A Perfect Home (29 page)

It was the Monday before Claire's birthday and they had woken to the first frost of the winter. The grass had been so white that Ben thought it must be snow and ran out to try to gather it up into snowballs and Oliver and Emily slipped and slid across the patio pretending to ice skate.

Claire watched them from the kitchen window; it was such a magical scene. She realised she felt happier than she had for a long time. Cradling a cup of tea in her hands she leant back against the warmth of the Aga, and thought about her birthday. She was beginning to look forward to going out with the girls and having a bit of fun.

The sound of wheels on gravel and a thump from the direction of the doormat heralded the morning's post.

As soon as she walked into the hallway Claire could see the copy of
Idyllic Homes
lying on the dark slate tiles. She picked it up, tore off the cellophane wrapping, and held the pristine magazine in her hands. On the cover ‘Special Christmas Issue' was picked out in dark red letters against a picture of their fireplace dressed with holly and candles, Emily Love stockings hung down towards a blazing fire; tempting ribbon-wrapped boxes peeped out of each one – it was their fireplace! A picture from their shoot had made the cover. Claire stared at it and wondered if Stefan was pleased to have his photograph on the front; had he thought about her when he'd seen it? A list of smaller captions were printed beneath the title: ‘The Perfect Gift Guide', ‘Fresh Ways with Seasonal Foliage', ‘A Textile Artist's Inspirational Country House'. Claire flicked through until she found the article. The children had come in from the cold garden and jumped excitedly beside her. The pictures looked beautiful on the glossy A4 pages.

She took the magazine with her to show Sally as she dropped the children off at school.

‘Did you really say this?' asked Sally, as she started reading the text beside the pictures.

Claire hadn't had time to read it in her mad dash to get everyone of the house.

Sally started to read out loud: ‘
Christmas is Claire's favourite time of the year; a time to gather her friends and family around her in her beautifully restored thatched
farmhouse. She likes nothing better than to spend the weeks leading up to Christmas day making heavenly hand-made gifts for family and friends
,
each one uniquely crafted out of carefully sourced vintage fabrics and antique lace and buttons. When all her gifts are exquisitely wrapped beneath her tree, Claire can sit back and relax beside her open fire and reflect on the years of hard work that have made her house such a special place to be at Christmas.
'

‘Where have my heavenly hand-made gifts been then?' asked Sally. ‘And if you've got enough time to sit beside your fire and reflect at Christmas, you can come round and give me a hand instead.'

‘I never told the journalist any of that,' said Claire, trying to get the magazine from her.

Sally turned away from her and read on in an exaggerated voice: ‘
On Christmas morning Claire enjoys preparing her festive feast in her pretty pastel-coloured kitchen. Cooking her turkey slowly in her pale blue Aga the night before gives her and the children lots of time to welcome their many guests to their home and sit beside the tree exchanging presents and drinking mulled wine.
'

‘What?' exclaimed Claire. ‘What really happens is that I race round trying to tidy up all the early morning present-opening carnage before William's parents arrive at nine, and then I remember I've completely forgotten to take the turkey out of the fridge. My mother arrives, William's mother upsets her and makes sarcastic comments about everything, William starts making shelves just as I ask him to help me prepare the vegetables, and I end up drinking a bottle of cheap rioja (that I haven't had time to make into mulled wine) alone in the kitchen, trying not to throw bread sauce at the walls.'

‘So you didn't tell any of this stuff to the journalist?'

‘What do you think?' said Claire. ‘I told her about the house and what it had been like and all the work William did on it and about how I started my business.'

‘I hate to tell you this,' said Sally, who had been finishing the article. ‘It doesn't actually mention William's hard work anywhere in this. In fact, it doesn't mention William at all.'

William phoned at lunchtime.

‘Did you know the magazine is out?' he asked as soon as Claire answered.

Claire felt herself inwardly bracing. ‘We got a copy sent to us in the post this morning after you'd left.'

‘Someone brought it in to work,' William said. His voice was quiet.

