down the front steps to the waiting taxi.

  At Euston, Marion looked at the departure board, and turned to Henry for the tickets. At which point both realized what had happened. Each had assumed that the other had taken the tickets from Henry’s desk. Along with the letter from the university about where to go, and Henry’s lecture notes.

  Consternation and exasperation were gracefully contained: this was a public place. “My fault entirely,” Marion (inwardly cursing him). “I didn’t make myself clear,” said Henry (feeling that he damn well had—oh, Rose, where art thou?). Marion set about quick remedial work: replacement tickets, assurances to Henry that she could get through to Manchester on her mobile for instructions, once they were on the train. Henry said grimly that he would have to spend the journey putting together some emergency notes; one had after all given this particular lecture God knows how many times before. “Politics and Personalities in the Age of Walpole” should more or less trip from the tongue.

  Once settled in the train both fell silent. Marion had found a notepad in her bag for Henry to use; he delved for his pen and stared frowning at the paper; she set to work on the mobile and eventually achieved a helpful voice at Manchester University.

  The midlands rolled by. Henry made the occasional note. Marion appeared to be reading the paper but was far too distracted to concentrate. She was thinking of the Jeremy situation, and realizing that this could not have come at a worse time. Both she and Jeremy had problems already, over and above the pressures of a clandestine love affair.

  Marion was experiencing a sharp fall in client numbers; Henry’s por
tfolio was nothing like as plump as it had been, and Jeremy was having difficulty in borrowing from the bank to fund his recent business expansion. The indigent couple (and the many others like them) do not come into this story; they are relevant, but they are hunkered down nameless out of sight, much as Charlotte Rainsford lurks on the perimeter of the Daltons’ lives. Were it not for them, things would have been different.

  Henry was not much bothered about the depletion of his portfolio; he had a nice index-linked pension, and plenty of cash on deposit. Marion, on the other hand, was worried. She had only a couple of serious money clients on her books at the moment; the phone rang less often, fewer people looked in at the showroom. Even the well-off were tightening their belts, it would seem. Smaller bonuses to fling around, other businesses feeling the pinch, just like her own; no make-over of the house this year, no holidays in the Seychelles, Bermuda and Klosters. Without work in hand, the overdraft—hitherto nicely under control—would start to climb. The notion of debt scared Marion; solvency was decency.

  Jeremy had borrowed heavily to acquire the warehouse; he now needed more cash for some improvements and repairs. He had rushed to get the place up and running, to install stock and bring the punters in, and was now realizing various deficiencies. The derelict junk-yard needed to be made into a viable car park—customers were complaining about the lack of parking in the area. They were complaining equally about the disagreeable toilet facility, and you could see them always looking around for somewhere to sit down for a few minutes. Jeremy was determined to do up an elegant customer reception area, and install a proper cloakroom. The banks were less enthusiastic.