Just Friends (34 page)

She led Jack down a dark passage lined with muddy boots and empty wine bottles, and brass hooks laden with coats and hats, fishing nets, coiled rope, plastic supermarket bags, and dog leads. They entered a large room with a beamed ceiling, bare stone floor, and windows on two sides. Jack blinked in the dusty sunlight. It seemed to be a kitchen, though not of a kind he recognized: no fitted cabinets, no gleaming implements, not even a refrigerator, unless you counted that tiny thing covered in flying duck magnets. A big wooden dresser stood against one wall, crammed with jugs and plates. Its flat surface was stacked higgledy-piggledy with newspapers, letters, plastic flowerpots, clothes-pegs, seed packets, and a hairbrush. There was a deep, square stone sink with tarnished brass taps and a yellow stain where water had dripped. In the center of the room a long oak table was laid for five. Something was simmering on a funny-looking, old-fashioned stove, its burners protected by round metal lids, like airlocks on a submarine. A delicious smell of cooking filled the room, spiced with a waft of sweet peas from an earthenware jug and just a soupçon of dog blanket.

“Outside, probably,” Freya said cryptically. She strode across to the open window, and—as if this was perfectly normal—climbed onto the sill by means of a sturdy block of wood, evidently placed there for this purpose, and jumped down the other side. Jack clambered after her, with the sensation of stepping through a looking-glass into an enticing wonderland. He found himself in a small garden, enclosed by high green hedges and quartered by stone paths.

Freya strode toward a shadowed archway in the hedge, then turned and stopped to wait for him. He could hear voices now, female voices, raised in argument.

“But, Mummy, it’s
my
wedding,” one protested petulantly.

“I know, darling, but you simply can’t ask poor Reverend Thwacker to read out The Song of Solomon in church. Can she, Guy?”

There was a resonant smack of wood on wood, then a softer click, and a triumphant male voice shouted, “Got you!”

Jack felt his forearm gripped in a hand of steel. “Remember,” Freya commanded. “Boyfriend. Madly in love. I am marvelous.”

Jack felt a flicker of irritation. He would play this game his own way. He was perfectly confident of charming the entire family—Freya included. He took her hand and pulled it through his arm, feeling the tension in her. “Just call me darling,” he said, and they walked through the archway together.

It was an archetypally English scene. Ahead of them stretched a long, level lawn freckled with daisies and bounded by a high hedge, with the interlocking curves of green hills beyond. There was one of those elegant, spreading conifers—cypress? cedar?—casting its shade onto a huddle of striped deck chairs and a wrought iron table bearing a tray of drinks. No one noticed them at first. Two women stood with their backs to him, each leaning on their croquet mallets as they watched a man in a panama hat bending to position his ball by one of the white hoops. He straightened, shaded his eyes, and gave a joyous shout. “Freya!”

She tugged Jack forward a few paces, then stopped uncertainly.

The man hurried toward them. He was tall and lean, and so like his daughter that Jack almost laughed aloud: same oval face, same long nose and oblique smile, even the same set to the shoulders and tilt of the head. Only the coloring was different; Freya’s eyes and hair must have come from her mother.

“Here at last.” Freya’s father wrapped his arms around her in an eager, uninhibited hug. “How marvelous!” He stroked her hair in a tender gesture, and beamed.

“Hello, Freya. Lovely to see you.” This must be Annabelle, a handsome, matronly woman in a flowery, calf-length skirt and white blouse. Her dark hair was striped with gray, and held off her broad brow with a hair band. Her face was worn, but pleasant. She didn’t
look
like a wicked stepmother. Freya allowed herself to be kissed on both cheeks.

The younger woman hung back, swinging her mallet. She was a pretty brunette with high color, full lips, and slanted eyes that met Jack’s knowingly. She wore white trousers cut off below the knee and some kind of sleeveless top that displayed smooth, rounded arms.

“Hi, Freya.”

“Hi, Tash.”

They kept their distance, looking at each other with appraising eyes and tight smiles.
Ouch!
thought Jack.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Annabelle stepped toward Jack with a welcoming smile, her hand extended. “And you must be Michael,” she said.

