A Perfect Proposal (15 page)

Sophie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you think it sells feathers?’

‘I bet it does,’ said Milly. ‘Let’s look up the address.’

While Milly was searching through the telephone directory, Sophie was searching through her friend’s wardrobe. She pulled out a little black number. ‘Do you want this?’

Milly looked up from her researches. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking if I gave you that dress that would save you some money.’

‘You’re reading my mind.’

‘Well OK, you can have the dress but only …’ She paused for emphasis. ‘… if you give it back when you’ve turned it into something sensational.’

‘Deal! You don’t mind if I slash it to the waist do you? Or make it backless?’

‘As long as it’s fabulous. And maybe not backless and slashed to the waist. I don’t think even New York could cope with that and Connecticut certainly couldn’t.’

‘I’ll try not to ruin it, but, Milly, you are coming shopping with me, aren’t you?’

Milly winced. ‘Oh, I’d love to but the reason I arranged to have this day off – ages ago – is so Franco and I could have some quality time.’

This was a bit of a blow. Sophie had been looking forward to a girly expedition, but she did understand. People seemed to work much harder in New York than they did in England and days off were extremely precious.

‘OK, and she shops fastest who shops alone. Just give me a hint as to where the best charity shops are.’

Milly got out the map and put dots on it. ‘And they’re thrift stores here.’

‘Thrift suits me just fine.’

Shops that sold second-hand clothes all tended to have a particular smell. It was one that Sophie was familiar with and she didn’t let it put her off.

This particular shop had more vintage than thrift and was like a treasure trove to Sophie. It would undoubtedly be more expensive than shops she usually visited, but would be far more rewarding.

The floor was bare boards and the walls were covered in mirrors and advertisements from the fifties and sixties – possibly earlier. Jazz music played softly in the background and she felt that sense of excitement that retail therapy gave her. It wasn’t about spending money for her, it was the thrill of the chase, the thought of what she might find in among the rows of unsuitable garments.

The woman in charge was doing some hand-sewing and after a moment’s chat about Sophie’s needs she went back to it, and let Sophie get on.

Sophie had a method; she went through every rail and rack so that she’d looked at everything. Some things could be dismissed instantly but many others had potential; these she returned to for a second look. She found a wonderful fifties poodle skirt which she could shorten from the top and wear
with black leggings. She found a pair of dungarees which would be perfect for Milly and she found some fun jewellery she couldn’t resist. But she didn’t find anything that would be suitable for a very smart holiday in Connecticut.

Reluctantly she left the poodle skirt and just bought the dungarees. She couldn’t afford to buy stuff just for fun. She was just paying for them and plotting where she was going to go next when she spotted a pair of shoes. They looked like her size and had beautiful scarlet heels. ‘Oh, look at those!’ she said excitedly.

The girl looked at them. ‘I bought those in a sale but they don’t fit. I thought I’d sell them here.’

‘How much are they?’ Sophie was pulling off one of her boots as she spoke.

‘Well, as you’re English you can have them for what I paid for them. They were real cheap.’

‘That’s so kind! I’m not going to argue with you giving me a bargain because I’m English – I’m just going to say thank you!’

Sophie found the train and the right platform easily. The moment she opened her mouth to ask, thus revealing she was English, she was practically taken by the hand and lifted on to the train. She spent a happy journey talking to the woman who had helped her about that lady’s grandchildren. She wasn’t allowed to even think about missing her stop: she was warned in plenty of time for her to assemble her bits and pieces.

There was a smiling man in a chauffeur’s uniform, including a peaked cap, waiting for Sophie when she got out at the station. He came towards her straight away and took hold of her rucksack. Matilda had obviously described her very accurately and she wished she had borrowed Milly’s little case on wheels. There was something very hobo-ish about a rucksack. Had he ever collected anyone with one before?

‘Miss Sophie Apperly?’ he asked.

‘That’s me,’ she confirmed.

‘My name’s Sam,’ said the man. ‘I’ve worked for Mrs Matilda for over twenty years.’

‘Gosh,’ said Sophie, and then wished she hadn’t. Gosh was so English.

‘Yes, miss. Now you come with me. I’ll take you home.’

She smiled with pleasure as she recognised this kind man’s obvious fondness for his place of work – and for Matilda.

When the huge iron gates swung open to let them through, Sophie suddenly understood Luke’s doubts about stray young women being in close contact with his grandmother.

She obviously wasn’t just rich, she had to be absolutely loaded, and while with her Rottweiler grandson around she was perfectly safe, Sophie did begin to understand said Rottweiler’s anxieties: Matilda’s open and generous nature could possibly be preyed on by itinerant backpackers.

The contrast between this perfectly maintained mansion and her parent’s rambling, slightly dilapidated home was startling. No leaf would settle in any gutter longer than a day or so and no incipient damp would be allowed to climb up the walls and grow mould.

She suddenly felt she’d been wrong to accept the invitation. Her motives were wrong. Although she did really like Matilda, she
had
wanted to visit her for her own reasons; she was determined to stay in America long enough to track down her relative. By the time they’d passed rolling lawns and turned down an avenue of maples and ended up in front of the house (which to Sophie’s eyes looked one size down from Chatsworth), she had decided not to stay long, even if her mission failed. She’d be back on the train to New York first thing on Monday morning. She was just as much a sponger, sharing with Milly, but at least she and Milly could talk about it if necessary.

