Rumours (27 page)

Lydia continued to make it plain that she didn't care a jot who bought Longbridge and she was out when Stella brought the Billington-Wildes for their viewing. However, the silent conversation which passed between Stella and Mrs Biggins, mainly through rolling of eyes, pursing of lips and raising of eyebrows, said that it was a good job that she wasn't in. They'd double-barrelled their surname by deed poll online, they told her. They were Lottery winners. They had the money – they had cash. They liked the thought of a house like Longbridge – buying a bit of history and class – but reality let their preconceptions down sharply. Their dismay was barely concealed.

‘No dressing rooms? Only one en-suite – and it doesn't have a separate shower area, let alone a walk-in one?'

‘I'm not paying good new money for old tat.'

‘It's just so –
second-hand
,' Mrs Billington-Wilde complained.

‘Actually,' connived Stella with a wink to Mrs Biggins unseen by the clients, ‘it's ninth-hand.'

The woman shuddered, as if she'd been forced into some moth-eaten coat picked up from a jumble sale.

‘I think,' said Stella, ‘you might prefer buying a plot of land and building a dream house to your own specifications.'

They looked at her as if she was an oracle and then went, declining the opportunity to look around the grounds.

Lydia was in when the Hakshimis came to visit. Only it wasn't them, it was a representative who simply nodded at Lydia just as he nodded when anything was pointed out to him. He nodded at the statue of Lord Fortescue, he nodded at Art who kept on wheelbarrowing regardless. It was hard to reconcile what is commonly thought of as a positive gesture when it was accompanied by such an emotionless face. Even Stella's deluge of detail and delight for the thatched apple store met with no more than a single up-down motion of the man's head. Lydia phoned her later that day.

‘Soul destroying,' she said, ‘and an utter waste of time.'

‘He's come back with an offer of eleven million,' said Stella.

It was Wednesday night. She'd be taking the Tompkins to Longbridge the next afternoon. Jo had come over for the evening, with tortilla chips, all manner of dips and a dense variety of topics to chat about.

‘God,' she said, ‘this time last week I was in Paris.'

‘This time last week, I was right here, on this very seat – but without the Doritos and chat.'

‘You need to get out more,' Jo said, with a laugh tempered by a joking-aside look.

‘That's what my mum says,' said Stella. And then she thought, actually I wasn't sitting here this time last week – I was at Longbridge, at the meeting. And then she thought, Xander. And as soon as that thought had alighted, it was accompanied by a zip of adrenalin which surged through her body, its force giving her quite a shock.

‘The salsa's not that hot!' Jo laughed, noting how flushed Stella suddenly looked; her mouth agape, a Dorito resting over her tongue like a sacramental wafer.

Stella chewed, swallowing with difficulty. Sipped at the wine.

‘Stella?'

She looked at Jo. ‘I wasn't here.'

‘When?'

‘A week ago – it was the night of the meeting at Longbridge.'

‘Right,' said Jo, munching away. ‘So?' She regarded Stella, now as pale on the spectrum as previously she'd been scarlet. ‘What's wrong, babes? Suddenly twigged where the secret passage might be? Just remembered pocketing a silver cake fork? The Ghost of Longbridge haunting you?'

‘I.'

‘Aye?'

‘I,' said Stella, flabbergasted. ‘I've met someone.'

They sat and stared at each other for a moment, trying to make sense of what Stella had just said – words neither of them expected to hear from Stella's mouth any time soon, let alone just now. But the words were out there now, unequivocally. It was as if they'd suddenly surfaced in Stella's head, swum straight out of her mouth and were now right there in front of them, brand new, dripping wet and in need of someone to do something to protect them.

‘Who?' said Jo. ‘
Who
!'

‘Xander,' said Stella, incredulous.

‘
Who the hell is Xander
?'

‘The awful one – the argumentative one. The one who sent me flying the very first time I went to Long Dansbury. The one who threatened me and almost knocked me over in the garden – you know, Jo, the running jogging man. The one who hates estate agents. The one who loathes me.'

‘The one who saw you drunk as a skunk after that blind date with Global Riley?'

Jo looked at Stella. Her face was pale. Her neck looked like corned beef.

