The Next Best Thing (22 page)

‘Really?’ he said, without interest, ‘I thought you’d got it all buttoned up now with the designers.’

‘Yes, but then this magazine came through the door today, and it got me thinking Hot Tub.’

‘Isn’t that what you’re in right now?’ he said, taking five Lacoste polo shirts from a pile and adding them to his pile.

‘You’re not taking those, are you?’ said Lydia, raising herself from the bubbles to cast a frown of disapproval over his choice. ‘No-one wears polo shirts any more,
you’ll look like an escapee from 1980s yuppiedom.’

‘Which is what I am,’ he said, ‘although unfortunately I have yet to escape.’

She ignored him and returned to her theme. ‘Anyway, it’s never bothered me not having a garden, but then I saw this place advertised,’ she struck a wet finger on the page,
‘just round the corner, with a roof terrace with a hot tub, and I thought, of course! Everyone’s getting them now, and you can even use them in winter. It’s on at two-point-two,
but I bet we could negotiate and get it for less than two.’

‘Have you seen my sunglasses?’ Rupert asked.

‘Hallo? Did you hear me?’ She held her hand to her mouth, imitating a megaphone.

‘Yes, I heard you,’ said Rupert, irritated. ‘And if you think I can rustle up two million pounds so you can enjoy an outdoor bath, you’ve got another think
coming.’

Lydia didn’t like what she was hearing, so plunged her head beneath the water, then emerged and started shampooing her hair. There’s no need to be a prig,’ she said,
‘after all, nearly everyone’s a millionaire these days. You know, the editor of the
Sunday Telegraph
banned the use of the word for that very reason. “We’re all
millionaires now,” he said, and he’s only a journalist, so if a successful banker like you can’t afford to start his married life in a reasonable flat with . . .’

‘Just shut up, will you!’ said Rupert. ‘I’m sick of hearing about what you want. What about me, don’t I get a say in all this?’

Lydia looked at him in surprise. She hoped he wasn’t going to get nasty once they were married.

‘If you must know,’ he went on, ‘I hate my job, and I’m thinking of quitting.’

Oh dear, thought Lydia, this was beginning to sound like a touch of mid-life male angst. She’d have to handle it tactfully.

‘That’s fine,’ she said evenly, ‘it’s not for everyone, working in a small office like that. You could easily get another job back in the mainstream, once you put
the word out.’

‘I don’t want to go back into the mainstream. I’m sick of banking, I want to do something else.’

What did he have in mind, needlepoint?

‘A different business, you mean?’ she said. ‘Venture capital, oil, property, commodity broker . . . ?’ She couldn’t think of any other lucrative-sounding jobs,
apart from lawyer, but that was no good, he wasn’t qualified and she certainly didn’t intend to start her married life supporting a mature student.

‘Gardening, actually,’ he said.

‘Gardening,’ she repeated in disbelief, as if he had just announced his plan to retrain as a contract killer.

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t see how . . . I mean gardening’s a splendid hobby, though personally I’ve never quite seen the point . . . but of course we can get a house with a garden, if
you’d prefer . . . or else you could get rid of those tenants and we could start going to Lamington at weekends . . .’ ‘I don’t want a hobby, I want to do something
meaningful with my life.’

‘Like digging around in mud, you mean? Or driving one of those golf caddy things that cuts the grass? Or raking up dead leaves? Come off it, Rupert, I think you’ve gone a bit soft in
the head. You’ve probably been overworking, it’s a good thing we’re going on holiday tomorrow, you need a break.’

She stepped out of the bath and wrapped a towel around her. Rupert the gardener was way down the eligibility scale from Rupert the banker. She needed to play this holiday to her advantage. Make
it as special as possible, and just show him how grey life would become if he could no longer afford such luxuries. She’d make sure they kicked off with a spa treatment at the hotel,
accessorised by a little private massage of her own. This situation would need careful management.

By the first week in January, everyone was usually relieved that Christmas was over, and itching to get back to normal life. The two-month-tyranny of tinsel was brought to an
end and a regime of plainness restored. People’s rooms looked bigger and starker without their Christmas trees. The cards could be swept off the mantelpiece and into the recycling. Which was
exactly what Jane had decided to do with Rupert.

