Bud and I had done all we could to achieve “London smart casual” status: I was wearing my multi-purpose black bouncy two-piece with a paisley over-thingy in tones of brown, beige, and gold; Bud looked relatively comfortable in a jacket and slacks, and his blue shirt almost exactly matched the color of his eyes. We presented ourselves at the front door at the appointed hour. Bud was still looking a bit dazed, and I was less than my sparkling self, because I was – frankly – worried about how the evening might turn out.
“Vinnie will have the car ready for us at the back of the house.” John looked incredibly dapper in an eye-wateringly expensive jacket, teamed with a shirt that had probably cost more than what both Bud and I had spent on our entire get-ups. “Follow me.” He sounded quite like himself as he led us to the top of a staircase which descended below the one I’d climbed to reach the upper floor.
“You have a basement this close to the river?” I was surprised.
“Indeed,” replied John nonchalantly. “When they began excavations in the 1960s they discovered the original Georgian houses had basements, so the chap who was developing the site managed to get basement level usage grandfathered into the building permissions – which is why I’m fortunate to have this facility.”
We were in a gloomy space that seemed to have only one wall. John flicked a switch, illuminating a large garage, housing a gleaming, red Mini Cooper, with space for another vehicle.
“What, no Aston Martin?” I mugged. Bud didn’t even register a smile. What’s wrong with you, Husband?
“Hardy, ha, ha,” replied John. “Parking is – as one might imagine – at something of a premium around here. It’s a bit of a faff to come downstairs, then go back up again to the street behind the terrace, but there’s no way a car could collect us at the front; bus lane and all that.”
Bud nodded, a bit vacantly.
“Come on, this way.” John led us up an incline, pushed a button, and the entire wall slid sideways. In front of us was a deserted narrow road, bounded by a high wall.
John looked at his watch. “Vinnie said he had to pop out to get some petrol. Should be here any minute. Let’s take advantage of this shelter until I spot him.”
John wasn’t going to get any argument from me. “Good idea,” I replied. Sleet was falling, and it was chilly – not something I’d expected us to encounter in London, where the temperature is usually maintained at a slightly higher-than-elsewhere level, because of the density of its buildings.
“Isn’t it wonderful that Cait already knows Bella’s sister and brother-in-law, Bud?” John shuffled from foot to foot as we waited; his overcoat was beautifully cut but didn’t seem to be keeping out the cold very effectively.
“Sure,” replied Bud sounding distracted. I’d described to him the nature of my past working relationships with Alex – who I kept doing my best to refer to as Sasha – and Piers, but he hadn’t seemed to be firing on all cylinders at the time. “I’m sure Bella will come round,” he added, with so little conviction that John began to chew at his lip.
“Yes. Yes, old man, I’m sure you’re right.” He leaned out into the lane. “Ah, there’s Vinnie. You two go ahead; bundle yourselves into the back, and I’ll shut up shop.”
Bud opened the rear door of the sleek Mercedes and I slithered inside. He followed, with John taking the seat beside the driver. “Thanks, Vinnie. Beulah House, please. This is Bud and Cait, as advertised.” John glanced around as he buckled up. “I’ve told Vinnie and Vaseem all about you both.” He flashed a grin, “Well, not everything I know, of course – but they’re the ones to thank for your room being kitted out. Vaseem decorated it himself.”
“With my help; slave labor,” added Vinnie. “Nice to meet you both. I hope you have a grand visit.”
“Is that an Irish accent?” I asked. I reckoned Dublin.
“To be sure, to be sure.” Vinnie laughed throatily. “Thought most of the edges had been knocked off living in this godforsaken place for the past twenty years,” he added. “Whenever I go home, they tell me I sound like a real Cockney.”
“No danger of that,” I replied, “but it’s nice to hang onto the accent you started out with, isn’t it?”
“It is that, Boyo, it is that.” Vinnie pulled out into traffic, and we were off. “John tells me you’re from Swansea, originally. I’ve got two aunties in Wales – one in Llandudno, one in Cardiff. Love it there, so they do, though they both make out their priests were sent to their parishes as some sort of punishment, because of all the godless chapel-goers they’re surrounded by. Me? I’ve been there a few times and think it’s green and lovely, unlike London. Will you be going there this trip?”
“The plan is to rent a car and go for the weekend,” I replied.
“That’ll be grand,” said Vinnie.
