14|
"Oh my God!" Meret exclaimed. "How awkward!... Whatever you must think of me now!" From sheer embarrassment she started to giggle, then laugh hysterically. "My intuition really deserted me in your case," she hiccupped when she was finally able to draw breath again.
More serious she added, "I'm sorry. I hope I haven't offended you."
"I must admit you've blindsided me there... and I really wished I'd realised sooner—I wouldn't want you to feel that you've been made the butt of a joke."
"No... no! It wasn't as if you'd encouraged me, after all," she hastily admitted, remembering their earlier encounters and his reluctance to be drawn in by her. "Gosh!—and there's me, making a pass at you!" She grimaced back at him, her face still hot.
There was a self-conscious moment of silence until Jareth said, "What about it?" He nodded towards the abandoned cooking. "Will you still be my guest for tonight?—Or shall I take you home by car?"
"I think the least I can do is honour your efforts at cooking for me and be a good dinner guest." Her expression was still a little sheepish. "I might have said 'an entertaining dinner guest', but I guess I've provided enough entertainment for one night already... However, can I give you a hand?" She pointed at the chopping board. "What are you going to cook?"
"Chinese fried noodles and veg," he said. "If you want to help you can soak the noodles in boiling water and then go set the table." He showed her where to find everything she needed and then went on with preparations for dinner.
Soaking the noodles was more of a token task, taking her all of a few moments. Then she wondered where she was supposed to set the table for dinner, as there was only a breakfast bar attached to the cooking island but no proper table.
"Dining room's through there." Jareth pointed at a door with his spatula.
Safely out of the kitchen she swore under her breath, berating herself for her ridiculous behaviour. For helvede!... Fools rush in, indeed! I'm such an idiot. She wrung her hands in mute exasperation. How come she had never guessed? No wonder he had given off such ambiguous signals!
After a while she resigned to the fact that she had made an ass out of herself. With a sigh she concentrated on the job at hand. Right. Let's set the table... She looked around.
The room she had entered was very much in tune with what she had so far seen of the house; plaster ceilings, off-white walls and wainscoting, and oak floorboards; a wide-open double door led to the adjacent living room. The furnishings in both rooms were an eccentric mixture of styles and periods, but the subdued colours made them blend together quite seamlessly. It was a tasteful, well-kept home—but then, what else would one expect from an architect?
Two placemats were already laid out on the near side of the long dining table, opposite each other. The rest of the surface was decked out with a couple of candle sticks and a flower arrangement. Her own table settings back home felt positively unsophisticated in comparison.
Once she was finished with laying the table, she went to inspect a number of framed photographs on the sideboard she had noticed upon entering the room. Most of them seemed to be family pictures, but one photo of a laughing blond guy leaning against a dusty motorbike on a dirt-track road caught her eye.
When she returned to the kitchen, Jareth held out a glass of rosé to her. The wine was well chilled and the glass was condensing on the outside. She gingerly sipped at it as she was peeking into the large frying pan. "Now, this looks seriously good," she laughed, mocking her own earlier blunder. "And it smells divine."
"Will you pass me the bowls, please?" he said, as he switched off the flame at his state-of-the-art hob. He spooned generous portions in both of them. Leaving the rest in the pan on the stove for second helpings, he handed both bows to her, while he snatched the wine bottle and a carafe of water from the counter.
For a few moments there was no conversation while they both tucked into their food, and Meret realised that she had in fact been ravenous. It was delicious and spicily hot—just the way she liked it.
As she picked up another mouthful of the long noodles with her fork, she remarked, "You know, this kind of food is actually an absolute no-no on a date—"
"Why so?" he asked.
"Because there's no way to eat it gracefully... and more likely than not one ends up with blotches of sauce all over one's clothes," she explained. "Pretty fatal for good impressions, wouldn't you say?... Lucky us this isn't a date, is it." She grinned. The awkwardness was fading—not least of all helped along by the wine.
"Thanks for staying, Meret," he said, looking at her thoughtfully. "I admire you for not being easily intimidated. You make the best of this—and with good grace—which is much more impressive than eating noodles gracefully..."
"You mean I actually eat like a savage?" she interrupted him with mock horror.
"... but, besides, I have no complaints whatsoever about your table manners." Grinning, he raised his glass to toast her.
She scrutinised him over the top of her glass. "Now that I've come to realise that there is quite a lot I don't know about you, will you tell me some more... such as: Is there a significant other in your life?"
