Everything to Gain. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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sometime tomorrow. Is that okay?’
‘It sure is, Sashy darling. July fourth wouldn’t be quite the same without you.’
After Nora had left for the day, I toured the house as I generally do on Fridays, checking that everything was in order in all of the rooms.
I was happy with the way things looked; even though I say so myself, the house is beautiful. I stood in the doorway of each room, admiring what I saw, taking the most intense pleasure and gratification from our home.
In the sitting room, the antiques I had so lovingly waxed and polished that morning gleamed in the soft, early-evening light, the smooth wood surfaces darkly ripe and mellow with age. The pieces of old silver on display in the small dining room glittered brightly on the sideboard, and everywhere there was the sparkle of mirrors, the shine of newly-cleaned windows.
The many flowering plants and vases of cut flowers, which I had placed in various strategic spots in the different rooms, added splashes of intense colour against the cool, pale backgrounds and their mingled fragrances filled the air with sweetness.
There was a lovely feeling of well-being about the house tonight. It was completely ready for the holiday weekend, comfortable, warm and welcoming, truly a real home. All that was missing was my family. But they would be with me tomorrow morning, to enjoy the house and everything in it, and to fill it with their happy voices and laughter. I could hardly wait for Andrew, the twins, Diana and Jenny to arrive. Andrew was going to drive them out very early, at least so he had said before leaving for Chicago at the beginning of the week.
After a few more moments of wandering around and scrutinizing everything, I ran upstairs to our bedroom. Stripping off my clothes, I took a quick shower, towelled myself dry, put on a pair of white cotton trousers and a clean white T-shirt, then tied my hair in a pony tail with a red ribbon.
Later I would make myself a bowl of spaghetti and a green salad, but right now I wanted to relax after my hard day’s work. I would call Diana to check on her and the twins and then settle down with a book.
There is a long, low room opening off one end of our bedroom, and I went into it now. I had made it mine right from the beginning when we first bought the house. It is such a peculiar shape and size, I can’t imagine what it was ever used for before, but I have turned it into a comfortable sitting room, my private inner sanctum, where I sit and think, listen to music, watch television or read.
Because of its odd shape and size, I painted it white with just the merest hint of green in the paint mix. The pale, apple-green carpeting I chose matches the green-and-white plaid I found for floor-length draperies, the sofa and armchairs. There are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along one wall; pretty porcelain lamps grace two tables, skirted in pale green silk, which stand on either side of the sofa. Some of my watercolours line the walls, and above the sofa hangs the portrait in oils of the twins, which I painted two years ago. Another oil, this one of Andrew, takes pride of place above the mantelpiece, and so my husband and children keep me company here the entire time, smiling out at me from their gilded frames.
All in all, it’s a charming room, pleasant and inviting, with its wash of white and pale greens, a room which benefits from a great deal of sunshine in the afternoons because of its southern exposure. Yet it has a restful feeling to it, and especially at this hour of the day when the sun has set and twilight begins to descend. It is one of my favourite corners of Indian Meadows, and, as with the rest of the house, decorating it was a labour of love on my part.
Sitting down at the country French bureau plat, I pulled the phone towards me and dialled our apartment in New York. After speaking briefly to Diana, I wished my children a loving goodnight, told them I would see them tomorrow morning and hung up.
Rising, I crossed to the sofa, stretched out on it and picked up the book I was reading. This was two novels in one volume, Chéri and The Last of Chéri by Colette; I had always had a love of her books and lately I had begun to read her again. And so quickly I found my place, looking forward to becoming a captive of this author’s imagination once more.
I had only read a couple of pages when I heard the sound of a car in the driveway. Putting the book down, I got up and hurried to the window, glancing at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece as I did, asking myself who it could be. Very few people came calling on me unannounced, especially at night.
Although the bright summer sky had dimmed considerably, it was still light, and, much to my surprise, I saw Andrew alighting from the back of the car, his briefcase in his hand. I dropped the lace curtain, flew out of the room and tore down the staircase at breakneck speed.
We met, he and I, in the long entrance gallery, stood staring at each other.
He had his luggage with him, and I exclaimed, ‘You came straight from the airport!’ My surprise at his sudden unexpected arrival was quite evident.
‘That’s right, I did,’ he answered, eyeing me carefully.
I gazed back at him, searching his face, trying to determine his frame of mind; I wondered if he was still angry with me. I saw nothing else but love and warmth reflected there and I knew instantly that everything was all right between us.
My eyes still remained fixed on his face, as I asked, ‘But what about Jamie and Lissa, and your mother and Jenny? How are they going to get out here?’
‘I’ve arranged for a car and driver to pick them up tomorrow morning, very early,’ he explained and, moving towards me, he took hold of me, drew me into his arms and embraced me tightly. ‘You see, I fancied an evening alone with my wife.’
‘Oh I’m so glad you did,’ I exclaimed, clinging to him harder.
We stood holding each other like this without speaking for a second or two. Eventually, I said quietly, ‘I’m sorry for being petty about Jack Underwood, or rather about his girlfriend. I don’t mind if they come for the fourth, really I don’t, Andrew.’
‘I was petty too, Mal. Anyway, as it turns out, Jack can’t come after all. He has to fly to Paris on business, and Gina wouldn’t dream of coming alone. Listen, I’m sorry we quarrelled. It was my fault entirely.’
‘No, it was mine,’ I protested, genuinely meaning this.
‘Mine,’ he insisted.
We pulled apart, and burst out laughing.
Bending towards me, Andrew kissed me lightly on the mouth, then taking hold of my arm, he said, ‘Let’s have a drink, shall we?’ And so saying he propelled me in the direction of the kitchen.
‘What a good idea,’ I agreed and looked up at him, smiling broadly, happy that all was as it should be between my husband and me and that he and I were about to spend an evening alone together for once.
When we got to the kitchen, Andrew slipped off his jacket, undid his tie, and threw both on a chair. I took ice out of the refrigerator and made two tall glasses of vodka and tonic with wedges of lime, and handed one to him.
‘Cheers, darling,’ he said, clinking his drink against mine.
‘Cheers,’ I answered, and I couldn’t resist ogling him over the rim of my glass. Then I winked.
He laughed, gave me a quick peck on the cheek and said, ‘Shall we sit on the terrace?’
‘It’s a bit hot out there,’ I answered, then seeing his face drop in disappointment, I added, ‘Oh but why not, the garden’s so pretty at this time of day.’
‘My grandmother used to call this hour the gloaming,’ he remarked as we walked through the sunroom heading for the terrace beyond the French windows. ‘It’s an old north-country word, I think. Or perhaps it’s a Scottish term. You know my mother’s mother was originally from Glasgow, before she went to live in Yorkshire, after her marriage to Grandfather Howard. That’s why she dressed my mother