How It All Began (27 page)

Marion sighed. “But . . .”

“There’s some other way. There’s got to be some other way. Listen, this needs thought. Come and stay the weekend. Just drop everything and come Friday to Monday and we’ll think together. I’m not much good at money but I’m brilliant at ideas.” More laughter. “Some of them fall to pieces but others take off. I had a whole craft commune that got going in Vermont. Anyway . . . come. You will, won’t you?”

Marion found that she would.

Jeremy was put out. “You’re away this weekend? What a bore, I need company. I need
you
. I’d thought we could do a film. Can’t you cancel? No. Oh, well. Look—I’ll call next week.”

Marion sounded a little distant, he thought. Must see her—don’t want her going cold on me.

Stella, on the other hand, was nicely warm. The thought of Stella perked him up again. They were talking regularly; there was a scheme afloat for a jaunt to the Cotswolds.

“Here we are,” said Laura. “My bijou home. Your weekend task will be to advise me on what to do with the floors. And the downstairs loo. But this afternoon we’ll do a walking tour of the city. And Nigel is coming to supper.”

Marion found herself relaxing, in Laura’s breezy company. The overdraft receded, and the empty order book. The leafy cathedral city
appealed to her: quiet streets, that green central precinct. Laura’s little house in a peaceful cul-de-sac of pastel-colored stucco houses—sugar pink, almond green.

And the warehouse that would be a studio. Laura strode around, waving her arms: “Enameling at that end, the kiln in the corner. My jewelry bench along here. Glass work on another bench under the window. Masses of shelves. And there’s room to spare. I might look for someone to come in with me. I’ve heard of a girl who weaves—needs somewhere for one of those whopping great looms.”

Back at the house, Laura made supper. “No, you can’t help—the kitchen isn’t big enough. Just sit. Talk.” She clattered about, asking questions. “Were you making lots of money? I mean, before this recession business. Enough? Well, that’s all any of us need. Do you enjoy it? Is London life fabulous? And, Marion, one thing—I may be out of order here but it seems to me you need to ditch this Jeremy. He’s obviously more pain than pleasure.”

“I believe you’re right,” said Marion.

She sat there, attending to Laura’s discourse. And not attending.

Do I enjoy it?

Is London life fabulous?

She said, “My London house is worth quite a bit over a million pounds.”

Laura dropped a saucepan lid. “Wow! This one was about two hundred thousand. Are you pulling rank?”

“I’m saying this because I’ve just realized I shouldn’t be thinking of myself as in a financial hole. I’m
lucky
. I’m loaded. I just need to look at things differently.”

“It’s called lateral thinking,” said Laura. The doorbell rang. “Here’s Nigel. Let’s laterally think together tomorrow.”

Later, Marion lay awake in Laura’s pint-sized spare room: it needs some clever lighting, and a blind not curtains, and I’d have different paintwork. Having redesigned the space around her, she returned to the financial hole, which conceivably was not.

Marion’s London house—both home and business—had been bought with money left to her by her mother. It had seemed a lavish
purchase, twelve years ago, but was now valued even more lavishly yet—a substantial mid-Victorian property in a well-regarded but not particularly grand part of London, but then every building in the city has now, it seems, a fairly startling price tag.

Marion did some sums, lying there in this peaceful little house, in which she had just passed such an agreeable evening.

The proceeds of my London house minus the George Harrington deficit, in other words the overdraft, would equal enough to buy a place like this—right here, maybe—leaving around three quarters of proceeds of London house as capital sum. Which could generate—well, not enough to live on in the manner to which I am accustomed but a sizable contribution.

And I would not have sold mother’s jewelry.

But I would no longer have a business. I would not be Marion Clark Interior Design but Marion Clark with a small house, no longer in London, and with not enough to live on in comfort, and so in need of further occupation/employment/ whatever. But Marion Clark Interior Design was on the skids anyway, doing no more than landing me in further debt.

So?

Such a good evening. Laura can be so funny. And what a nice man, her brother.

Mark’s initial approaches to the editors of a couple of journals struck silver, if not gold. His proposal has been carefully worded, promising a piece that would be a general discussion of academic plagiarism—the way in which various scholars had allegedly ripped off one another—but centering on this intriguing question of Carter versus Bellamy and the disputed ownership of nineteenth-century parliamentary reform studies. An arcane matter, to most people, but not to those concerned with historical scholarship.

