A Perfect Home (10 page)

‘Your car would be perfect for going away in'

‘I can see the photographs now, they'd be fantastic.'

‘Unfortunately William had other ideas. Or rather his mother did.'

For a start it had to be a church wedding, and not just their local Battersea church, or the red-brick church of her mother's suburban parish, but a pretty country church like the one in the Cotswold village that William had been brought up in. It had to be a traditional wedding – as many guests as possible, champagne, a five-course meal, three-tiered cake, morning dress for all the men, a picturesque setting for the photographs.

So in the end, of course, it was held in William's parents' village, the ceremony taking place in the ancient church where he had been christened, and a marquee on his parents' lawn for the reception.

William's mother had put herself in charge of everything from the guest list to the flowers in Claire's hair, rendering her new daughter-in-law redundant. On the day Claire had felt like an over-dressed guest instead of the bride.

She made a face at the picture in her hands.

Stefan laughed. ‘I take it you have a formidable mother-in-law.'

‘That's one way to describe her. I didn't know how to stand up to her. I'd always considered myself quite feisty, but somehow she just seemed to drain the spirit out of me. It was definitely not the kind of wedding I wanted.'

‘Oh well,' said Stefan shrugging his shoulders. ‘There's always next time.'

Claire looked at him and he grinned back at her and then they both burst out laughing.

All that was left to do were the pictures of Claire working. Stefan asked her to put on one of her Emily Love aprons – red gingham appliquéd with a bird whose wings were made of pearly buttons. He photographed her as if she was hard at work at the table in her makeshift workshop. He positioned piles of her vintage fabrics behind her so that the spare bed wasn't visible and asked her to look as if she was cutting out heart shapes with her big steel scissors. He put brightly coloured reels of thread in front of her, draped ribbon across the table, and sprinkled buttons in between. Without the children and Babette, Claire felt silly posing for the camera.

‘Can you relax a little?' asked Stefan as he looked through his lens. ‘As though I'm not here.'

‘I can't. I can see you. You're definitely here. I feel ridiculous pretending to work.'

‘Talk to me then,' he said. ‘Tell me about Emily Love. Where did the name come from?'

‘I'd just started the business when I answered the phone one day in the middle of telling Emily to turn the television down. It turned out to be someone who wanted to order a cushion. When I answered the first thing they heard me saying was “Emily, love” so they thought that was my business name and it just sort of stuck.'

‘So it could just have easily have been called Turn That Bloody Racket Off?' said Stefan, looking at her through the lens.

Claire laughed and Stefan clicked and clicked.

‘That's better,' he said. ‘Now tell me where you get your vintage fabrics from.'

‘Oh, all over the place. I buy bundles from local auctions, cut up old clothes and curtains from charity shops; friends send me bits they find.'

All the time he took pictures: from the side, from the front, moving to the other side of her.

‘Now let me think. What else can I ask you?'

Would you like to kiss me?
The words popped into Claire's head.

‘Would you like …' Stefan began.

Yes please
, said Bad Claire in her head,
I'll just take my apron off and I'm yours for the rest of the day
.

‘Would you like to move somewhere else in the future, or would it be too difficult to leave such a lovely home?'

For a second Claire found it hard to process what he'd asked. She felt sure he'd notice a sudden flush on her cheeks and the disappointment in her expression.

‘William would never want to leave,' she managed to say, trying to banish Bad Claire to the outer reaches of her thoughts. ‘He adores the house.'

‘I'd imagine you could feel a little jealous,' Stefan said.

‘Of what?'

‘Of the house.'

She felt surprised and slightly annoyed by his comment. ‘William's put in a huge amount of work to make us somewhere so beautiful to live. I'm very lucky.'

Stefan started to look back through the shots he'd taken. ‘You're also very photogenic.'

‘I bet you say that to all the housewives you photograph.'

