The Perfect Retreat (28 page)

Ivo nodded. ‘Thanks.’ He started to walk away.

‘I don’t think she meant it,’ he said as he turned back to his new housemate.

‘Who? Kitty?’ asked Merritt.

‘No, Willow. I think she was under enormous stress and while it doesn’t give her the right to say or do what she did to Kitty, she just lost it. I think it was actually about everything,’ said Ivo slowly, thinking. ‘She’s not a bad person, she’s just a bit out of touch with the real world,’ he said.

Merritt said nothing. He went back to the earth, and Ivo walked away.

He had run through his time with Willow over and over again in his mind. It was as though there were two sides to her: a lovely, warm person and then a spoilt brat with a huge sense of entitlement. Her treatment of Kitty was
unforgivable
, thought Merritt, but when she had revealed her secret to him and to Lucy, he had been shocked. No wonder she was so insecure, he thought as he packed up his tools and headed back to the house. Kerr cheating on her, denying her child was clearly not right, no money, accolades for an Oscar that didn’t really exist.

As he walked towards the house, he saw a flash of blue in the grass. He picked up Lucian’s Thomas the Tank Engine. He would miss that, thought Merritt, and he wiped away the dirt from its little face and put it in his pocket.

Ivo was back within the hour and had set up in one of the draughty bedrooms of the manor.

He found the letters where Merritt had said they would be, next to the new computer that Willow had installed.

‘Did Willow leave this here?’ asked Ivo as he sat down at the screen.

Merritt looked over from where he was sorting through the accounts on the sofa.

‘Yes, she sent for most things, gave a list to the packers, but she left that and a few other items here,’ he said. ‘I think she forgot about it. I’ll return it to her,’ he said distractedly.

Ivo nodded and opened up the internet browser. ‘I might use it for a bit then, if that’s alright?’

‘Go for it,’ said Merritt.

Ivo sorted through the pile of papers on the desk and found
a black linen-covered sketchbook. He opened it and saw
individual
pictures of every room in Middlemist. On the other side of the page, fabric swatches were pasted onto
the paper, with images cut from magazines and printed off the
internet with recommendations for the interiors of the rooms.

Paint swatches were also included, as were images of light fittings, even taps and door handles, and notes in an uneven scrawl.

‘Here you go, you left your book here,’ said Ivo. He stood up and passed the book to Merritt and went back to his desk.

Merritt looked at the front and was about to say it wasn’t his until he opened it. His heart skipped a beat. Every page was a work of art and inspiration. Her choices were perfect and considered, he thought. As he leafed through the book, he saw how much care she had taken, writing little notes about the way the sun came through the windows in certain rooms, their draughts and their sounds.

He turned to the last page and gasped. There was a picture of the front of the house, dressed in wisteria for the film, the light shining on it. Willow had cut some figures out of a photograph from the Blessings shoot and pasted them on top of the photograph of the house. Willow in all her glory, the kids smiling and Merritt standing behind her proudly. George the dog was actually sitting down for a brief moment. The photographer had taken it for the light reading, but Willow must have got him to print it out for her.

She had written underneath. ‘
Merritt and Willow Middlemist and their children at their newly renovated family home, Middlemist House
.’

And then she had drawn a big smiley face beneath it.

‘Don’t worry Merritt, I’m only teasing.’

And Merritt felt his stomach tighten, as it always did when he thought about what he had lost. His eyes ran over the collage of faces again and he looked at the old house in the background of the image.

Please let her come back to me
, he wished silently.

Somewhere he heard a door slam and he jumped a little and then closed the book of everything that could have been.

Kitty rang the bell of the elegant Georgian townhouse, and it was opened almost immediately by Harold.

‘Hello Katinka,’ he said regally, with a little bow.

‘Hi Harry,’ she said, and she kissed his cheek shyly.

‘Come in, come in; I have the Assam tea steeping,’ he said, and he led Kitty into the hallway. The walls were painted vermilion and every part was covered in art. Most of the pictures were in gilt frames: Russian and Greek icons, mirrors concave and flat, a huge portrait of a nude woman bathing over a seashell. Kitty looked up, her eyes feasting on the lavishness of Harold’s taste.