It had been three weeks since she had seen him, and she was beginning to wonder if she had made it all up. She’d only met him four times, a flimsy basis for wrecking her home life. A bit
of pre-Christmas flirtation, and there she was dreaming of skipping off into the sunset. It was pathetic.

So she had made a New Year’s resolution. It was clear she needed a change, and the thing with Rupert was nothing more than an expression of her desire to escape. It was London that was the
problem; it was time for them to move to the country. It was a realistic goal, and one she should already have pushed harder for. How could you be happy in a city where people were constantly
wishing they lived elsewhere, in a better street, where the desire for an excavated basement could become your overriding concern?

It wouldn’t be like that in the country. Instead of looking enviously over your shoulder, you’d be dancing round the maypole in an equal sort of way. They’d have a big garden,
Liberty could get a pony and apple cheeks, it would be just the exciting new start they all needed.

Fired up by the idea, she had planned a research trip. Her friend Alison had moved out to Sussex and was always inviting her to stay. Now was the time to take her up on it, and see what the
local estate agents had to offer. Will was bound to go along with it once she showed him what they could afford out there. It wasn’t far from Brighton, he could become a regular on that last
train from London she had read about, where actors and bohemians held a non-stop party. He’d love it.

He was at work in his galleria now, so Jane decided to go and break the news. She wouldn’t give him the full picture yet, just let him know she was going away for a couple of days, start
testing the water. She brewed him a cup of green tea with ginseng and honey and made her way up the stairs to begin her campaign. He was sitting at his big desk, surrounded by paper. He could get
an even bigger desk in the country, he could have an entire outbuilding to himself if he wanted.

‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ she began.

‘Well, there’s a first,’ he said, then added quickly, ‘only joking.’ He had been trying to be nicer to her recently.

‘I know,’ she said pleasantly. ‘The thing is, Liberty’s got a few more days’ holiday and I thought I might go away somewhere before she goes back.’ She sat
down in a low-slung chair and looked up at him.

Will frowned. ‘I assume you’re planning to take the monkey with you.’

‘Of course.’

‘Only I’m bogged down here, as you know. I really need to get going on my book.’

‘I know.’

She had a deadline, too, but there was no point in telling him. Will was so autistically sealed into his own world that he was immune to other people’s concerns. But when they moved to the
country she wouldn’t have any concerns, things would be so much better.

‘And I need to get my column clone,’ he went on. ‘I’m doing it on men: the new pariahs, you know, the feminisation of society, how everything’s stacked against us .
. .’

‘I’ll go tomorrow, come back Thursday.’

Will processed this information in terms of how it would affect him. On the plus side, he would have a couple of days of peace and quiet. On the minus side, he had only noticed this morning that
he was a bit short on clean shirts.

‘Fair enough,’ he said, ‘though if you wouldn’t mind throwing in a load of washing before you go. I’d do it myself, only you know the difficult relationship I have
with domestic machinery.’

That was it then. Like he was her commanding officer granting her leave. Or a headmaster authorising an exeat weekend.

‘Don’t you want to know where we’re going?’ Jane asked. He could at least show some curiosity.

He threw his arms up, feigning interest. ‘But of course. Enlighten me! Where does one go for two days in the bleakest month of the year? Morocco, perhaps?’

‘The countryside. Rodmell in Sussex, to be precise.’

‘Aah, the country.
Rus nobilis,
your fantasy land of milk and honey. Well, I suppose you’ll be able to report back to me on the parlous state of the local pond
life.’

‘Pond life’ was the term Will used to describe country dwellers. Unless they had very large houses as well as a flat in London, in which case they were still worth knowing.

‘I thought it would do us good to get some fresh air,’ said Jane.

‘Not my idea of a stimulating break. The country is where people who haven’t made it go to lick their wounds.’

This wasn’t encouraging, but he would see the light once she returned with details of the sumptuous barn conversions they could get for a song.

‘Actually, Rodmell’s not too uncivilised,’ he conceded. ‘The Bloomsbury connection does lift it, you could always visit Virginia Woolf’s house, if you can bear to
fight your way past those National Trust women in their boho headscarves As long as you don’t fill your pockets with stones and walk out into the river.’

