A Most Suitable Wife. Jessica Steele
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to her white-blonde hair.
‘I—er…’ she began, faltered and, began again. ‘I know I didn’t say so, but I was rather anticipating a female.’
‘A female?’ he enquired loftily—causing her to wish she knew more about the Sex Discrimination Act and if it came into force in a situation like this.
‘Have you shared a flat with a female before?’ she asked, feeling a trifle hot under the collar. ‘I mean, I don’t mean to be personal or anything but…’ She hesitated, hoping he would help her out, but clearly he was not going to and she found she was saying, ‘Perhaps it won’t be suitable for you.’
He looked back at her, unspeaking for a second or two. Then deigned to reply, ‘Perhaps I’d better take a look around.’
And such was his air of confidence that, albeit reluctantly, Taye, with the exception of her own bedroom, found she was showing him around the apartment. ‘This, obviously, is the sitting room,’ she began, and went on to show him the dining room, followed by the bathroom and kitchen and utility room. ‘That’s my bedroom,’ she said, indicating her bedroom door in passing. ‘And this is the other bedroom.’
‘The one for your—tenant?’
‘That’s right,’ she replied, glad, when he had silently and without comment inspected everywhere else, to hear him say something at last.
He went into what had been Paula’s bedroom and glanced around. Taye left him to it. She returned to the sitting room and was preparing to tell him that she would let him know—it seemed more polite than to straight away tell him, No chance. He was some minutes before he joined her in the sitting room—obviously he had been looking his fill and weighing everything up.
‘I see you have a garden,’ he remarked, going over to the sitting room window and looking out.
‘It’s shared by all of us,’ she replied. ‘The agents send someone to tidy up now and again but it doesn’t require too much maintenance. Now, about—’
‘Your name?’ he cut in. ‘I can’t go around calling you Mrs de Winter the whole time.’
Her lips twitched. Somehow, when she wasn’t sure she even liked the man, his dry comment caught at her sense of humour. He all too plainly was referring to the Mrs de Winter in Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. The Mrs de Winter who all through the book had never been given a first name.
‘Taye,’ she replied, in the face of his unsmiling look controlling her urge to smile. ‘Tayce, actually, but I’m called Taye.’ She felt a bit foolish all at once, it suddenly seeming stupid to go on to tell him that her younger brother had not been able to manage Tayce when he had been small, and how Taye had just kind of stuck. ‘Taye Trafford,’ she completed briefly. Only then did it dawn on her that she should have asked his name the minute he had stepped over the threshold. ‘And you are?’
‘Magnus—Ashthorpe,’ he supplied.
‘Well, Mr Ashthorpe—’
‘I’ll take it,’ he butted in decisively.
That took her aback somewhat. ‘Oh, I don’t think…’
‘Naturally there are matters to discuss.’ He took over the interview, if interview it be.
Well, it wouldn’t hurt to discuss it a little, she supposed. At least she could be civilised. ‘Would you like coffee?’ she offered.
‘Black, no sugar,’ he accepted, and she was glad to escape to the kitchen.
No way did she want him for a fellow tenant! No way! Yet, as she busied herself with coffee, cups and saucers, she began to realise that she must not be too hasty here. What if no one else applied? The rent was quite steep after all. Yes, but she might well have a whole horde of people interested in a flat-share. Look how quickly he had seen her ad. That card could not have been in the local newsagent’s window above ten minutes, she was sure.
‘Coffee!’ she announced brightly, taking the tray into the sitting room, setting in down and inviting him to take a seat. She placed a cup and saucer down on the low table near him, and, taking the seat opposite, thought it about time to let him know who was doing the interviewing here. ‘The flat—the flat-share—it’s for yourself?’ she enquired. He stared into her wide blue eyes as though thinking it an odd question. ‘I mean—you’re not married or anything?’ she ploughed on. And when he looked unsmiling back, as if to ask what the devil that had to do with her, ‘I only advertised for one person. I wouldn’t consider a married couple,’ she stated bluntly. She was beginning to regret giving him coffee. She would not mind at all if he left now.
‘I’m not married,’ he enlightened her.
She looked at him. He was quite good-looking, she observed. No doubt he was more interested in playing the field than in making any long-term commitment. ‘This is a fairly quiet building,’ she felt she ought to warn him. ‘We—um—don’t go in for riotous parties.’ He took that on board without comment, and she began to wonder why she had bothered mentioning it, because she was growing more and more certain that there was no way she was going to have him as a fellow flat-share. He had not touched his coffee—she could hardly stand up and tell him she would let him know. ‘The—er—rent would not be a problem?’ she enquired. ‘It’s paid quarterly—thirteen weeks—and in advance.’ From his clothes she would have thought he was used to paying for the best, but she had to talk about something. ‘I—er—the landlord prefers the rent to be paid on the old quarter days to fall in line with his quarter-day ground rent payments. He owns the building but not the land on which it’s built,’ she added, but, conscious that she was talking just for the sake of it, she skidded to an abrupt stop.
Magnus Ashthorpe surveyed her coolly before stating, ‘I think I’ll be able to scrape my share together.’ Which, despite his good clothes, gave her the impression that he was in pretty much the same financial state that she was. Her clothes, limited though they were, were of good quality too.
‘Er—what sort of work do you do?’ she asked, but as he reached for his coffee she noticed a smear of paint on his index finger: the sort of smudgy mark one got when touching paintwork to see if it was dry.
She saw his eyes follow hers, saw him examine the paint smudge himself. ‘I’m an artist,’ he revealed, looking across at her.
‘Magnus Ashthorpe,’ she murmured half to herself. She had never heard of him, but it might embarrass him were she to say so, and she had no wish to hurt his feelings. ‘You’re—um—quite successful?’ she asked instead.
‘I get by,’ he replied modestly.
‘You wouldn’t be able to paint here,’ she said swiftly, latching on to a tailor-made excuse to turn him down. ‘The landlord wouldn’t care to—’
‘I’m allowed the attic where I’m now living. That serves well as a studio,’ Magnus Ashthorpe interrupted her.
‘Ah,’ she murmured. And, feeling desperate to take charge again, ‘Where are you living at present?’ she asked.
‘With a friend,’ he answered promptly.
‘You’re—um…’ Heavens, this interviewing business was all uphill. ‘You’re—er—in a—relationship that—er…’ She couldn’t finish. By the sound of it he was in a relationship that was falling apart. But she just could not ask about it.
Grey eyes continued to appraise her, but briefly his hard expression seemed to soften marginally, as if he had gleaned something of her sensitivity. But any impression she had of a warmer side to the man was gone in an instant. And his voice was cool when he let her know she could not be more wrong if she thought he would tie himself down to any sort of one-to-one relationship.
‘Nick Knight and I have been friends for years. He let me move in a year back, but now he wants to move his girlfriend in.’ He shrugged. ‘While I prefer not to play gooseberry, Nick prefers to