Two editors e-mailed Mark to the effect that they could be interested to see the article in due course.

Not good enough. Mark was not inclined to settle for less than a firm commission. He picked up the phone.

His first target gave in after a few minutes of Mark’s charmingly silken pitch: “Well, yes, OK—call by if you like . . . I can’t make any promises.”

No, thought Mark, but you will.

“I’m thinking of giving up my business,” said Marion, over Corrie’s bread and butter pudding. She was irritated that Mark was present at a Lansdale Gardens lunch. This was a new departure; she had anticipated a private chat with Uncle Henry about her possible plans, and now here was that Mark, evidently firmly ensconced. “Moving out of London,” she went on. She spoke of the cathedral city. Henry remembered that he had known the Bishop at one point: “Or it may have been a previous man. Either way, I’m sure I can arrange an introduction—you’d want to get to know some of the cathedral people.”

“It’s not definite, by any means. Just—I’ve been beginning to feel a bit stale, there’s not a lot of work around anyway, time maybe for a change of direction.”

“So wise,” said Mark. “The great thing is to be flexible, isn’t it?”

Marion eyed him sourly. What do you know about it, at your age?

“Young Mark here tried out television,” said Henry. “Jacked it in—quite right too. Busy on my archive now, of course.” An avuncular—proprietorial—smile.

A graceful nod from Mark. “A big undertaking. One can’t rush it, with such an archive. But so fascinating.”

The file cupboard? thought Marion. Archive? Pushing it a bit, isn’t that?

“Though right now,” Henry continued, “Mark is engaged on a piece of work inspired by the archive that we feel will set the academic world by the ears.” He expounded, at length. Marion stifled a yawn, battling the bread and butter pudding. She considered Mark: he’s got
his foot in the door all right. Uncle Henry must be paying him—he doesn’t seem the type to be putting himself out for love. Well, if it makes Uncle Henry happy.

“. . . so there it is,” said Henry. “A nicely provocative idea, don’t you think?”

Marion agreed. “Fascinating.” She saw Mark watching her, with the hint of a smile. Rumbled, she thought—he knows perfectly well I wasn’t taking in a word. A smooth operator.

She said, “You must be appreciating Corrie’s cooking, Mark. Nicely unusual, for nowadays?”

“I think vintage might be the word,” said Mark. No smile; perfect sobriety. All right—well returned, but don’t think we’re in collusion—I’m not entirely sure I like you.

Henry was puzzled. “Vintage? Yes, Corrie really knows how to cook. I’m delighted to be able to share her talents. I’m sure there’d be a spot more of the pudding. No takers? Well, there’s some Stilton, I know. Neither of you? Then I shall be abstemious too.”

Mark said, “I had a peep at your Web site, Mrs. Clark. Most impressive. Such lovely rooms. Quite unlike anything I’ve ever known myself.” A little laugh.

She eyed him. Am I being sent up?

He added, hastily—catching her look, “I mean, I’ve never lived anywhere that had been much
thought
about.”

Henry chuckled. “Marion would love to get her hands on this place, but I tell her I’m beyond good taste.”

“Lansdale Gardens is sui generis,” said Mark.

“Or vintage, perhaps?” Marion inquired.

Marion’s Web site is alluring, but it competes with very many others. The world of interior design is crowded; cyberspace is alive with images of exquisite interiors, the stalls set out by her competitors. Everyone is scrabbling for the trophy wives, the rich Russians, the Arabs. Marion is small beer by comparison with some of the big firms with their teams of consultants—the big stuff goes to them, anyway.
She has always depended on the more modest client looking for a new kitchen, a make-over to the living-room. In good times, even these would happily commit to an impressive spend, quite enough to keep Marion going, but now in this age of austerity the coffers have apparently dried up. People are making do with what they already have.

And could it be that she was in any case less enthralled by the work than she used to be? A new commission perhaps a chore rather than a challenge? The hunt for the perfect fabric less invigorating? And a selection of tiles or light fittings or taps or basins or worktops or kitchen cabinets inducing a sigh rather than eager anticipation?