‘I doubt if two days of rural living will push me over the edge. We’re going to stay with Alison, now she’s finished all the work on the house.’

‘Ugh. Rather you than me.’

She and Alison had gone through their pregnancies together, locked into one of those close women’s friendships that make men feel excluded. She’d forgotten that Will couldn’t
stand her.

‘She’s really very nice, you just never got to know her properly. Anyway, you can have a nice time here pottering around on your own.’

‘I don’t potter. That’s what
you’re
doing, pottering off to the country. I shall he working. Once I’ve done the column, I need to get going on the book. I
still haven’t quite got my head round the opening chapter. Fear. Courage. The two opposing forces, fighting for supremacy in the mind of the Native American.’

Jane shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.’

He banged his cup down on the desk and pointed his finger at her. ‘No, Jane, it won’t be fine. I don’t do fine. I do fabulous, brilliant, heart-stopping, intellectually
breathtaking. But not fine.’

‘Always the perfectionist,’ Jane said, kissing his forehead, ‘it’s your artistic temperament talking, I quite understand.’

He grunted his acknowledgement, and grabbed her hand as she left. ‘Sorry to be a grouch,’ he said, ‘I really don’t know how you put up with me.’

‘It’s OK, it’s just the stress of the city getting you down. It’s a shame you can’t come with us, I think you need the country as much as we do. You’d see it
could be just the answer for us.’

Will didn’t answer. He hoped she wasn’t going to start that nonsense again about moving out. He had an altogether wider perspective in view.

Jane made her way down the concrete staircase. In the summer it was cool underfoot, but in the winter it was cold and harsh and reminded her of a fire escape. They should have
stuck with the original Victorian stairs, it would have saved them a bomb. Still, that would soon be in the past, and they would have worn oak treads or cosy carpets leading up to a beamed attic
room with a view across the South Downs. It was so right for them to make the move now. Will wasn’t an office slave, he could work anywhere, and he would relax and become mellow in the
country. He would become like he was when they’d first met, loving and attentive.

She cleared the kitchen then went down to the cellar to fetch a bag for her trip. The room was lined with bottles of mineral water, cans of food and a chemical suit that Will had bought to
protect himself from the fallout of a terrorist chemical attack. If the worst happened, they would tape up the windows and eat baked beans until they got the all clear. Will would sit tight in his
chemical suit, but Jane and Liberty would have to take their chances. When Jane asked him why he hadn’t ordered similar outfits for her and Liberty, he said she wouldn’t be interested
in living on in a post-nuclear wilderness, and it would be no place for a child. Also, the suits cost nearly a grand a piece, and there was no point in throwing money away on something you’d
probably never need.

Jane selected a small suitcase and took it up to the bedroom to begin her packing. In went the woollen socks and Wellington boots, the outdated tee shirts and holey old jumpers. The good thing
about the country was that she could indulge her puritannical fondness for wearing old clothes until they fell apart. She then went into Liberty’s room, and pulled out the jeans that were
going at the knee, the sweatshirt that had been once too often through the machine. She was happy to be escaping London, looking forward to breathing fresh air and getting back to basics.

They left the next day after breakfast. Alison said it was less than two hours’ drive, so they should easily be there in time for lunch. Jane hummed to herself as they
crossed the unlovely Hammersmith roundabout, and thought about sitting round a big farmhouse kitchen table. Alison was an enthusiastic homemaker, so it wasn’t too much to expect some
home-made chutney and maybe even a vase of early snowdrops to welcome in the new year.

‘Are we there yet?’ asked Liberty as they drove over Vauxhall Bridge.

‘Not quite. Shall we have a tape?’

‘Video Rose.’

It was her current favourite, a grim modern talc of a girl who does nothing but watch videos all day. At the age of seven Liberty was through with witches and fairies. It lasted them until they
hit the motorway, then Jane turned it off in relief.

‘Have you got any more homework to do before you go back to school?’ she asked, looking at her daughter in the mirror, small and perfect, strapped sensibly behind her seat belt.