‘You're not selling him very well, I have to say,' said Jo, wracking her brains for someone else – anyone – she could pair Stella with.

‘I know,' said Stella, laughing uncontrollably. ‘What am I going to do?'

‘What is there to like?'

Stella thought about it. ‘Passion,' she said, ‘and awkwardness.'

‘I don't follow.' Jo did not like the sound of the man at all. Perhaps Stella should phone Riley. That bloody house – it was taking up too much of her time.

‘He's passionate about Lydia and Longbridge – he grew up there. But there's a shyness, an awkwardness to him. When I took him home—'

‘
You took him home
?'

‘Gave him a lift,' Stella qualified. ‘And when I squeezed past him and I looked up and he looked down—'

‘When did all this squeezing and gazing go on?' Where had Jo been, she wondered, while Stella was falling for this man?

‘When he took me upstairs to his old place.'

‘
What?
' Jo was now as lost as Stella had been on her first visit to Longbridge. ‘Can you just backtrack, please, and tell me how so many events, which hadn't even registered before you ate a spicy Dorito, are suddenly so momentous and portentous?'

Stella shrugged and grinned and her eyes danced and she had guacamole on her chin. ‘I don't know!' she laughed. ‘I have no idea!'

Jo remembered when Stella had first told her about Charlie, how she spoke in all these carefully structured statements; essential facts and information organized into a compelling portrait, analysed her emotions cogently. Stella had delivered all of it in a rousing soliloquy. Tonight, though, it was just a tumble of disjointed anecdotes and a deluge of unstructured feelings. However, as much as it was bizarre, it was also moving and contagious. Soon enough, Jo knew about the photographs of the various marathons and races, about the lack of curtains in the bedroom. She was told about his slate-navy eyes and the scatter of chest hair. And the mud on his strong legs. Jo heard everything they'd ever said to each other as well as the loaded silence in her car. Oh, and he has this really nice friend – Caroline. She's cool. And all about his eyes (again) and the lingering gaze from the other end of Lydia's dining-room table. And his passion (again) and how Stella believed that made him a worthy man (conjecture). And he's single and he doesn't do dates (fact, apparently).

‘Just like you.'

‘Just like me.'

‘Are you sure?' said Jo. ‘That you truly feel these things.'

Stella looked at her and shrugged. ‘I feel
something
,' she said, thoughtfully. ‘It just feels good to feel strong,
positive
emotions, rather than suffocatingly negative ones.'

‘No news from Charlie, then?'

Stella shook her head.

‘I've a new word for him,' said Jo. ‘Twunt.'

Stella giggled. Then she groaned. ‘What shall I do?' she asked Jo. ‘I know Longbridge now – and the cottages. And the meeting's been and gone. There's nothing imminent at which our paths might cross again.'

‘You could call him?'

‘I don't have his number.'

‘You could knock on his door?'

Stella considered it. And then, with a thud which pulled her down visibly in her seat, she tried to imagine walking up his path, knocking on his door, saying, hullo, Xander, just wondered whether you might like to have a drink with me. And she knew how she'd never have the courage to do any of that. The thought of it alone was terrifying. And then she thought, I'm deluded and stupid.

‘It's just a crush,' she said quietly, feeling crushed. ‘I
imagined
the attraction. It's probably not there. It's probably not mutual. Why would it be?'

Jo thought about that. She thought about how, if that were the case, her friend was safe. But then she thought about Xander and suddenly saw Stella through his eyes – all uppity with her clipboard, or wide-eyed over some old building, or mortified after her monologue in the loo. Stroppy back at his stroppiness. Gazing up as he gazed down. He'd've seen those amber flecks in her eyes. And he'd've seen how she is with Will. How she handles Lydia. How funny and cuddly she is when she's drunk. How she stands her ground when she's cross. And how dreamy she can become in a moment. And Jo thought, if I was Xander and I'd seen even this little of Stella and who she is – I'd want her.

‘If I was Xander,' said Jo, ‘I'd have a crush on you.'

Stella tipped her head to one side. ‘Would you call me? If you were Xander?'

‘Would I have your number?'

Stella shook her head. ‘But you know where I live.'