“Yes, I’m really looking forward to it. It’ll be our second wedding anniversary in a few weeks, and we were married there, so it’ll be nice to visit a few favorite places again.” I could almost taste the Joe’s ice cream I knew I’d have as soon as we arrived in Mumbles, and told myself Saturday wasn’t too far off…all we had to do was get through this thing with John and Bella, see them married, and everything would be fine.
As we chatted, my eyes greedily drank in the once-familiar sights we were passing. I supposed the development along Queenstown Road was bound to happen – with such wonderful views across the river, then Battersea Park – but the scale of it amazed me. Beyond the park the changes along our route were few and far between; I was glad, because the general architecture was not without Edwardian charm.
“Staying with family in Wales?” Vinnie’s almost-inevitable question was innocent.
“Mum and Dad died in a car accident more than ten years ago, and my sister, Siân, lives in Perth, Western Australia. So no, Bud and I will stay in a hotel; they have some nice ones in the area.” I tried to make my voice sound as though I wasn’t keenly aware that when I told people where we both now lived, it sounded as though Siân and I had made a real effort to live as far away from Wales, and each other, as humanly possible.
“Sorry to hear that. May they rest in peace.” Vinnie’s tone conveyed genuine regret. “Mine are still kicking. Both of them. Often each other, or one of their many, many, grandchildren. I’m pleased to say my four sisters have more than made up for my lack of procreation. I’m the baby of the brood, so can do no wrong, thank the Lord. Though they still choose to believe Vaseem is my flatmate.”
Judging by the back of his neck, and a slight view of the side of his head, I gauged Vinnie was in his late thirties or early forties. From my seat directly behind him I could see he had broad shoulders, and suspected his taut jawline meant he worked out more than a little. I wasn’t sure whether the totally bald head was purely a style choice, or a response to a receding hairline.
“Vinnie and Vaseem have been together for ten years,” said John wistfully. “I can’t say any of my relationships have lasted half as long, though I had hoped…”
“Hey, this one’s agreed to marry you, so you’re set now, John-boy.” Vinnie shoved John with his elbow.
I mused about the relationship between these two men. It obviously wasn’t one of an employer and employee – it was far too jocular for that. More a meeting of equals who were both benefitting from what John had described as a “quid pro quo”? But if they were “equals”, what did that mean? I wondered if Vinnie’s physique might be something he’d developed in the services; was there something militaristic about him? Being Irish, and knowing about John’s connection to all sorts of security services around the world, that raised some interesting questions in my mind – none of which I suspected I’d ever ask.
Bud said, “Where are we going, by the way? I mean I know we’re going to meet Bella, but where will we be doing that?”
John twisted so he could at least see me, though not Bud, who was directly behind him. “Bella’s house. Well, Bella and Sasha’s house really. Their late mother left it to the both of them. Bella actually lives in the coach house; it’s cozy there – everything just the right size for one, and I manage to fit in, at a pinch. The main house is a joy. Big old place. I think of it as a bit of a Frankenstein house – not that it’s stuffed full of horrors, or secret laboratories or anything like that, but it’s been changed so much over the centuries that it’s all a bit of a mishmash. Started out as an early Georgian delight – solid, symmetrical. Then they added bits here and there. Anyway, you’ll see for yourselves later on. You might know the area, Cait. Upper Norwood? Highest point in the area – they used it during the Anglo-French survey in the mid 1700s when they were measuring the exact distance between the Royal Greenwich Observatory and the Paris Observatory – it’s not far from Greenwich, as the crow flies. Close to Dulwich; there’s a blue plaque commemorating the house where Raymond Chandler lived not far away – you know, when he was at Dulwich College. I bet none of those thrillers of his would have been written if it hadn’t been for the classic education he received there as a boy.”
“Chandler? Really? I had no idea,” said Bud, “I thought he was American.”
John turned to face forward again, “Yes, he was, but his Irish mother brought him to London so he could receive a good education, and Dulwich managed to produce him, PG Wodehouse, and CS Forester, so it certainly earned its reputation. It also produced me, too, so there’s that.”
Bud cracked a smile, which warmed my heart. “Yes, there’s that, but you can’t expect them to turn out brilliance every time.”
“Ha, ha,” replied John dryly. “Chandler also spent a little time in your neck of the woods. Vancouver. Quite a chap.”
“I didn’t know you were such a Chandler fan,” I said.