"As a matter of fact, there is—"
Meret nodded towards the framed photograph and raised her eyebrows in question.
"Yes, that's him—Ben—the guy with the motorbike... We've met on a trip through the Chilean Andes and down to Patagonia three years ago."
"But you're not living together?"
"Well, actually, we are... whenever he's in the country. But Ben's away for weeks, or sometimes months, at a time. He's a cameraman and photographer, doing documentaries."
"Must be tough for you, staying behind at home," she suggested.
"Well... yeah," Jareth replied, suddenly tongue-tied. "We're working around it—"
Emily retired to the drawing room with Mrs Faulkner while the maid, who had served them dinner, cleared the table. Her father had once again asked to be excused, and had gone to his room.
"You do look a lot like your mother, dear child," Mrs Faulkner stated once they were seated and sipping at their tea. "I hope you don't mind my saying so."
"I've been told so repeatedly," Emily said. "It seems strange, though, that people look at me and are reminded of my mother, when I don't remember her at all... I came here to learn more about her."
"I've been surprised your father brought you—"
"I made him... This has not been easy for him, I'm afraid," she admitted quietly.
"I shouldn't think so," Mrs Faulkner said, looking introspective. "No man would casually revisit such memories."
"Will you tell me what you remember?"
"I must admit, even though your mother lived with us for five months—at least, I believe it was that long—I never got to know her well. She was very quiet... No, that's not quite right... She was very reserved; it almost appeared as if she wasn't quite living in the present. She had this 'far away' look about her."
"And I suppose that Aunt Shaw, who was always very vocal in her opinions, might have drowned out what little my mother did communicate," Emily chimed in, well remembering her grandaunt's domineering manner from visits at Harley Street as a young child.
"Èze is a very reclusive part of the Riviera—to come here provided not, perhaps, the most beneficial surroundings for someone so young and in your mother's condition, with only an elderly aunt and an old servant for travel companions. People with low spirits might gain from a gently stimulating environment... But here, there was only Mr Hardy."
"Who was Mr Hardy?" Emily asked, confused. The name had not come up before.
"William Hardy, one of Lord Sandbourne's younger sons... He was another convalescent staying with us at the time," Mrs Faulkner explained. "He and my husband went in search of your mother on that fateful day, after it transpired that she had wandered off by herself. I wasn't with them at the picnic as I had to stay behind to wait for a delivery... can't remember now what it was... and when they all had to assist Mrs Shaw..." She stopped short. "I am sorry. I'm telling this badly. I'd better start again from the beginning—"
'On that fateful day' Margaret Thornton had set out on foot for Cap Roux together with Mr Faulkner and Mr Hardy. Mrs Shaw, who had never been much of a walker, had been taken by horse trap, driven by the Faulkners' man-of-all-works, as far as the junction with the footpath to the actual headland, and Dixon—in charge of the picnic hamper—had ridden with them.
The party had met up near the junction where Dixon and the manservant had then stayed behind to prepare the picnic under a small copse of pines. The others had walked on towards the cliffs at the foremost end of the headland. About half way along the track Mrs Shaw had stumbled and sprained her ankle—and while the men had attended her, Mrs Thornton had wandered off. As there was only the one proper footpath—there had been goat trails, too, but surely a lady wouldn't take them—she must have gone in the direction of the cliffs and had soon been out of sight behind shrubs and brushwood.
Anxious to get Mrs Shaw back to the cart, they hadn't minded Mrs Thornton's disappearance at first. Only after Mrs Shaw was in Dixon's capable hands, and as time was getting late, they had started to worry. They had formed a search party consisting of both gentlemen and the manservant. Walking at a distance, but all the time within sight of each other, they had made their way to the cliffs.
There had been no trace of Mrs Thornton anywhere. They had returned by some of the more circuitous goat trails—just to make sure—and when they had arrived back at the cart, and with no Mrs Thornton there, both Mrs Shaw and Dixon had become very distressed. It had then been decided to take them back to Èze and to inform the local gendarmerie. All the while the gentlemen had continued with their search—but to no avail.
Later in the day a brigade had arrived from Nice to search the headland, cliff top, and base. They had even gone round the entire cape by boat and, when all else had failed, had filed a missing person's report, alerting the whole coast between Nice and Monaco.
"Nothing came of it," Mrs Faulkner sighed. "No-one had observed anything at the time; and such sightings as were reported, all proved wrong or inconclusive."
"And my father?" Emily asked reluctantly.
