The Friends We Keep(105)

The house was much too quiet without Evvie, and he had barely seen Maggie. He tapped on her door last night to ask if she needed anything, expecting her to invite him in as she usually would, for him to crawl on her bed and chat like old times, but she just said she was going to sleep. He knew she was lying because the light stayed on in her bedroom for hours.

He stepped into the garden and took out his cell phone. In the old days, he had a myriad of friends to call. He thought back to his life in New York, the parties, the openings, the galleries, the theater. He had a hundred people he could have phoned to accompany him anywhere, to meet for a drink, or dinner. Now, he scrolled through the names in his contacts, all of whom were in New York. There was literally no one in the UK other than his mother. Good God, he thought. This was really too sad that the only other person he could call here was her. He had been lonely since Evvie left, and found himself missing Dickie and reminiscing about Larry. Wouldn’t it be lovely, he thought, to have a relationship at this stage of life.

“Darling!” Joan said when she picked up the phone. “This is a lovely surprise. What are you up to?”

“Not much,” Topher said, eyeing the lawns stretching ahead of him, the trees, the only sound the odd bird chirruping, and the clucks of the chickens in the distance. He decided not to tell her about the drama that had recently unfolded. “We have a new dog who is lovely. Scout. I was thinking about maybe taking him for a walk. I thought he’d like to see the sea, so I was going to drive over to you. Does that work for you?”

“A dog? How lovely! A walk would be heavenly, but I’m afraid I’ve got plans this afternoon. I wish you’d called earlier. I’m going out with one of my gentleman friends.”

Topher steeled himself. Oh God. Not this again. Please God let this not be his father, or some beau from the fifties. Please God let her not be confused.

“Who’s the gentleman friend?” he asked warily.

“You haven’t met him. His name is Pierre Van Cate. He’s Dutch. Ever so handsome.”

“And . . . does he live in Weston-super-Mare as well?”

“He does,” she said happily. “We met at my dance class.”

“Dance class?” Topher started to smile. Only his mother.

“I know! Isn’t it fun? I started ballroom dancing, and this very tall, handsome man came straight up to me when we were asked to find partners. He’s taking me out for tea today, and next week he’s making me dinner. He looks after me, Topher.” Her voice dropped. “When I don’t remember things. When I get confused.”

“That’s wonderful, Mom.” Topher felt relieved. “I’m glad you’ve found someone. Have a lovely time.”

“Thank you, darling. Love you,” she said, and blowing kisses, she disconnected the call. Topher looked at his phone. Great, he thought. My eightysomething mother has a better social life than me.

He walked around the garden, turning and studying the lawn by the house, the one that ran down from the French doors in the drawing room. It was just flat lawn, doing nothing. He’d been thinking about this lawn for a while now. It was such a pity that the grounds of the house were boring old grass with a few grand trees and the lake in the distance. A house as lovely as this demanded gardens that were equally lovely.

In the outbuildings he pulled out a tape measure and a can of fluorescent paint from a plastic bag and took them over to the large lawn off the terrace. There was a high, old brick wall on one side, covered in ivy and a rambling clematis Montana that, he had learned, bloomed with a profusion of small pink flowers every May. This was the spot he had been studying. It faced southwest, got the sun all day, and the more he looked at it, the more he thought it would be the perfect place for a potager, a kitchen garden that was as productive as it was beautiful.

It would be semi-walled, with six symmetrical beds, surrounded by a low clipped box hedge. He had plans for a luscious perennial border on each side, a profusion of whites and greens, à la Vita Sackville-West.

His imagination had been working overtime. He had a spot for a limestone plinth on which would sit an armillary sphere, which would face a bench on the other side, where Topher could see himself drinking tea every morning (he was an avowed coffee drinker, but in his fantasy he was not only fitter and slightly taller than he was now, his middle-aged paunch having magically disappeared, he also, somewhat miraculously, had learned to start his day with tea).

He had been thinking about this all a lot, had even made drawings. He went to WHSmith and bought himself a sketchbook, a set of pencils, and an eraser, and had been sitting at the small desk in his room, sketching out a series of ideas.

But now it was all threatened. Maggie had kicked Evvie out, and now what would happen? Would he even be able to stay here? Wouldn’t Maggie sell the house now? If he could talk to her about her future plans, he would, but she had retreated, like a wounded bird.

He suspected she might be annoyed with him because he was refusing to take sides. Of course Evvie did a terrible thing, but Topher was an adult and well aware that people fucked up, they made mistakes. Even though Evvie may have done a terrible thing in having a dalliance with Ben, he couldn’t hate her for it, couldn’t cut her off. He always suspected Evvie felt more strongly about Ben than she was letting on; he saw the chemistry between them at the wedding. Not that it would have made a difference; it was at Ben and Maggie’s wedding, for God’s sake.