A Perfect Home (9 page)

Claire sat back in her chair, not feeling much like eating. She sipped her wine and watched the sun setting at the end of the valley. The sky changed from pink to orange to red and finally to navy. Moths came back and forth to the lights of the patio; the air was thick and perfectly still. Claire stretched out her bare arms on her lap. They looked smooth; fine golden hairs glistening in the light of a candle. She felt unusually aware of her body. Her skin seemed to tingle as if the night was softly stroking her. She tried not to look at Stefan.

As she cleared away the ice cream bowls, William unexpectedly took her hand and kissed it. She saw Stefan quickly look away.

Claire took the bowls into the kitchen and started loading the dishwasher.

‘Shall I wash up these saucepans?'

She turned to see Stefan already standing at the Belfast sink turning on the taps.

‘Do I use this?' he asked, holding up the dishwashing brush.

‘No, that's for the cat's plate,' she said, handing him another brush.

‘You're a very good cook.' He squeezed washing-up liquid into the sink. ‘That was a delicious meal. I thought the salt content was perfect.'

‘Thank you,' said Claire gratefully. ‘Not all my culinary efforts turn out well. I'm a bit hit and miss, with the emphasis usually on
miss
. Do you like cooking?'

‘I love it! I'm renowned for my Moroccan tagine amongst my friends.'

‘How exotic,' said Claire. ‘I'm more of a roast chicken and fairy cake kind of a girl.'

‘That sounds good. I'm never happier than with a nice cup of tea and a fairy cake.'

‘I thought you'd be too macho for fairy cakes,' she teased.

‘I like to get in touch with my feminine side from time to time,' he replied. ‘I told you that yesterday.' He turned to grin at Claire over his shoulder, his hands deep in soapy bubbles.

She was putting knives away in the cutlery drawer; neat lines of wedding-present silver glinted up at her. Suddenly Stefan was standing beside her. She turned; only a few inches of space separated them. She desperately wanted to touch him, just to put out her hand and touch his arm, his chest, his face, to see what he felt like. She took a step back to stop herself.

‘Is this where you keep your tea towels?' He pointed to the drawer below the cutlery drawer.

‘Good guess,' Claire said, opening the drawer and handing him a chequered cloth.

There was a silence. She looked away from him, and when she turned back he was beside the sink again, drying the saucepan.

‘Any coffee yet, darling?'

William stood in the doorway. Claire wondered how long he'd been there.

‘I'll put the kettle on,' she said feeling annoyed. Why couldn't he get it himself?

‘I'd better be going,' said Stefan. ‘I think I'm all done here.' He hung the saucepan up above the Aga and folded the tea towel neatly over the oven rail.

‘What time will you be back in the morning?' asked Claire.

‘Nine thirty OK? I've only got to get a shot of you in your studio and a few more room shots. It should only take an hour or two at most, then I'll be out of your hair for good.'

Claire closed the front door after Stefan had gone and locked and bolted it for the night.

‘Thank goodness for that,' said William, taking off his shoes in the hall.

‘Thank goodness for what?'

‘Thank goodness he's gone. I thought he'd never leave.'

‘I thought you liked him,' she said, surprised by William's sudden irritable tone.

‘Thinks a bit too much of himself, if you ask me.' He was pulling papers from his briefcase, looking for something.

‘He was very helpful in the kitchen.'

‘I suppose you're going to start on me now, about how I should have washed up?' he said gruffly, as he found the document he was looking for.

Claire ignored his remark. ‘I thought you wanted coffee. I've just started making it.'

‘Changed my mind. It's too hot for coffee anyway. I'm going to bed to read this report for tomorrow.'

William disappeared up the stairs. Claire sighed. He had seemed relaxed and cheerful, even affectionate earlier on, but now they were on their own he was suddenly irritable and cross.

She went into the garden to clear the last of the glasses from the patio table and thought how nice it would have been to have sat out in the moonlight for a little while, drinking coffee with William. Years ago they would have done just that and talked for hours before going to bed. Now William always seemed to have something more important to do.

