Don't Marry Thomas Clark (11 page)

‘Oh, don't worry,' he reassures me, opening the door and ushering me inside. ‘I promised Thomas I'd take care of the house while he's away.'

‘He… isn't here, then?' I ask in surprise, standing by the doorstep.

‘No,' he answers laconically.

‘Did he say when he'll be back?'

‘I'm afraid not,' he confirms, with an embarrassed look. Even though he's trying not to show it, he's clearly surprised by my questions. It's understandable: who would imagine that Thomas Clark's future wife wouldn't know where he is? I've slipped up there. I need to be more careful in the future, if I want to keep hold of my advance payment.

‘Could you show me my room, please?' I ask, opting for a less risky topic of conversation.

‘Of course,' he answers promptly. ‘We decided to put you in Lady Clark's old room. It's right through here,' he says, indicating the living room with his hand.

He turns on the lights and we walk through the entrance hall and past the sofas until we reach the stairs. As we go, I look at the furniture, the curtains and the paintings, remembering my visits here in times past. I immediately notice the old oil painting of Thomas's grandfather, I find the porcelain showcase in the same place where it used to be, just like the grandfather clock, still by the window. Nothing has changed. Everything is just as I remembered it, and if I close my eyes, I can almost smell those big cigars the count used to smoke. The atmosphere is so evocative that I can practically hear the governess calling my name from her room to offer me a biscuit. But there's no sound.

I suddenly feel very nostalgic. It's only really sinking in now that Sir Roger is not among us anymore.

‘Are you feeling okay?' Joe asks, walking back over to me.

‘Yes, thanks,' I nod, blinking away my tears. ‘Let's go.'

He looks around the room in an attempt to identify the cause of my sudden change of mood, but, not finding anything, nods at me and leads me upstairs to the door of a bedroom on the second floor. He puts my bags on the bed and I wish him goodnight, then, once left alone, I make a couple of phone calls, take a shower and then decide to take a look around the house. By the time I get back to my room, dinnertime is already long past, and, since I'm not feeling at all hungry, I decide to postpone everything and go straight to bed.

The next morning, at nine, I wake up to the sound of a distant bell and crackling gravel. By the sound of it, a car is approaching. I hear a car door slamming just under my window, followed by an indistinct buzz of voices, in which I can make out Joe's and that of a girl, presumably Clementine. I can't get back to sleep, so I get up and head for the bathroom, taking some jeans, a white shirt and a blue sweater with me, and less than an hour later I'm walking across the landing, determined to have an indecorously huge breakfast.

As I'm walking towards the stairs, wondering if there'll be anybody in the kitchen I can ask about where to get my hands on a cup of coffee, I hear a woman's voice from below.

‘Are you quite sure there's nothing I can do for you?'

I can only guess at who she might be, but I think I know who she's talking to.

Curious to discover who this lady intruder is, I quickly descend the stairs and sneak along the corridor, trying to find a safe place from which to spy on the living room. Behind the sofa, I see a blonde girl in a very tight, very short white dress. She's making small talk and flapping her arms around in a vain attempt to catch Thomas's attention, but unfortunately for her, his brain is totally engaged by his phone.

‘No, I think I have everything,' he replies curtly, ‘but I'll e-mail you if there's anything missing.' She doesn't seem to care too much about what he says – she's probably used to his way. In fact, I have to admit that she reacts rather elegantly: she nods slightly, pulls a very feminine face and starts wandering among the sofas and armchairs, admiring the room's walls.

‘It really is a magnificent house,' she comments, entranced.

‘What?' he asks, lifting his eyes from his smartphone.

‘The property. It's a magnificent place,' she repeats, gesturing around her at the room.

‘Oh, yes… It was mainly my grandmother's idea to renovate the place. She had very good taste,' he explains, throwing his phone onto the sofa and putting both his hands in his pockets.

‘When was the last time you came here?'

‘A few years ago.'

‘Won't you miss the city?' The way she says it, you could almost imagine that ‘the city' actually meant her – probably totally naked and covered in chocolate sauce.