Harold watched her taking it all in. ‘Come into the sitting room,’ he said, and Kitty followed him to the small but cosy room.

The same vermilion colour covered the walls and even more art surrounded them. The deep purple velvet sofa was piled high with cushions of every colour and candles of different sizes filled in the fireplace.

A small Moroccan table sat to the side of the sofa and a large wooden coffee table was in the centre of the room. Snuffboxes and books covered it, along with a huge crystal ball. Kitty wondered whether it would foretell her future if she peered into it.

‘I call this interior style “Jackie Collins meets opium den”,’ said Harold cheerfully.

‘It’s amazing,’ said Kitty truthfully.

She had called Harold from her small hotel when she first arrived in London. He had been insistent she stay with him.

‘My secretary has headed abroad for a time and I’m lost without her,’ he had said. ‘Perhaps you can fill in for her.’

‘But I can’t do any typing or reading or anything,’ she had protested.

‘Yet,’ Harold had said firmly, ‘you will. Meanwhile I need someone to answer the phones, take messages – you can tell me them using a small Dictaphone perhaps – make the tea, do a tidy-up,’ said Harold.

Kitty had paused, wondering about his intentions, and Harold had sensed it.

‘Don’t worry my dear Kitty, you’re far too young for me. I like them around thirty,’ he had said and Kitty had laughed.

Staying in a hotel for the time in London while she found a teacher to help her with reading would eat away at her meagre inheritance, which Merritt had released to her when she left Middlemist.

Also, she thought being with someone else would be nice company, especially someone as witty and clever as Harold.

Now she was in Harold’s house with her small bag of belongings and hope in her heart, where once there was none, that she might be able to conquer reading.

Harold insisted she join him for tea and then she could head up to her room and do as she pleased. He was out for the evening; the opera, to which Kitty declined the invitation.

After tea and divine shortbread, which Harold had had flown down from Scotland, Kitty learned, he took her up to her room.

She almost cried when she saw its beauty. A wooden
four
-poster bed in the middle of the room against a delightful wallpaper of sprigs of daphne that looked as old as the house but perfect.

The bed had a canopy of dove-grey silk and the linen was white, with a blue silk patchwork counterpane over the foot. The rug was large and dark brown with a woven pattern of a basket of flowers in each corner, and a chintz armchair that looked as though it had taken the weight of a thousand behinds sat peacefully in the corner, with a small footstool in front of it.

Bookshelves lined with books and decorative plates highlighted the room, as did a gorgeous window that overlooked the street below. The mantelpiece was bare except for a silver box, and a small fire was laid ready to be lit in the grate.

‘Oh it’s lovely,’ cried Kitty.

Harold beamed. ‘It
is
lovely. Many a famous body has lain in that bed after too many clarets downstairs,’ he mused. ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ said Harold. ‘Make yourself at home, bathroom next door. I’m on the next floor. I like to be in the ivory tower, overseeing everything.’ He laughed and Kitty kissed his cheek.

‘You are so kind to me. Why, I have no idea – I hardly know you,’ she said, her eyes brimming with tears.

‘I know enough about you to have you stay with me,’ he said and he smiled as he walked to the door. ‘Will Ivo be visiting you here?’ he asked innocently.

Kitty’s face darkened. ‘No,’ she said, and went to look out of the window.

Harold nodded. ‘Right then,’ he said and he left Kitty in peace.

Kitty set about exploring her room. The thoughtfulness of Harold towards his guests was delightful. The silver box on top of the mantelpiece housed chocolate coins by Debauve & Gallais. If Kitty had been able to read the label, it would have told her that they were the chocolates which were
originally
made for Marie Antoinette, but she just popped one in her mouth, the delicious flavour melting over her tongue. The cabinet at the end of the bed disguised a
state
-of-the-art television and DVD player.

A small brass carriage clock sat on the bedside table along with a bowl of grapes, a notepad and pen and a phone.