‘No,' he said, ‘I don't. You also have a very photogenic house and I think there's a lot more of your hard work and talent in this house than you give yourself credit for.' Claire could feel him looking directly at her, even though she had her back to him as she took off her apron. ‘The little touches; ornaments, flowers, the general welcoming atmosphere – they are all you. They're the things that make it such a special home. Not the holes drilled for the damp-proof course or the varnish on the hardwood floors or the monumental bed.' Claire turned around and was struck all over again by how beautiful he was with his strong features and sun-tanned skin. There were laughter lines around his chocolate brown eyes but also a deep groove between his eyebrows that she hadn't noticed until now. ‘I'm sure you could make anywhere you lived lovely.'

Claire didn't say anything but started tidying the table. She took a piece of scarlet ribbon and wound it round and round her fingers.

‘It must be fantastic for your children growing up here,' said Stefan. ‘The sort of home all children should have.'

‘I think it's important to give them a nice environment to live in.' She slipped the ribbon from her hand and put it neatly into a drawer. ‘And as much stability as possible.'

‘Yes, you're right,' he said, slowly packing away his camera equipment. ‘My father left when I was five. I came home from my first day at school and he was gone. I didn't see him again for years. The house we lived in, the house I'd been born in, was sold; my mother married again and again and again – we lived in a series of houses; my sister and I got used to moving schools and having a succession of different step-brothers and sisters. I always knew there was no point settling down anywhere; before long we'd be off. I used to be angry with my mother for giving us such an erratic childhood; why couldn't we ever have stayed in one place? Why did she have to make everything change all the time? But now I realise it must have been hard for her, she had a difficult life.'

‘What about your father?' asked Claire.

‘He decided to relive his youth in a series of bachelor pads, with a series of very young, blonde girlfriends, so no time for us. He even bought himself a two-seater sports car, so no room to take us out either. Both my parents are dead now. My dad crashed his sports car into an articulated lorry on the M50 and my mother died when I was eighteen.' He looked away out of the window. Outside it was beginning to rain. Drops of water ran down the windowpane.

‘My dad left when I was ten,' she said. ‘Suddenly everything I thought I knew had changed as well. He went to live in America with his new wife, got a job as a lecturer in European History at a college out there. I thought I'd be having long summer holidays in California but apart from a few initial birthday cards I never heard from him again.'

‘That must have been very hard for you,' Stefan had turned to face her.

‘It was hard for my mum; she was devastated at the time, depressed for ages. We had to move to a basement flat with no garden and an awful lot of maroon paint. My mother could never be bothered to decorate it; my bedroom looked out onto a brick wall. It was a grim sort of place for a child.'

‘But you haven't let your mother's experiences or your childhood put you off marriage or having your own family. That shows how strong you must be – how resilient.'

Claire shrugged. She'd never thought of herself like that before.

‘In lots of ways my parents' divorce put me off getting married,' Stefan continued. ‘I worry that history will repeat itself and I'll make a mess of it.'

‘Commitment phobic?'

Stefan looked sharply at Claire in the pause that followed she wondered if she shouldn't have been so direct.

‘No. Just frightened of hurting other people. Frightened of being hurt.'

Stefan's eyes were focused on hers, his face serious, the groove in his forehead deeper. Claire knew she should look away but she couldn't let go of his gaze. He turned away and picked up his camera bag.

‘My sister is the opposite of me,' he said. ‘She's married to a lovely bloke and they have a nice house with two great kids. She's made the family home my mother never managed to, while I've made a career of looking at other people's homes through a camera lens rather than making my own – it just feels safer for me that way.' He laughed. ‘Listen to me analyzing myself, it must be the effect you have on me. You're so easy to talk to, have you ever thought about being a therapist?'

‘I'll be sending you the bill later.'

‘Maybe I need more than one session,' he looked at her and smiled.

Claire felt suddenly flustered and looked away. ‘It's always sad to see the effect of someone's home breaking up. It's the children who always seem to suffer,' she folded up a length of paisley cotton and put it in a wooden chest.

‘You'd never do that to your children,' he said, as though it was a fact. ‘You'd never mess up their lives; spoil everything you and William have.'