‘It's only temporary.'

‘Miss Ward, everything's ready,' a man in uniform interrupts them, appearing from the balcony.

‘I'm coming,' she answers, waiting for him to go away before whispering allusively, ‘It's time for our goodbyes, apparently…'

‘Agnes, I'm not sure when I'll be back in London. I'd like you to take care of the Peking buyers while I'm here. Have a detailed report about Coral Industries' managing costs ready for me, and try and arrange a meeting with Mark Wood for next weekend. Explain to him that I won't be able to join him in Boston, so we need to find an alternative solution.'

Why do I have the impression that was not the answer she was hoping for?

‘Thomas! I'm leaving and all you can talk about is work?' She pulls a sulky face, but his lack of a reaction makes it clear that the mountain will just have to collapse humiliatingly towards Mohammed this time, unless it wants to change its status on you&me.com.

Determined not to let him send her away, Agnes adjusts strategy and drapes herself panther-like, across his broad shoulders. The sight is quite disheartening, because I can't for the life of me see how this girl and I even belong to the same
species
– she's definitely in the ‘sexually active female' category, while I'm probably in ‘work in progress', ‘closed for the holidays' or ‘business for sale'.

‘Won't you miss me at all?' she teases him, playfully fingering his collar.

‘Agnes, I thought I'd made it clear,' he answers, sounding annoyed, ‘I'm about to get married. Our relationship is over. Forever.' And he walks away from her, a tense expression on his face.

‘I really don't understand you. What happened?' she asks furiously. ‘What made you change your mind all of a sudden? And don't tell me you're in love with her, I know you too well to fall for that. You're allergic to commitment.'

‘Well perhaps I've changed!'

‘Yes, of course you…' I cover my mouth with both hands, realizing I was thinking aloud.

‘Did…Did you hear something?' she asks, looking around.

‘What?'

‘I thought I heard…'

‘Look, Agnes,' he starts again, ‘believe me or not, I'm going to marry Sandy in six months. Arguing about it won't change the facts. Now, please – go. Luke's just texted me. He's waiting for you at the gate.'

I don't know how she does it, but she somehow manages not to lose her cool and remains glacially indifferent. If I was in her shoes I'd have already smashed Sir Roger's walking sticks across Thomas's teeth, but I suppose, like all of Thomas's partners, she considers it beneath her to succumb to such low instincts. She lifts her nose, turns around and walks off stiffly, high heels clicking, probably secretly wishing she'd drowned him in the punchbowl.

‘Very well, as you wish,' she says, giving him one last glare from the doorstep. ‘You have my number – when you come back to your senses, give me a ring,' and then she's gone, slamming the door behind her.

Wow. What a woman! And did you notice how her hairdo stayed perfect even while she was noisily sashaying across the brick floor? Poor Thomas. This is probably not the ideal moment to remind him of my presence – not when he's just been forced to send away the anorexic version of Jennifer Lopez without even a peck on the cheek. But anyway, I really need some coffee, so without any further ado I decide to head off silently towards the kitchen. But as I turn around, I accidentally bump into a small table and a vase – a priceless one, by the look of it – tumbles to the floor and smashes into thousands of pieces right in front of my eyes.

‘Please, come in,' says Thomas from the other room.

I can no longer pretend I'm not hiding behind the door, so I peer out, a guilty look on my face, but have the decency to spare him a happy ‘Welcome back!'

‘Thomas,' I whisper while looking around the room for him. He's still by the bookshelf, arranging some very important-looking folders in a suede bag without looking up.

‘Sandy,' he replies unenthusiastically.

‘I'm so sorry about the vase, I didn't mean to, really. It was an accident,' I start explaining. ‘But I'll pay for it, just let me know how much it was worth.'

‘Don't worry about it.'

‘I'm serious…'

‘Don't worry about it,' he says again, sounding annoyed.

‘But it must be worth a fortune. It wouldn't be fair.'

