Freya North - Rumours

Corridors that started poker straight and then suddenly veered off at angles with stairs to trip and confuse. Room after room after room. With clever wording in the particulars and positioning of furniture for the photos, Stella reckoned she could list twelve bedrooms at least. The three bathrooms were a worry though, not least because the most modern of them all, the only en-suite, was a homage to 1970s design with a corner bath, bidet, basin and toilet in a dull avocado shade.

It surprised her to find they were back on the ground floor. She’d quite lost her bearings.

‘Kitchen,’ Lydia said, opening a door and revealing a space so sizeable that even Mrs Biggins, ensconced in the Daily Mail , looked diminutive. Stella’s heart sank a little. Of all the rooms she’d been fascinated to see, this was the one she’d built up in her imagination. She’d anticipated flagstones and a vast range, scullery, pantry, cold store, gleaming copperware and all manner of utensils of historical importance. Instead, she stood in a large space in which rather nondescript units varnished an unpleasant amber sat haphazardly under a melamine worktop, like bad teeth. The fridge and the oven were free-standing and akin to those she remembered her grandmother having in her small flat in Wheathampstead. At least there was an Aga, if a relatively small one. It was some consolation finally to be shown a sort of pantry with lines of shelves painted soft white and an impressive run of slate worktop. Most of the shelves were empty; the ones that weren’t were stacked with jars of all sizes filled with jam.

‘I’m tired now so you must go,’ Lady Lydia announced, still walking ahead and not turning to look at Stella. ‘You will come back again tomorrow. To see the grounds. To see Art. Eleven a.m. Prompt, please. Mrs Biggins, show Miss Hutton out please. Goodbye.’

And with that, Lydia went.

‘Coat,’ said Mrs Biggins, bundling it into Stella’s arms. ‘Ta-ta, duck.’ And she chortled a little as if, perhaps, this was a scenario that had been re-enacted many times over the years.

The rain had stopped, everything glistened and shone but Stella shivered and put her coat on, hugging it tightly around herself as she walked across the driveway to her car. Inside, she put the heat on high and realized how that old house had quite chilled her to the bone. She thought again of Tess Durbeyfield, how Tess had wondered about Mrs d’Urberville.

‘If there is such a lady, it would be enough for us if she were friendly …’

Stella gave herself a stern talking-to as she raced to pick up Will from after-school club.

Lady Whatnot didn’t say you won’t be representing Longbridge.

She said you’re to come back tomorrow.

Money she may have – manners she has none.

She’s just an old dragon.

But Stella felt despondent – as if she’d failed a test and a carrot that had been dangled in front of her had been snatched away in a harsh peal of upper-class laughter; as if she’d been one of the balls hit around in a game of croquet. Why would she want to work for the old battleaxe anyway? She felt impotent – it seemed she didn’t have a choice. It appeared if Lady Up-Her-Bum wanted Stella, then Stella she would have.

‘Shall we go over and see the Twins? Aunty Ju said it’s fish and chips for supper.’

Will was delighted. Actually, Stella had food prepared at home for Will but her need for adult company – sane, sweet, adult company – overrode her usual timetable of homework, supper, telly, bath, bed and a long evening alone muttering at the telly. She’d phoned Juliet who was only too pleased to hear from her and to be able to help.

‘But it’s a school night, Mummy.’

‘I know!’ Stella said, as if it was the coolest, most daring concept ever.

With Will upstairs with Pauly and Tom, happy not to touch a thing, just to look at their stuff and be in their company as if hoping their cred was catching, Juliet had Stella to herself downstairs.

‘You all right, chook?’ Juliet asked nonchalantly while rooting around the cupboard for the ketchup.

‘Can I borrow a suit, do you think? One of yours?’

‘Well, I hardly thought you meant Alistair’s. Yes, of course.’ She looked at Stella, who looked glum and distracted. ‘But why? There’s not a funeral I don’t know about, is there? Uncle MacKenzie?’

‘No – Uncle Mac is still hanging on. I just need to look a bit more formal and estate-agenty tomorrow.’

‘Charming! Is that your sartorial judgement of me, then?’ Juliet gave her a long look, up and down, as if assessing which suit Stella would be entitled to. ‘You’re not wearing my Paul Smith then – I’ll dig out my old one from Wallis for that!’

Stella laughed. ‘You know what I mean – and I just need not to look like a waitress in a gastro pub.’

‘Firstly – you don’t, you look lovely. Secondly – why?’

‘Awkward client.’

‘Oh?’

‘Lady Up-Her-Bum Fortescue-Barbary OK-Yah Di-Fucking-Da.’

‘Oh,’ said Juliet. ‘ Her .’ She paused. ‘Who?’

‘Lives in a Georgian pile over at Long Dansbury. It’s worth millions. She called for me – and then spent most of this morning being rude yet demanded I come back tomorrow.’

‘Can’t you send someone else from the office?’

‘She asked for me by name.’

‘Perhaps it’s just her manner.’

‘She may be a Lady – but she has no manners. She’s horrible.’

‘Yes, but blimey, Stella – have you calculated the commission?’

‘Exactly – it could be the solution to everything. That’s why I have to go. I’ll have to swallow my morals and sell my soul to the old devil – but hence the need for your suit.’

‘And you think she’ll be more polite if you dress the part?’

‘She said I was to see the grounds and art.’

‘Then you ought to go in wellies and a Puffa – with your own clothes underneath. Not your worky-waitressy garb – your off-duty clothes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because first and foremost you’re an art historian – and that’s who you are. Not a suity person. Dress as the real You.’

‘I’m an estate agent.’

‘In the interim.’ Juliet looked at her sternly. ‘Remember – that’s your game plan.’

Stella’s head dropped a little as she nodded. She fiddled with a frozen oven chip that had missed its place on the tray.

‘And my divorce came through.’

And then Juliet thought, sod the suit – that’s not why she’s here. ‘Good,’ Juliet said. She wiped her hands on her jeans and put her arms around Stella. ‘At long bloody last.’

‘I know.’ And Stella was shocked to feel tears scorch the back of her throat. She attempted to cough them away. ‘Actually, it came last week.’

‘Why didn’t you say?’ Juliet was upset.

‘I felt OK about it. Flat – but OK.’ Her throat still ached. A tear dropped. ‘Shit. I can’t believe I’m going to cry.’ She groaned at herself and stamped.

‘You haven’t heard from him, I suppose?’

Stella shook her head and then reached for some kitchen roll to blow her nose. ‘I’ve been fine – and I’m absolutely fine.’ She was frustrated – more at her tears and herself than at any number of the transgressions that could be pinned on Charlie. ‘Why am I crying now ? I’m not really.’

‘I know you’re not. It’s just relief and closure and you’ve waited a long time for it. Welcome to the rest of your life. Come on, chook. Let’s go and raid my dressing-up box.’ Juliet led the way upstairs, pausing with Stella to watch, unseen, Will sitting on Pauly’s bed in utter heaven as one cousin strummed a few chords on his guitar and the other chewed gum and texted on his phone.