Jack felt his arm grabbed again. “This is Jack,” Freya told them all, with an air of defiance. “My—friend, Jack Madison.”

“I’m so sorry—” Annabelle flushed.

“I did tell you,” Freya muttered irritably.

“Golly, Freya, you do have a high turnover.” Tash shot Jack a mischievous grin.

“Delighted to have you with us, Jack.” Freya’s father stepped forward smoothly. “I’m Guy Penrose, and this is my wife Annabelle. Now: let me introduce you to the mystery of Pimm’s. A strange English drink, but I think you’ll like it.”

With some relief Jack strolled with him to the drinks table, out of the emotional force field of the three women. Men were so much more straightforward. Mr. Penrose had a small cigar tucked into the frayed hatband of his panama. Jack liked him already. The drink was like a punch, chockablock with fruit and sprigs of mint. Jack drank thirstily. The tiredness of the journey dropped away. He began to enjoy himself.

“You’re not a lawyer, are you?” It was Tash, peering up into his face with her long-lashed eyes.

“No, that was Michael.” His tone was dry. If he really was Freya’s lover, he’d be getting pretty annoyed by now.

“Didn’t think so. Lawyers are soooo boring.”

“Well, thanks.” Jack laughed.

“What’s the joke?” Suddenly Freya was at his side.

“Oh, Freya, I meant to say.” Tash’s face hardened. “You didn’t mind not being a bridesmaid, did you?”

“Of course not,” Freya said stiffly.

“Goody. Only Daddy said I ought to have asked you.”

“It’s okay. Jack doesn’t really see me in pink satin.”

Now Tash was fluttering her fingers in Freya’s face. “Don’t you want to see my ring?”

“Oh, yes.” Freya bent to study it. “It’s lovely, Tash. Really nice.” Her voice wasn’t exactly warm, but Jack could tell she was making an effort.

“Rubies, you know. Cost a fortune. Luckily, Rolls is absolutely coining it. I won’t have to work after we’re married. Not like you, poor thing, slogging away.”

Freya arched an eyebrow.
Uh-oh,
thought Jack. “Funny,” she murmured, “I thought that the price of a virtuous woman was
above
rubies.”

“More Pimm’s, anyone?” Jack seized the jug and sloshed the fizzy liquid willy-nilly into their glasses.

“Guy, darling, why don’t you help with the suitcases while I see to dinner?” said Annabelle. “I expect you two would like to change after your long journey.”

“Good idea,” Jack agreed heartily. “A quick shower, and I’ll be ready for anything.”

He was perplexed to see them all exchange a complicit grin.

“He’s American,” Freya explained.

Of course, there was no shower. Even the so-called bathroom bore little resemblance to any bathroom Jack had ever seen. Although sumptuously large, with a beautiful stone-framed window that Freya called a “mullion,” its plumbing arrangements seemed almost as historic as the rest of the house. The toilet was a capacious mahogany throne raised on a dais and canopied by a black metal cistern, hung with a torture-room chain. Judging by the adjacent bookcase overflowing with jokey titles, it was a British habit to spend a great deal of time in this position, laughing heartily. There was a gigantic bath with clawed feet in the middle of the room, with a cold tap marked HOT and a hot tap marked COLD, as Jack discovered the hard way. He could only assume that this had been a cunning ruse to sap the morale of German invaders in World War II.

The whole place was an intriguing mix of Hammer House of Horror and Brideshead. There was a hallway as big as a barn with a stunning timber roof. There was Bessie’s Room and the Red Room and the Mirror Room and something unnervingly known as The Crypt. There was the “new” wing, dating from seventeen-something. There were bronze busts and interesting-looking clocks, Persian carpets crudely mended, hideous old couches covered in Indian bedspreads, a painted Chinese cabinet with a live cat on top, blinking sleepily. Decrepitude was everywhere: crumbling plaster, split paneling, fungal patches on the ceilings, damask wall-coverings hanging in shreds. He couldn’t make out if the Penroses were very rich or very poor. Freya had led him, through a warren of corridors and back staircases, to this vast bedroom with its gloomy furniture and tattered carpeting, explaining nothing, acting as if it were all perfectly normal. Never mind. He would piece it all together. He might even get a novel out of it. Meanwhile, it was illuminating to observe Freya in her native habitat.