‘The house looks lovely, doesn't it?' she said hesitantly. There was silence on the other end of the phone. ‘The children were so excited. They've taken it in to show at school.'

‘Did you read it?' asked William. She could tell he was trying to control his voice.

‘Yes, I did, but it's not …'

‘Not what, Claire?' he asked. ‘Not my house too?'

‘I know but …'

‘When you did the interview did you just forget to mention that I live there as well? Did you just forget to mention your husband, who has worked so bloody hard turning it from a wreck to the sort of house they want to feature in their magazine?'

‘I didn't forget, I …'

‘I thought they hadn't even used the photograph that photographer bloke took of us together, but then I realised that there is the picture of you on our kitchen sofa and that I'd been airbrushed out.'

‘I hadn't noticed that. Oh, William, I'm so sorry.'

‘Don't you think people will wonder how you managed to do all that work on the house and produce three children? A team of friendly builders and immaculate bloody conception?'

‘I'm so sorry, William. I didn't know they were going to make it sound that way. Of course I told the journalist all about you and your amazing hard work. I don't know why she didn't mention you. I'm really upset as well.'

He was silent again.

‘William?' Claire wondered if he was still there. ‘I am sorry, but it's not my fault.'

‘They just used you and our children to fill their pages. Your naïvety in agreeing to do it in the first place amazes me, Claire.'

‘You seemed happy to let them do it too if I remember rightly.'

‘I didn't realise that it would be such a waste of time. What did we get out of it – absolutely nothing!'

‘No, it's not like that,' she said. ‘I've had over twenty orders on my mail-order website this morning and the phone hasn't stopped ringing with enquiries. It's been great free advertising for Emily Love.'

William made a huffing noise and put the phone down.

Claire stood with the receiver still in her hand for a long time. She felt awful. She could understand how hurt he must be.

As she made herself a cup of tea, the phone rang again. She let it ring. She'd spent all morning answering it and couldn't face talking to anyone else. After she'd had an illicit cigarette to recover from her conversation with William she checked her phone messages. It had been William's mother.

Her voice barked out from the answering machine: ‘I saw the magazine today. My cleaner brought it with her. I was surprised, I hadn't realised that it was such a poor publication. What a dreadfully written article. Why didn't they mention William or the help we gave you to buy the house in the first place? And you say that you found all your furniture yourselves, but what about the oak dining table and the console table and your lovely bed? Not to mention the grandfather clock – that clock belonged to William's Great Aunt Rosalind, it wasn't from a reclamation yard, and that watercolour painting in the hall was done by William's father's grandfather, not found in a junk shop! And they didn't show any pictures of the dining room, why are there so many of the kitchen? I've never liked what you did to that room. I hope you –' She was cut off by the bleep. Claire decided to have another cigarette.

By the time Claire realised she was late to collect the children from school, she was taking orders for delivery well after the New Year. The phone had rung and rung. Several shops had placed orders. There had been endless enquiries about one-off commissions. Her mother had sent an email to say how lovely the pictures looked, but wasn't it a shame the article hadn't mentioned that all Claire's Cornishware had been inherited from her great aunt, not bought in car boot sales, as it seemed to imply.

Claire felt exhausted. It was wonderful to have so much interest in Emily Love, but she wished she had asked to see what had been written before publication.

The children came out of school – the only children left as Claire was so late. Mrs Wenham their headmistress bustled behind them, holding a copy of the magazine.

‘What lovely pictures,' she called to Claire as she approached. ‘Oliver and Emily have been like celebrities for the day, haven't you?' She smiled at the two children who looked as tired as Claire felt.

‘It's just a pity,' added Mrs Wenham, as Claire began to walk away with Oliver and Emily, ‘that they couldn't have been wearing their school uniforms in any of the pictures. You know, to give us a bit of a plug.'

Claire thought she was going to scream. Instead she smiled brightly at Mrs Wenham and led the children to the car.

She sat in the driver's seat resting her head on the steering wheel. How many other people could the article possibly upset or disappoint? Perhaps William was right; she had been naïve to agree to it in the first place. More naïve than he could possibly imagine.