The desk in the corner of the room was bare except for a crystal vase of purple roses, whose scent filled the room. Kitty opened the centre drawer and a set of stiff blue stationery with Harold’s address on it sat neatly inside with a pen and a box of stamps.

The wardrobe had scented paper lining the drawers, padded satin hangers and garment bags for travel. It was the most supremely elegant room Kitty had ever seen and she wondered how on earth she would be able to leave.

Downstairs, as he made more tea, Harold was thinking.

There was no doubt that Ivo was in love with the girl. He had seen them in between takes on set, sometimes with Willow’s children in tow.

Willow had told him that Ivo visited her most evenings at the house. A shame, thought Harold as he pottered about his white and blue kitchen. The boy seemed better when he was with Kitty; less anxious and cocksure.

Harold knew enough about love after his four marriages to understand heartbreak. The women he chose were works of art; beautiful. He was a collector of beautiful things, but they didn’t last, he thought as he rinsed a delicate white cup carefully.

No more marriages, he decided; no more beautiful women. He felt fatherly towards Kitty, although he wasn’t sure why. She was lovely, but not his type – too French, he thought; he preferred cold, distant and fragile. Kitty’s warmth leapt out at you and her gentleness, her childlike enthusiasm, was intoxicating. No wonder Ivo fell for her. She was the realest person he had met in a long time.

Yes, he decided, as he put away the china in the ancient Japanese tea cabinet, it was a shame to let love linger with no reward; and he decided that he would be Cupid. He had a bow and arrow and a set of wings in storage. Now he just had to retrieve them and get to work, he thought as he climbed the stairs to his ivory tower.

Willow sat outside the room waiting for the psychologist and the speech therapist to finish testing Lucian.

Poppy and Jinty had already been assessed, but the psychologist had insisted she come back with Lucian to ‘look at a few things’.

Willow, in a panic, had rung her mother in New York.

‘What do you mean he’s not talking yet?’ Janis had screamed down the phone.

‘Mom, you knew this,’ she said, in an equally high-pitched tone.

‘I didn’t, I mean I did, but still,’ said Janis.

‘Janis, you never see them, you never come over; I offer all the time but you say you don’t want to leave your practice,’ said Willow tearfully. ‘I have had the worst time in my life and you haven’t bothered to help me. Didn’t you think I might need some help? I know you’re all about this being my journey and my independence but I need some help here,’ said Willow, her voice breaking.

Janis was quiet on the end of the phone.

‘Mom?’ cried Willow.

‘We’re on our way,’ said Janis and she hung up the phone.

Willow wasn’t quite expecting that to be the outcome. It was true that Janis and Alan were avoiders when it came to their daughter and her problems. They were so proud of her successes and her glory, but they refused to see she might not be coping, for that would mean they had failed in their alternative style of parenting that they had written books about.

Willow had no idea where she was going to put them if they decided to stay with her. She was half hoping they wouldn’t come, although she could do with the help.

She could only afford the nanny when she was actually working, not full time. Just last night she had been up twice to Jinty, who was restless with the new sounds from the street outside. Poppy had refused to dress that morning and was now at the park with the nanny and Jinty, wearing her pyjama bottoms, a ballet skirt and a bikini top.

The women walked back into the room with another younger girl and Lucian.

‘Can we have a chat with Mummy while Penny stays with you?’ asked the speech therapist. Willow felt the knot of fear tighten in her stomach. It had been there for almost two years, since Kerr had left. It had disappeared at Middlemist but it had found her again in London, she thought as she followed the women into an office and sat down facing them.

‘How is he?’ asked Willow anxiously.

‘We think Lucian has a disorder known as dyspraxia,’ said the speech therapist slowly.

‘Is it terminal?’ asked Willow, tears filling her eyes.

‘It’s not a disease,’ said the woman gently. ‘It’s a
neurological
speech development issue.’

Willow took the tissues that one of them set out before her and she wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I’m having a tough time at the moment,’ she said.

‘It’s a very stressful time when a child is diagnosed with something like this, but please take heart that this is treatable,’ said the speech therapist.