Jack had never seen her so nervous. He couldn’t tell whether this was because of her family or because of him. It was, admittedly, a little strange to be alone together in the bedroom they would have to share. The huge bed seemed to loom suggestively at them, making Freya retreat into icy hauteur while he cracked silly jokes. Still, she was the one who was so desperate for a “boyfriend,” and he was perfectly willing to play the part. It could be fun.

She unpacked; he unpacked. Jack placed his pajamas—bought specially, with propriety in mind—on one side of the bed. After a small hesitation, she placed hers—pale pink with black piping—on the other. Jack felt rather excited, until she picked up his pajamas and placed them pointedly on the chaise longue. Then he went to the bathroom and changed his clothes there; she did the same, returning in tight white trousers and a lilac top that suited her coloring. While she fiddled with her hair, he stood at the bedroom window, marveling at the magical view of the garden, the sheep meadows and a distant sliver of sea. There were no roads to be seen, no electricity wires, no cars, nothing to remind him of the twentieth century. He wouldn’t be at all surprised to glance out this window tomorrow morning and see a jousting tournament or a maypole dance. In a place like this, anything could happen. The thought excited him.

At last she was ready, subtly transformed. Jack opened the door for her and made a sweeping gesture. “After you—
sweetheart.
”

Freya’s head jerked around. She looked so haughty that he had to laugh.

“Come on, Freya. We’re in England. It’s not raining. And we’re madly in love. Let’s make the most of it.” He offered his arm.

She capitulated with a sudden grin. “Okay—
darling.
”

They swept down the grand staircase to dinner, arm in arm.

Freya turned over for the millionth time. She had tried every conceivable position on this wretched chaise longue, and they were all torture. If she sat up against the angled back, she got a crick in her neck. If she lay flat, her legs projected over its rigid end, which cut off the blood supply to her feet. If she curled up into a ball, her hipbone went numb and her folded legs throbbed with cramp. Each time she moved, the eiderdown slithered off, exposing some part of her body to the damp night breeze. It was now nearly two in the morning, as she knew from hearing the bloody longcase clock on the stairs chime every bloody quarter of an hour.

Outside, a screech owl was doing what screech owls do best. Inside, a gentle, rhythmic snore emanated from Jack, fast asleep in the four-poster. Freya burned to go over and pummel him awake. How dare he just lie there, uncaring, when she was so miserable? She sat up irritably and glowered in his direction. The moon was full and the curtains worn. She could see his head blissfully cradled in a downy mound of pillows, and the great sprawling lump of his comatose body. How come he was there, and she was here?

She slumped back onto her bed of pain. It was her own fault. Jack had insisted that the bed was more than big enough for two, but she hadn’t cared for the frisky manner in which he had made this suggestion. It was her idea that they should preclude further argument by tossing a coin for bed privileges, and she had lost. Now she cursed herself for being so idiotically fair-minded, and she cursed Jack for accepting his win so easily. A real gentleman would have protested; a real gentleman would rather have slept on the floor than deprive a lady of the comforts of sleep.

But Jack wasn’t a real gentleman; he was only pretending. Freya brooded darkly on his pretense at dinner tonight, when he had shamelessly wormed his way into everyone’s good graces. “Let me carry that for you, Mrs. Penrose . . . Terrific cigar, Mr. Penrose.” Even Tash had held back her usual snide comments. There he’d sat, utterly at ease, in a dark blue shirt and pressed trousers she’d never even seen before, with his new haircut, entertaining them all with stories about his hometown and his funny ol’ Suthen ax-sent. Her father even fetched up a special bottle of port from the cellar, as if Jack were Mr. Nice Guy instead of a mean, selfish, heartless,
sleeping
beast.