The Keeper of Lost Things(10)
“Very pleased to meet you.”
Eunice took the hand that was offered; soft but with a firm grip.
Godfrey shook his head.
“Good God, woman! That’s not the thing at all now with the young’uns.”
He grabbed Eunice in both arms and squeezed her tight, almost lifting her feet from the floor, and then kissed her firmly on both cheeks. She felt the scratch of whiskers he’d missed when shaving and caught a hint of eau de cologne. Bomber rolled his eyes and grinned.
“Pops, you’re shameless. Any excuse to kiss the girls.”
Godfrey winked at Eunice.
“Well, at my age you have to take any chance you can get. No offense intended.”
Eunice returned his wink.
“None taken.”
Grace kissed her son affectionately on the cheek and then sat down purposefully to address him, waving away offers of tea and iced buns with a dismissive hand.
“Now, I promised that I should ask, but I refuse to interfere . . .”
Bomber sighed. He knew exactly what was coming.
“Your sister has apparently written a book that she would like you to publish. I haven’t read it—haven’t even seen it, come to that—but she says that you’re being deliberately mulish and refusing to give it proper consideration. What have you got to say for yourself?”
Eunice was agog and intrigued by the hint of a smile that skittered across Grace’s mouth as she delivered her words in such a stern tone. Bomber strode across the room to the window in the manner of a defense barrister preparing to address the jury.
“The first point is undoubtedly true. Portia has written something that she calls a book and she does indeed want me to publish it. The second point is a wicked falsehood, which I deny with every fiber of my being.”
Bomber slammed the palm of his hand onto his desk to emphasize his apparent indignation, before laughing out loud and slumping into his chair.
“Listen, Ma, I have read it and it’s bloody awful. It’s also been written by someone else first and they made a damn sight better fist of it than she did.”
Godfrey furrowed his brows and tutted in disapproval.
“You mean she’s copied it?”
“Well, she calls it an ‘ommage.’”
Godfrey turned to his wife and shook his head.
“Are you sure that you brought home the right one from the hospital? I can’t think where she gets it from.”
Grace bowled a rather desperate attempt at a defense for her daughter’s sticky wicket.
“Perhaps she didn’t realize that her story resembled someone else’s. Perhaps it was simply an unfortunate coincidence.”
It was a no ball.
“Nice try, Ma, but it’s called Lady Clatterly’s Chauffeur and it’s about a woman called Bonnie and her husband, Gifford, who’s been paralyzed playing rugby. She ends up having an affair with her chauffeur, Mellons, a rough yet strangely tender northerner with a speech impediment who keeps tropical fish.”
Godfrey shook his head in disbelief.
“I’m sure that girl was dropped on her head.”
Grace ignored her husband but didn’t contradict him, and turned to Bomber.
“Well, that’s cleared that up. Sounds perfectly dreadful. I’d chuck it in the bin if I were you. I can’t abide laziness, and if she can’t even be bothered to think of her own story, she can’t expect anything else.”
Bomber winked gratefully at her.
“A boy’s best friend is his mother.”
“Not if she names him Norman!”
She stood up and rearmed herself with her handbag.
“Come along, Godfrey. It’s time for Claridge’s.”
She kissed Bomber good-bye and Godfrey shook his hand.
“We always have tea there when we come up to town,” she explained to Eunice. “Best cucumber sandwiches in the world.”
Godfrey tipped his hat to Eunice.
“The gin and lime’s not bad either.”
CHAPTER 7
The ruby droplet glistened on her fingertip before splashing onto the pale lemon skirt of her new dress. Laura cursed, sucked her finger angrily, and wished she had worn her jeans. She loved filling the house with fresh flowers, but the beauty of the roses came at a price and the tip of the thorn was still embedded in her finger. In the kitchen, she stripped the lower leaves from the stems she had cut and filled two large vases with tepid water. One arrangement was for the garden room and one for the hall. As she trimmed and arranged the flowers, she fretted over the conversation that she had had with Anthony that morning. He had asked her to “come and have a chat” with him in the garden room before she went home for the day. She checked her watch. She felt as though she had been summoned to the headmaster’s office. It was ridiculous; he was her friend. But. What was the “but” that kept prickling Laura’s skin? Outside, the sky was still blue, but Laura could smell a storm in the air. She picked up one of the vases, took a deep breath, and carried it out into the hall.
In the rose garden, it was hushed and still. But the air was heavy with the coming storm. In Anthony’s study nothing moved or made a sound. But the air was thick with stories. A blade of light from the cloud-streaked sun sliced through the barely breached curtains and fired a blood-red glint on a crowded shelf just beside the biscuit tin.