Claire heard a noise and Ben appeared in the doorway, red-cheeked, his yellow curls damp on his forehead. He had taken off his pyjama bottoms and his nappy sagged between his chubby knees. He held up his arms and she picked him up, hugging his warm body close to her. She took him up to change him and as soon as she put him back in his bed he was asleep again.

She began to pick up toys from the floor of his room – wooden train track, farmyard animals, and knights stolen from Oliver's castle. As she turned to put them in the wicker toy basket, a sudden image of Stefan flashed into her mind. She froze in the middle of the room, her hands full of brightly coloured medieval men.

She wondered what would have happened if she really had touched him when he had stood so close beside her in the kitchen. A series of possibilities flickered through her head: Stefan taking her in his arms, leaning down to touch her lips with his. A gentle kiss at first, then harder. Claire breathed in quickly. She was shocked at her thoughts – it was the heat, too much wine, she was tired – but as she went downstairs to turn out the lights she could still feel the imagined pressure of his kiss on her lips.

Their bedroom was pitch black. She lay on her side of the bed facing William's back; it radiated fiery heat. Remembering his affectionate kiss at dinner, she reached out and touched his bare skin, running her fingers lightly over his shoulder.

‘It's too hot,' he said, shifting away from her in the darkness. The window was open but there was no breeze.

Claire couldn't sleep, but it wasn't the heat. Something inside her ached. She turned over and over, wanting the dull pain to go away. She longed to sleep, but every time she let herself relax she saw the image of Stefan again, beside her, bending down to kiss her lips. Claire pushed her hands on to her closed eyes. What was wrong with her?

She must have slept at some point because she woke up to the sound of a bird singing outside. It was still hot, she was damp with sweat, and her head ached. She really must have had too much wine.

Chapter Eight

‘Claire has always been creative. After the birth of her third child she made her hobby into a successful career, turning piles of hoarded vintage fabrics into gorgeous cushion covers, tea cosies and aprons.'

‘Did you get a good night's sleep?' asked Stefan when he reappeared the next morning.

‘Yes, thank you,' Claire lied as she cleared away breakfast. ‘How about you? Did you sleep well?' She peeled a half-eaten slice of toast from the kitchen floor.

‘No, not really.' He picked up a pot of jam and screwed the lid back on.

‘I expect it was the heat and a strange hotel room,' said Claire. She felt shy and self-conscious in his presence now, though he had made her feel so relaxed the day before.

‘I've got a present for you.'

‘Oh?'

‘Well, it's for both of us, really,' he said, delving into the brown paper bag he had been carrying. ‘To share with a cup of tea.'

He held out a small square cardboard box. It was tied with a mass of twirling ribbons and through its cellophane lid Claire saw four fairy cakes exquisitely iced with pastel-coloured swirls and flowers.

‘Where did you get these?'

‘That lovely little patisserie shop you've got in town. I thought they might appeal to you.'

‘I'll put the kettle on,' she said, beginning to feel a little better.

‘Let me give you a hand.' Stefan lifted down two striped mugs from hooks which ran along the dresser shelves.

‘I think your present calls for something more refined than mugs,' said Claire taking two cups and saucers from a glass-fronted cupboard on the wall. Delicate pink camellias decorated the fine white bone china, gold lustre glinted on the cup rims and handles.

They sat once more on the wrought-iron chairs at the table in the garden, drinking tea and eating the iced cakes. Claire had put the phone to answer machine, the children were at school, and Ben was at nursery till lunchtime.

It was even hotter than the previous day. The air was heavy and still. Pale grey clouds started to bubble up on the horizon in front of them.

‘I enjoyed last night,' said Stefan, slowly unpeeling the paper cover from his second cake. Claire watched his long, sun-browned fingers. His hands were large; they looked strong. ‘William seems very proud of his home.'

‘Yes,' Claire said, picking off a small corner of sponge and icing. ‘He is.'

‘I envy you both. You've got it all here.'

‘Have we?'

‘The house in the country, the lovely children, the beautiful garden.'

After a few seconds' pause, he added. ‘The perfect family.'