‘But I think you think I'm an arrogant sod.'

‘But I took you home.'

‘And I was too shy to ask you in, to ask you out.'

‘You're not shy, you're stroppy.'

‘I was shy that night. I stumbled over my feet in the car park and stumbled over my words before I got to your car. I couldn't think what to say on the journey – it was so short.'

‘What would you like me to do?' Stella stopped. ‘You – Jo. What would you like to see me do?'

‘Trust your instincts.' Jo was definite.

‘They took a bashing.'

‘Don't tar him – or anyone, for that matter – with Charlie's brush. Go with your gut feelings.'

‘I don't know what the etiquette is, these days. In your mid-thirties, what are the rules?'

‘They're bollocks, that's what they are,' said Jo. ‘You're a grown-up. You have a history, you've loved, lost, before. You're a mother. You're single-handed. You've weathered a divorce. You're more experienced – and probably more canny – than you realize.'

‘I don't have his number,' Stella said. ‘Otherwise I could send a text.'

‘You'll be in his neck of the woods tomorrow,' said Jo.

‘Maybe I'll see him around.'

‘And if he doesn't appear to be around, you know where he lives – go and see if there's a light on.'

‘She's sat in her car,' Mrs Biggins told Lydia, bringing in coffee.

‘I know,' said Lydia, not looking up, ‘I can see.'

She was busy writing cards at the bureau in the library. The two of them looked across to the driveway where they could clearly see Stella, sitting quietly behind the wheel of her car.

‘Who's this lot, then?' Mrs Biggins asked.

‘I don't ask the names – Miss Hutton tells me, but I don't commit them to memory. She's told me not to be put off by the way the people coming today present themselves. Whatever that means.'

‘Well, you
can
be judgemental,' murmured Mrs Biggins.

‘I have every right to be,' said Lydia, affronted.

‘No, you don't,' said Mrs Biggins in a sing-song voice as she left the room and went out to Stella to ask whether she'd like a cuppa brought to her car.

‘Dreadful woman,' Lydia muttered, observing Mrs Biggins over her half-moon glasses. And then an enormous black brute of a car appeared, gliding its way up the drive like a bison on wheels before pulling to a standstill askew.

‘Never is that a Bentley!' Lydia hissed. ‘What a travesty!'

When she saw the Tompkins emerge, she clapped her hand to her forehead and thought, oh dear God, no. Mrs Tompkins looked as if she was off to audition for
Strictly Come Dancing
and Mr Tompkins looked like a tall version of that funny little chap in
Only Fools and Horses
. A beige V-necked top with nothing underneath and a chunky necklace which, caught by the sun, appeared to be winking coarsely over to where Lydia sat unseen. Above the fireplace, her great-great-grandmother looked at her sternly as if to say, it takes all types, Lydia dear. You should know that.

Lydia watched them stand on the driveway, the woman putting on enormous sunglasses which surely only people undergoing major eye surgery would be unfortunate enough to have to wear. And the man – the man was looking at the house while he was on the phone! How very vulgar! And just look, he's patting Stella on the shoulder as though she's a paper boy or a dog! How terribly rude!

They were craning their necks and Stella was obviously speaking nineteen to the dozen, using sweeping arm gestures for emphasis. Oh, get back in the house, Mrs Biggins, lest any of them should think you somehow have greater significance to me and my house than is rightly yours. But Mrs Biggins led the party into the entrance hallway. Stella was discoursing enthusiastically about fanlights and the woman was saying, yeah? oh yeah? oh yeah? But at least it gave Lydia a moment to soundlessly shoo Mrs Biggins away and to take an imposing position in the staircase hall, under the circular roof lantern above.

‘Aha!' Stella exclaimed with hushed reverence, smiling at Lydia as if stage curtains had suddenly gone back to reveal the
pièce de résistance
of Longbridge Hall. ‘Lady Lydia!' She turned to the Tompkins who were gawping at Lydia. ‘This is Lady Lydia Fortescue. Lady Lydia Fortescue – this is Mr and Mrs Tompkins.'

‘Pleased, I'm sure!' Mrs Tompkins said, extending a hand bejewelled on every finger. Lydia declined to take it.