‘No,' she said slowly. ‘I'd never do that. Making them a happy home is the most important thing for me – I'd hate my children to have the sort of childhood I had.'

Stefan stood up. ‘I'd better go; let you get on with your life.'

As they started descending the stairs, Claire felt as if she was losing something with every step. Hope perhaps. But hope of what?

‘Maybe you should stay until this rain stops,' she suggested. ‘I could give you lunch. A Marmite sandwich if you like?'

‘Thanks but I'll be all right,' said Stefan. ‘I've got to get back. I promised I wouldn't be late.' Who had he promised?

At the bottom of the stairs he turned to Claire and smiled.

‘It's been a lovely couple of days. Thank you.' He said it with a formality that made her want to shake him. ‘It was nice to meet you.'

In her head Bad Claire screamed,
Don't leave me here; take me with you.
Good Claire was horrified that she was capable of thinking any such thing.

‘It's been lovely meeting you too. I'll look forward to seeing the pictures in the magazine.'

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, a light brush with his lips, and then he opened the front door and went out into the rain. Claire stood in the doorway unable to move. She wanted to run out, run out to him and say … say what?

He was getting into his car, waving through the rain. He had turned on the lights and windscreen wipers. Claire stood and watched, waiting for the crunch of the wheels on the gravel, but suddenly he was out of the car again, lights and wipers still left on, but he was running back.

‘I just thought,' he said, standing dripping in the rain in front of her. ‘It's my sister's birthday next month. I think she'd love one of your aprons – like the one with the bird and buttons you had on today. She's been very good to me since I came back to London. I'd like to thank her for all the Sunday lunches and dinners she's made me. I always call her the domestic goddess so an apron would be very appropriate.'

‘OK. But I don't know your address or even your phone number.'

‘I'll email you,' he said. ‘I'll email you through your website.'

He leant forward and kissed her cheek again and ran back to the car. The sky lit up with a flash of lightening closely followed by thunder, then she heard the gravel crunch of wheels on stones, and the air filled with the smell of wet lavender as his car brushed by the bushes on the edge of the drive.

Claire stood in the doorway, staring at the empty drive, unable to move, the sensation of his kiss still on her cheek. At last she took a deep breath and looked at the watch on her wrist. Ben! She was late for Ben! She rushed into the house and ran around collecting keys, her purse, a raincoat from under the stairs, a raincoat for Ben.

In the car, she couldn't remember which pedal the clutch was. Her brain refused to work. It was as if she was trying so hard not to think of him that she couldn't think at all.

Somehow she managed to drive through the heavy rain to the nursery and to look interested while the nursery assistant read out a list of his morning activities.

‘Making sand pictures, song and dance, toast and fruit at snack time; he only ate the toast again, I'm afraid. Two number ones in the toilet and one in his pants.'

‘How lovely,' said Claire.

Chapter Nine

‘Wooden toys and games mix happily with antique furniture and junk-shop finds. The children's brightly coloured artwork lines the walls alongside Victorian paintings and contemporary prints.'

After picking up Ben, Claire went into town and bought sliced ham and cheese at the delicatessen, fruit from the greengrocers, and two loaves of olive bread from the bakery. She didn't feel capable of cooking that day.

She noticed that the Women's Institute market was on in the town hall and wondered if they had the strawberry jam the children liked for sale.

‘Coo-ee, Claire,' Claire heard her name being called out. Sally's grandma, sitting beside a table that was covered in patchwork quilts and knitted baby clothes. It was obviously her week to man the W.I. handicraft stall. Sally's grandma's name was Mrs Needles (Nana Needles to Sally and her great grandsons). Claire always thought it was a wonderful name, most suitable for Mrs Needles because she spent every minute of her spare time knitting or sewing or quilting or embroidering some item or garment of clothing. Claire looked down at Mrs Needles's lap and saw that she was in the final stages of a cross-stitch version of Van Gogh's Sunflowers.