‘Why didn't they show any pictures of my doll's house, Mummy?' asked Emily flicking through the magazine again. ‘I tidied it up specially.'

Oliver sunk down in the passenger seat beside Claire.

‘What's wrong with you?' she asked her scowling son.

‘Charlie Bennett laughed at me all day for wearing those stupid striped pyjamas. I'm
so
embarrassed, why did you force me be in the pictures in the first place?'

‘Want it!' Claire heard Ben's shout as she moved the car away from the curb.

‘No, I'm reading it,' said Emily.

‘Mine!'

‘Mum!' Emily shrieked. ‘He's ripped it.' There as a muffled thump and Ben started to cry.

‘Let him rip it up,' muttered Oliver. ‘I don't want to ever see it again.'

‘It's ruined,' Emily cried.

Claire took a deep breath and started to count slowly in her head.

‘We have to go and buy another one
now
Mum!' Emily's angry voice was piercing.

‘No way!' Oliver turned round to try to grab the magazine from his sister's hands. Emily walloped him over the head with it. ‘Mum! Did you see what she did?'

Claire put on the radio and turning it up very loud tried to pretend she was on her own.

Chapter Twenty-six

‘Informal floor-length curtains introduce a country feel to the upstairs rooms.'

William was still only speaking to her in reluctant monosyllables by the morning of her birthday. He grudgingly gave her a cup of tea in bed and handed her a small black box. Inside there was a pair of tiny pearl earrings, just like the ones his mother wore. Claire hadn't worn earrings for years.

‘They're beautiful,' she said, trying to sound grateful. She leant over and gave him a kiss. William grunted.

Oliver and Emily came in with pictures they'd got up early to draw for her. Oliver's was of Macavity engaged in some sort of battle with a fire-breathing robot dragon; fighter planes blasted them from overhead.

‘Lovely,' said Claire.

‘This is you,' said Emily, getting into bed beside Claire to explain her own brightly coloured picture. ‘This is lots of Emily Love bunting and these are some Emily Love cushions, and this is your cake with loads and loads of candles, and here are your presents and some flowers and butterflies.'

‘They're fantastic pictures,' said Claire, hugging the two children. ‘I'll put them on the wall when I get up.'

‘Be careful what you use to put them up with,' said William, who was getting dressed. ‘That sticky stuff you used before left marks and took out a chunk out of the paint.' At least he was speaking normally to her again.

Ben tottered in with a large armful of his toys.

‘For you,' he said, dropping them on the bed on top of Claire before climbing in and snuggling down beside her.

‘They're not proper presents,' said Emily. ‘That's just your stuff, Ben. Mummy doesn't want toys and I bet you'll want it all back in a minute.'

‘It's very thoughtful,' said Claire and kissed the top of Ben's blond head.

Her mother and Brian had sent her a lovely 1950s silk scarf with a Paris street scene printed on it and a book about antique French fabric. William's mother sent a very expensive-looking jar of revitalising eye cream (
A unique mineral complex firms, lifts and reduces the signs of aging
) and a step-by-step cookery book (
Simple recipes and instructions for those just starting out in the kitchen
).

The phone started to ring with more enquiries and orders for Emily Love before Claire had even got the children off to school. Somehow she managed to get them all dressed and out of the house before nine o'clock.

After a quick cup of coffee in the hotel with Sally, Claire went home to try to tackle all the orders that were still pouring in as a result of the
Idyllic Homes
article.

As she drove through the village she passed the huge bonfire that had been built on the green for that night's fireworks party. This would be the first time William would have taken the children to it on his own,
in fact,
Claire thought, maybe it was the first time he had ever been to the village fireworks night at all; usually she was on her own performing a terrifying juggling act with sparklers, hot potatoes, scalding soup, and children in the dark. She shivered with anxiety at the thought of it. She hoped William would have the sense to keep everyone away from the bonfire; she'd advise him to avoid the soup and sparklers and keep Ben strapped into his pushchair at all times.