Matilda came out of the front door to greet her, seeming tiny in such a vast setting – tiny but completely appropriate. She embraced Sophie warmly.

‘How lovely to see you! I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to you getting here. I have so many little jobs for you.’

Sophie, who had returned the embrace with equal warmth, said, ‘I don’t suppose you have any jobs for me. It’s perfectly obvious that you have “staff”.’

Matilda laughed delightedly. ‘Well yes, of course I do, but there are some things you can only trust certain people with.’She winked and Sophie laughed.

‘Very well, but I don’t suppose it’ll be anything like the jobs I did for Uncle Eric.’ She thought of the sorting out, cleaning and gentle bullying that had gone on in her great-uncle’s house.

‘No, probably not, but possibly your Uncle Eric and I have different requirements. Anyway, come in and have some tea,’ said Matilda, taking her arm.

Sophie really felt like a glass of wine but tea would do. Maybe there would be sherry later. Sophie liked Uncle Eric’s Amontillado but she suspected Matilda would prefer something drier, which Sophie found hard to take. But beggars, or in her case, itinerant backpackers, couldn’t be choosers.

‘Would you like to freshen up before tea? Go to your room and change?’ asked Matilda.

Sophie decided that Matilda should be under no illusions about the state of her wardrobe, or indeed anything about her. ‘Um – no thank you. But I would like to wash the grime off my hands.’

A smiling woman in a uniform showed her into a downstairs bathroom the size of a swimming pool. She knew in America these people were referred to as ‘housekeepers’. Uncle Eric would have called them maids.

Fortunately the housekeeper waited outside for her or Sophie would never have found her way to the conservatory where Matilda was presiding over a silver tea service, including a kettle on a spirit lamp and bone-china cups and saucers.

‘Forgive me, my dear,’ she said as Sophie approached. ‘I just love getting out all my old things and having an English visitor justifies it. My family think I’m mad to use things that need cleaning.’ She gestured to the teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and kettle. ‘But Consuelo loves cleaning them.’

Consuelo smiled, indicating this was true. ‘I put on my favourite television show and polish away. Now, Mrs Matilda, do
you need me? If you don’t, I’ll get back to the kitchen. There’s a whole lot of cooking going on there.’

‘No thank you. Sophie will help me if I find the pot too heavy. How do you like your tea, dear?’

‘Just with a dash of milk. Can you manage that pot?’

‘No, actually. At least I could, if I were desperate, but as you’re here …’

Sophie manipulated the teapot, enjoying the contrast with her usual tea-bag-in-a-mug method and loving the fine china, nearly transparent, painted with birds. Uncle Eric would approve.

‘Have a cookie – biscuit,’ said Matilda when the tea was dispensed. ‘You’ll notice that they’re supposed to be turkeys.’ Actually, Sophie hadn’t been able to recognise them, but she supposed they were more or less bird-shaped. ‘Tomorrow I wonder if you’d mind helping some of the younger children decorate them? They get so bored waiting for the meal.’

‘Of course I wouldn’t mind! That sounds brilliant fun. And I’m happy to help out in any way I can.’

‘Luke told me I mustn’t treat you as a servant.’

This was a bit of a surprise. ‘Did he? I wonder why?’

Matilda shrugged. ‘I think he just wants you to have a pleasant stay with us.’

Sophie felt this was unlikely. Although his manners had been impeccable, there’d been little warmth behind them. Then it occurred to her that he was probably worrying about her trying to wangle a proper job from Matilda and then somehow the coveted green card. He certainly wouldn’t want his grandmother involved in sponsoring her or anything. God, the man was suspicious! Maybe it was being a lawyer that did it or maybe he just suspected anyone female and under sixty because of being taken to the cleaners by his ex-wife.

‘Well, I love being with children. You know I was going to be a nanny, only the job fell through.’

Matilda frowned. ‘You did tell me but I can’t help feeling glad that it fell through. We may not have met if it hadn’t and I know we’re going to be great allies.’

‘Allies? Against who? Whom?’

‘No particular person,’ said Matilda casually, picking up the teapot, lighter than it had been. ‘More tea, dear?’

‘Yes please.’ Sophie watched as the tea, darker now, descended into the cup. Maybe she’d picked up Luke’s suspicious habits but there was something about the way Matilda spoke which made her feel that she had an agenda.

‘Would you like to see your room?’ asked Matilda when the pot had been drunk dry and at least three turkey biscuits eaten.

‘Mm, yes, please. But I’d better go to the bathroom again first.’

Matilda looked pained. ‘My dear, your room has its own bathroom, and yours has a tub. Being English I thought you might not like to shower.’

‘I can manage with a shower perfectly well, but if there is a bath, that will be lovely.’

Her room was palatial, bigger than the sitting room in her parents’ house. It was on the ground floor and it had double doors opening on to the garden. In summer it would have been delightful to wander out into the sunshine and enjoy the paved Italian garden immediately outside. Now, Sophie just looked at it for a few moments before Consuelo drew the thick curtains enclosing Sophie in warmth and comfort. It must be difficult to adapt to a tiny New York apartment if you were used to living in such a huge space, thought Sophie, but then concluded that Matilda’s apartment in New York was probably huge too.

Sophie smiled, declining Consuelo’s offer to help her unpack. ‘As you see, I haven’t got very much and I really don’t want you seeing my greying underwear.’

Consuelo laughed. ‘Well, if there’s anything you’ve forgotten, I’m sure we have it somewhere. We keep a stash of top-brand make-up if you need it.’