He studies me silently for some time, then rubs his chin and says nonchalantly, ‘It's a reproduction of very little value. When I knew you were coming I had the ornaments and silverware substituted.'

‘You think I'm a
thief
?'

‘To avoid entering into a discussion about your unexpectedly sharp nose for business, as we both know how
that
would end, I will try and avoid any comment. I will inform you, though, that the only reason for my precaution is the desire to protect my property from your innate clumsiness. A trait you have just proved you still possess with your amusing destruction of a vase which had survived over fifty years of fires, house moves and ordinary maintenance.'

‘I'm always very impressed by the number of adjectives you manage to include in a single sentence when you're trying to insult me,' I comment, crossing my arms. ‘It seems to be in proportion to the lack of any real content.'

‘A lack caused by the total absence of charm in the subject under discussion,' he answers, smiling sarcastically.

‘Yes, you must be right,' I confirm. ‘I just met one of your confidantes – the lady who just left. If she fulfils your standards, that would explain why being around someone with an IQ higher than an armadillo doesn't do much for you.'

‘Wh..? What…'

‘Never mind,' I interrupt. ‘I imagine you're not in the mood for small talk. I only came downstairs to say hello, but given your attitude I think I'll get changed and go for a walk.'

‘Wait a second,' he intercepts me at the door. ‘Before you go, I'd like you to take this,' and he gives me one of the documents from his bag.

‘What is it?' I ask, snatching it from his hands.

‘Nothing special, just a list of conditions that I think are necessary for us to live together without it turning into a battlefield. I simply took the obligations you agreed to respect when you signed the contract and added a few notes about things to avoid doing during your stay in Canterbury. I suggest you take a look.'

I quickly scan through the list and find the things I already knew plus a few more: ‘Do not listen to loud music,' ‘Do not alter the interior design in any way,' ‘Do not disturb Thomas while he's working,' ‘Do not eat on the sofa,' and, at the end of the list, underlined in red
three
times, there it is again – ‘Do not touch the cat!'

That takes the biscuit… I've looked everywhere in the house: there are no cats!

‘Thomas,' I murmur doubtfully, frowning, ‘this list is incomplete.'

‘What are you talking about?' he says and takes it back to check it. ‘I don't think so. It's all in there,' he confirms after reading through it again.

‘No, look…' I repeat, pointing to the document. ‘You forgot to include “Thou shalt not kill,” “Thou shalt not steal” and “Thou shalt have no other gods before me”.'

The following weeks pass quite calmly. Thomas spends most of his time out of the house, and when he does come back home, usually late at night, he's sequestered away in his study with his laptop. I spend my days arranging the opening of the bistro. Since I can't be there to keep an eye on the progress of the refurbishment first hand, I take care of whatever I can via phone or e-mail. Everything seems to be coming along quite nicely, for the moment – the floor's finished and the counter has been ordered. Our biggest problems are with the suppliers. It's hard to choose from all the different offers, but luckily, thanks to his job, my father knows a few businesspeople and we seem, somehow, to manage to take any problem that comes up in our stride. The work goes on, driven forward by our enthusiasm.

For example, this morning I went out much earlier than I'm used to in order to have a look at the local eating places. After wandering around the bakeries, pubs and street vendors and taking notes, I came back to Garden House, and am now drinking a cup of tea on the terrace, trying to think of a couple of example menus. Debby just called. She can't decide which floral wallpaper to get. I would have preferred to paint everything lime green, but I was in the minority: we took a vote, and vintage design won out.

I sigh. My phone's in my hand and I've been staring at Mike's number for half an hour now, wondering if I should message him or not. What if he doesn't answer? It wouldn't be the first time… No, I don't think I'm psychologically prepared for that yet!

Suddenly, a voice interrupts my thoughts.

‘Hello Miss Price, how are you?'

It's Joe. His hands are greasy and his face is covered in dust. He's wearing an overall and he's walking towards me with heavy steps, smiling.

‘Fine,' I thank him, putting the telephone back into my bag. ‘What happened to you?' I ask, as I close my notepad.