A career break? Step aside for a while; regroup; look at ways of doing it differently.

Talk some more to Laura. And no harm in asking her about the pretty little house near her that’s advertised.

“You’re thinking of leaving London?” said Jeremy. “Darling, you must be out of your mind. Nobody leaves London and lives to tell the tale. We all aspire to London. Give up the business? What can you be thinking of? You’re so successful, you’ve got a track record, this recession nonsense will come to an end, it’s just a tiresome glitch, nothing to get fussed about, one simply has to ride it out. Not as keen as you were? Darling, you’d go stir crazy without the business, you’re just feeling a bit stale, we all do from time to time. If I wasn’t so hectic at the moment I’d sweep you off for a week in—no, not Paris—New York or somewhere. But I’m up to my eyes. Anyway, let’s have no more of this out of London talk . . . Marion? Marion—are you there?”

“I’m still here.” Only just, thought Marion, checking her bank statement, her mind on that.

“So what about supper tonight, and I can talk you right out of it. How about I come round to yours at about seven?”

“I don’t think so. Look, Jeremy, I’ll have to go—there’s a call waiting.”

What’s going on?

Jeremy was put out. Put down, indeed, he felt. Call her back later?
Maybe not—that was the cold shoulder, that was. Well, she’ll come round, won’t she? Just needs a bit of space. Leave it for a few days. Meanwhile . . . meanwhile there’s Stella, bless her.

Stella was in difficulties with Paul Newsome. His letters were insistent: “. . . implement my proposal that you discuss matters with your husband . . . speed up progress on the divorce . . . our proceedings at an unacceptable standstill.”

And there was Gill: “You’re spending the night in town? Staying with who? No, I’ve never heard you mention her before. I think I should come over, Stella—I feel you’re overwrought. All right, all right . . .”

Stella did not like lying. Dissimulation did not come naturally. And she was not good at it; she could hear the suspicion in Gill’s voice. Gill knew something was up.

This can’t go on, she thought. And in any case, what
was
going on? I have got together with Jeremy. I seem to have—well, I have let him come back. In which case, should he not move back home? Or would that spoil things? No more of these somehow illicit meetings.

“Well, what do you think, darling?” said Jeremy.

He had no idea what he thought himself. The great thing, of course, was not to be divorced. Not to find himself with half the house and half his pension and half the car and so forth. And there was no mention of divorce now, from Stella; indeed, here she was, it seemed, wondering if he should come home.

He stared at her, across the table in the little bistro that had become their place. She looked charming—a top with a plunging neckline in a dark green that suited her perfectly, dangly earrings. She always dressed up for their meetings. After dinner, they’d go back to his admittedly grotty flat and make love.

Wouldn’t it make more sense to be going back to the Surrey farmhouse, and the girls, and the Bang & Olufsen TV and the Aga and the
Delft tiles and the Welsh dresser and the Staffordshire pieces and all the other enviable things he’d picked up here and there and couldn’t bring himself to sell?

What about Marion? There was bound to be a condition, to his coming home, and the condition must surely be no more Marion.

But was there, in any case, going to be any more Marion?

“Come and have a look,” said Laura. “I know you’re still undecided and you haven’t even begun to sell your own place, but what’s the harm? And I’ve had this idea—oh, I do love brewing up an idea!—I’m thinking, you could start up an advisory service, smaller scale than you’ve been doing, no showroom, just advising and sourcing. Actually, there don’t seem to be so many people here who’re into design.”

Marion knew this. She had already checked. The leafy cathedral city had a few established interior designers, but not so many that it would be pointless to compete. A newcomer can arouse interest. Working differently, she thought, I might work afresh.

“Or,” Laura went on, “there’s the office space beside the warehouse. Going spare. You could think of a small showroom area, in time. Right next door to me—we’d have our lunch breaks together. Fatal—we’d never get any work done!” A gale of laughter. “And I’m friendly now with some local craft people, we’re planning an annual craft week, there might be an opening for you there.”

Marion listened, looking out of the window. London dissolved, and became an unknowable elsewhere, in which she was leading a new, unguessable life. Free of debt, free of George Harrington, and may he rot, wherever he is and will be, though conceivably he had precipitated a choice that should have been made in any case. I was stuck, was I not, just trundling ahead?