how to proceed: we’ve gone down a conversational dead end.
‘Natasha’s right, though,’ the Bowler Hat suddenly says, unbending. ‘It was like paradise, Summercove. So laid-back and free. That day we arrived, Guy and I, and you were lying out on the lawn in those great tight-fitting black trousers, remember?’ He smiles, wolfishly. ‘Yes, we were young then.’
‘Frank,’ Louisa says, through gritted teeth. ‘That wasn’t me. My shorts ripped, remember? That was bloody Miranda.’
‘Your memory, dear,’ Bowler Hat says. ‘Incredible. Hah.’ He looks around him airily. I will not be embarrassed by this mistake, don’t try me.
‘Is Guy here? I haven’t seen him yet,’ I say hastily. ‘Though it’s been so long, I don’t know if I’d recognise him.’
‘Oh, you would,’ says Louisa. ‘He was at Julius’s wedding. Guy!’ she calls. ‘Guy!’
Last year, Julius married a Russian girl, a trader he’d met through work. He was thirty-seven, she was twenty-three. It was a smart hotel in central London, in a huge room with gold panelling on the walls, and red-faced, huge-handed Julius and a stick-thin beautiful young woman in acres of tulle posing for endless photos. They had a huge row – at the reception – and she stormed off. Jay says he heard she ended up at the Rock Garden in Covent Garden with one of her bridesmaids, snogging a Russian guy. I don’t believe him, though I’d love it to be true.
All I really remember about that night is that Oli and my mother got really drunk; they’re a bad combination, those two. Oli managed to offend one of Julius’s ghastly City friends: unintentionally, he can be a bit full on when he’s had too much to drink. I had to take him home. Julius’s wife isn’t here today. Neither’s my husband, though.
‘Ah,’ Louisa says. I turn around. ‘Hi, Guy,’ I say, holding out my hand. Again I hear Julius’s words on the train. ‘Bloody good thing Guy’s already there.’ I grip his hand, suddenly angry, and pump my arm up and down a little too hard. Guy is nothing like his brother, he is mild-looking and rather thin, wearing a tatty checked shirt with a corduroy jacket. He smiles at me.
‘It’s nice to see you again, Natasha. It’s been a very long time.’ He nods, his grey eyes kind.
‘Hi,’ I say. I haven’t seen him for ages. ‘I was in a shop where they were selling your bracelets the other day,’ he says. ‘Nearly bought one for my daughter.’
‘I wish you had,’ I say. He stares at me. ‘Guy’s an antiques dealer,’ Louisa says behind me. She crumples a tea towel up in her hand. ‘We thought it’d be useful for him to come to the funeral, you know? Get started on the work ahead. Because of course, there’s some interesting things in the house too.’
Interesting. ‘Has anyone been into her studio yet?’ I say. ‘It’s locked, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Louisa says, her face tight. ‘Your mother found the key and went in, a couple of days ago. She started taking things out, but I managed to stop her. Someone should be making sure it’s all properly done.’
‘Arvind wanted to go in,’ the Bowler Hat says. ‘In fairness to Miranda.’
‘Well, fine,’ Louisa says crossly, but she doesn’t seem convinced. ‘Anyway, it’s all in there.’
‘Like what?’
Louisa is brisk. ‘A few paintings, which is wonderful. That’s it though. And her old sketchbooks and paints. Why, what were you expecting them to find?’
I shake my head, feeling stupid. ‘It’s time we sorted everything out.’ Louisa narrows her eyes. ‘Is that Florian leaving? Yes.’ She turns to me. ‘I mean, they weren’t wealthy in other ways, not for years now. But there are a lot of valuable paintings, letters, books, that sort of thing. And we need to decide what’s best for them all. For all her work, and everything else they’ve got here.’
I know about the signed first editions by Stephen Spender, Kingsley Amis, T. S. Eliot, which line the shelves rising from the floor to the ceiling either side of the fireplace. About the Ben Nicholson print in the hall, the Macready sketch with its white frame in the dining room: ‘Frances at the Chelsea Arts Club, 1953’. They lent that one for his retrospective at the Tate, a couple of years ago. It was the cover of the catalogue. I hadn’t thought about all of that. To me, they’re a part of the house, as much a part as the doors and the taps and the floors.
It makes sense that there’s some kind of trust to look after Granny’s paintings, but I can’t help feeling uncomfortable. I barely know Guy and I don’t think Mum and Archie do, either. Sure, they all spent a summer together years ago but that doesn’t really count. Does it? And I wish I didn’t, but I object to the idea of him eyeing up these things in the house at the funeral. Poking around in Granny’s studio. Picking up the pair of Juno vases on the mantelpiece, the Clarice Cliff teapot, and clicking his tongue with pleasure. I glare at Louisa, but she is oblivious, and so I glare at Guy instead. He smiles at me in a friendly way, and I want to hit him. Now is not the time to be picking over the house for the juiciest bits, like the carcass of a chicken.
‘Where’s your mother gone?’ he asks. ‘I haven’t seen her for – gosh, ages. It’d be good to catch up with her about all of this.’ He pauses. ‘And Archie too.’
‘They were there—’ I look round for them but they’ve disappeared. Instead I see Jay in the corner, now talking to Julius. ‘They’re probably in the kitchen. Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Good to see you again.’
‘Oh,’ Guy says, obviously surprised at my abruptness. ‘Right, see you soon then.’
I reach Julius and Jay, who are standing against the wall, clutching their glasses, not really saying much.
‘How you feeling?’ Jay asks me. ‘Fine, fine,’ I wave him away. ‘Hi, Julius.’
‘Er—’ Julius scratches his face. He is looking bored. ‘Sorry about you and – er – Oli.’ I don’t know if he’s shy or if he genuinely can’t remember his name. ‘So – what happened? He slept with someone else?’
‘How did you know that?’ I say.
Julius shrugs. ‘Good guess. That’s usually why, isn’t it?’ Jay, standing next to him, rolls his eyes. Julius is our relative, it’s weird to think of it. He is kind of vile.
‘Yes, he slept with someone else,’ I say. ‘But—’
But what? Exactly. I look over at my mother and bite my lip. I still haven’t even talked to her about this, and it feels wrong. Not because I usually tell her everything, in fact, I usually tell her nothing, but she’s my mum. I should talk to her first.
‘Anyway.’ I change the subject. ‘I was just talking to your uncle. Do you think it’s appropriate he’s here?’
‘Why shouldn’t he be here?’ Julius says, unperturbed by my question. ‘He was her nephew, you know. He flew all the way from San Diego for the bloody funeral, damn nice of him, considering.’
‘Not your uncle Jeremy,’ I say, annoyed. Julius flusters me. ‘Your other uncle. Guy. Your mother’s brought him down here to – to basically do a valuation on all the stuff in the house. Just think it’s a bit rich.’