Claire wasn't sure if he meant it as a question or not. She didn't answer.

They were silent for a moment. Claire took the last bite of her cake. Suddenly it tasted horrible, the pretty icing too sweet, the cloying sponge too difficult to swallow. She took a sip of tea to wash it away.

‘Let's get on with the pictures, shall we?' she said putting the cup back on its saucer. She moved too quickly, the cup tipped onto its side; she tried to right it and instead it toppled onto the stone flagstones with a heart-breaking smash. The sound seemed to echo out across the quiet valley. For a second Claire couldn't move.

Stefan bent down. ‘Maybe it can be mended.' He started picking up the pieces. ‘Or maybe you can replace it?'

‘I don't think that would be possible. It was my grandmother's,' Claire said, taking a tiny shard of painted flower petal from his hand. ‘It was part of her favourite tea set. She was given it by a cousin who was a china decorator in Stoke-on-Trent; she painted it especially for my grandmother's wedding because camellias were her favourite flowers – it's unique, a one-off, I'll never get another.' She felt so sad, as if a heavy weight had descended on top of her. Why was she always ruining things? ‘The tea set is the only thing I have that was my granny's, and until now it was complete.'

Stefan gently touched her arm. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I wish there was something I could do.'

‘Don't worry. I'm being too sentimental. It's just a cup,' she took a deep breath and threw the shard into the flower bed. ‘Let's get these pictures taken shall we?'

‘I'll get my camera,' Stefan said. ‘I've left it in Claudia. And I'd better put her roof up, it looks like rain.'

‘Are you going to tell me why you call your car Claudia?' Claire said trying to sound more cheerful.

Stefan smiled. ‘No. You'll have to wait for that.'

Stefan was taking pictures of Claire and William's bedroom. He worked quickly, moving easily around the room, taking pictures from as many different angles as possible. Claire watched him from the doorway.

He finished and looked back through the shots. ‘Come and have a look.'

Standing beside him she could smell sandalwood and lemons. She had a sudden desire to press her face against his chest, to breathe him in, to keep that smell inside her forever. She moved away slightly and peered at the screen on his camera.

‘It looks good. That wooden sleigh bed is impressive.'

Claire looked at the king-size mahogany bed that dominated the room. She'd always hated it.

‘It was a present from William's mother when …' she paused, she had a sudden urge to tell him about Jack; she decided not to. ‘When Oliver was born.'

Stefan waited as though expecting her to tell him more, then he turned away and started looking thorough his camera lens. ‘I'll just take a few close-ups of your cushions on the bed and then I'll be done in here. Any chance of another cup of tea?'

When Claire came back from the kitchen she found Stefan looking at the photographs on top of the chest of drawers. He held a picture of her wedding day in his hands.

‘How long ago?' he asked.

‘Eleven years,' she replied. ‘Just before we moved here.'

‘You looked very pretty.'

‘I looked awful.' She took it from him. Claire hadn't looked at it properly for years. It was a family group. From behind the glass her mother-in-law stared back at her, tight-lipped and straight-backed, in a huge feather-trimmed hat that looked as ridiculous as Claire's dress. She was standing too close to her only son, her head inclined proprietarily towards his shoulder. Next to her, William's father laughed his usual jolly laugh towards the camera, as if oblivious to his sour-faced wife. Claire's own mother stood slightly apart from the group, husbandless, hatless, and looking dazed in an ill-fitting knitted suit. Claire was clinging on to William's arm as if she might collapse into her huge, white, puffy skirt. Her face looked pale, her smile forced. She remembered how firmly William's mother had laced her into the tight satin corset.

‘I hated that dress. I could hardly move in all that net and chiffon,' Claire told Stefan.

‘Not your choice?'

‘I had bought a red crochet shift dress in Portobello market – a Mary Quant original,' she said, sighing. ‘I imagined I'd be wearing that and we'd get married in the Chelsea Register Office with a handful of friends.'

‘Very sixties rock chick,' Stefan laughed. ‘I like it. I can imagine that wedding picture. You on the steps outside looking glamorous; your groom in a white linen suit and dark glasses.'