"He arrived at the very next day." Mrs Faulkner shook her head and sighed. "And what an ordeal awaited him upon arrival! Mrs Shaw and the maid both were frenzied and wouldn't calm down. He himself was quite beside himself with worry, too, but keeping it in check by incessant action; meeting with the gendarmerie, seeing fishermen in Beaulieu-sur-Mer west of Cap Roux, commissioning his own investigation... It was all in vain. He was here for about a month, leaving no stone unturned... and eventually he left, taking Mrs Shaw with him to London."
Her tea had gone cold and, after sipping at it with a moue of distaste, she set it aside. "The poor woman had aged ten years in that time. She blamed herself for neglecting her duty by not properly looking after her niece—"
"Did Papa blame her?" Emily said, appalled.
"Never a word!" Mrs Faulkner reassured her. "He did have harsh words with Mr Hardy, though! But I suppose that was the strain telling on him—"
"Had they been friends—Mr Hardy and my mother?"
"One could say so... They were both of a bookish disposition and seemed to have much in common."
"This Mr Hardy—what happened to him?"
"Oh, he's living in Nice these days... Gone native and married a French lady," Mrs Faulkner said. "He's publishing The Riviera Chronicle, a twice-monthly newsletter for the local English expatriates... I usually have copies of it in the hall, on the small table next to the dining room door."
The next morning, still in her nightshirt, Emily penned a hasty message. Then she quickly dressed without calling a maid and went to post it. The address was local—in Nice—and she had found it in the imprint of The Riviera Chronicle. She slipped back into her room only minutes before her father came in to take her downstairs for breakfast.
He found her sitting on the small balcony with the cast-iron railing, absent-mindedly fanning herself and staring into mid-distance.
"How are you bearing up?" he asked. She could hear the concern in his voice.
"It is all very confusing," she admitted. She looked up at him. "I don't know what to think—or even how to feel—about it."
They fell silent, and it was his turn to stare at the horizon. Emily scrutinised him; he looked troubled.
"How are you bearing up?" she said softly after a while.
"Fair to middling," he replied, managing a half-smile that disappeared again almost instantly when he added, "After all, the worst already happened—a long time ago."
Well, that had been... interesting; and, barring the cringe-worthy beginning, it had turned into a rather lovely evening, Meret thought as she cycled back to her own place on Sunday morning.
After a late breakfast of coffee and croissants, Jareth had given her a hand at fixing the inner tube of her bicycle tyre. 'Late' because they had ended up sitting on the sofa and talking well into the small hours. Jareth had told her about his current projects—other than Marlborough Mills—and about his travels, and Meret had spoken about her life back home in Denmark. Now that it had become clear that friendship was indeed the only option available, their range of topics had markedly widened. Eventually talk had moved on to relationships...
"Was it really only tonight that you realised I had designs on you?" Meret asked. They had started on their second bottle of wine and the alcohol was giving her Dutch courage.
"To be honest, I never gave it any serious thought before today," he said. "Being in a long-distance relationship can be tricky when it comes to socialising... I know plenty of people way back from school or uni, but most of them are in relationships now or starting a family—and whether straight or same sex, when meeting with couples I tend to be the odd man out." He paused, sipping at his glass. "I don't do gay clubs and I don't usually meet with people from work after hours—I'm their boss, after all... Therefore I enjoyed meeting someone who was independent—you—and who didn't come with a whole network of family and friends... Someone on the move."
He chuckled self-consciously. "And, quite honestly, I thought that the way you acted was simply... like... cultural differences—"
Gaping at him she exclaimed, "You mean... 'Scandinavians—their reputation precedes them'? Surely not!" She cuffed his shoulder.
He raised both hands in defeat. "Perhaps just compared to us Brits; we have a reputation for being way repressed." He grinned.
"You're keeping things rather low-key," Meret said, curious. "Are you afraid of prejudice?"
"What would you have me say for introductions?—'Hello, I'm Jareth, and I am gay," he mimicked. "No, I just feel that it shouldn't matter in a casual friendship... and although it defines my romantic relationships, it doesn't define my day-to-day life... But then, maybe I've just been lucky inasmuch as the vast majority of people close to me have always been very accepting. Had I met with more homophobia, I daresay I'd make it more of an issue."
Eventually they agreed to call it a day. Heading for the guestroom Meret turned in the doorway and gave him the once-over.
"You know, Paxton, you are quite loss to womankind," she said, enunciating carefully to avoid slurring. She felt rather tipsy all of a sudden. "You don't happen to have a brother, do you?—preferably single and hetero—"