“Not a fan, as such. I find his books readable, but the similes annoy one after a time. I very much enjoy his work for film – more than his books.” John’s voice sounded hollow. “He certainly knew how to write manipulative female characters. Double Indemnity is a case in point. Women have a much greater ability than men to be desperately cruel.”
Given that we were on our way to try to talk a woman out of cancelling her planned marriage to him, I thought I’d better try to cheer him up a bit.
“So, come on – tell us how you and Bella met,” I said brightly.
“All thanks to this chap here,” he said, patting Vinnie on the shoulder.
Vinnie replied happily, “That it is, though I can only claim to have played a part in it. It was because of Vaseem, really. Got a lot to answer for, he has, that boy.”
“Oh, that sounds interesting – do tell.” I did my best to sound gushingly enthusiastic.
“It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it?” John began. “Vaseem got to know Sasha through a job he was doing, and he invited me along to a party she was hosting at her house. Bella was there too, and she and I…well, we just hit it off straight away, didn’t we, Vinnie?”
Vinnie chuckled throatily. “You could put it that way, yes. Pure lust it was, from the off. Couldn’t keep their eyes, or their hands, off each other, truth be told. Then they got to know one another, and it turned out they actually liked each other, too – and now they’re set to walk down the aisle. Who’d have guessed it?”
It was clear that John hadn’t told Vinnie about Bella calling off the wedding.
“Yes, who’d have guessed it,” said John, sounding bleak again. He added, “Clapham Common looks as though it could gobble you up and never spit you out, doesn’t it?”
I tried to rally him. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s wonderful that it’s survived. A breath of slightly fresher air with all its greenery.”
“It’s no more than a giant, rectangular roundabout, I always think,” was John’s succinct way of shutting me down.
We skirted Clapham and headed along the South Circular; I was pleased our route gave me a chance to be driven past my old flat at the top of Brixton Hill, but my reaction to seeing the place wasn’t what I’d expected. As I gazed up at the block, I experienced the jolt of familiarity I’d imagined I’d get; I’d loved the building since the moment I’d laid eyes on it decades earlier – classic 1930’s architecture inspired by ocean-going liners, with rounded corners and white concrete trim…just the sort of place Poirot would have lived, I’d always thought. But then I saw someone closing the curtains in what had once been my bedroom, and the sight sent a chill through me. Unreasonably. That home that was no longer mine. It was just a setting, a place in which I’d once lived part of my life. My old life. But still…someone was in my bedroom…and I wondered how they’d redecorated it.
I held Bud’s hand, and settled back into my seat to allow more of my history to flash past me: the pubs that had been my locals; the bus stops where I’d stood for what must have amounted to days of my life; the places I’d done my shopping, and more pubs that had been a little further away from home, but inviting enough to warrant a longer walk at the end of the evening. In this part of London, not much had changed – except the names above the doors of the kebab shops and pizzerias…and there seemed to be many more nail salons than I recalled.
We finally began the ascent from Streatham High Road toward our destination. This wasn’t territory with which I was as familiar, so was able to see it with fresher eyes, which was good. Before long Vinnie turned off the main road into a narrow and rather bumpy lane, which led nowhere, it seemed. The car slowed to a crawl, then he took a sharp right into what appeared to be a copse, with the word PRIVATE spray-painted on a large piece of hardboard; it didn’t look terribly salubrious, and I wondered if he really had the right place.
I shouldn’t have worried, because after about twenty yards a driveway opened ahead of us and we were facing a wonderful house, that had once been – as John had said – a symphony of early Georgian symmetry; carriage lights either side of the front door glowed against the yellow London stock brick, and a small, paved area containing a fountain provided the center of a turning circle. To the left was an almost-detached building, which I assumed was the coach house where Bella lived; it certainly had the characteristic massive wooden double-door at one end, but it looked too small to have also provided stabling for the horses. However, what really drew my eye was the roofline of the main house, which glinted in a flash of moonlight peeping through the shredding clouds.
“Is that a giant greenhouse up there?” I was puzzled.
John chuckled. “When the original Crystal Palace was all the rage, just a little way down the hill, the then-owner of this place decided to stick that on top of his house. It uses the same principle – glass in an iron framework. As you can see, it means the house offers an even better vantage point than it once had. They refer to it as the palace room,” he cleared his throat, “because that’s what it’s always been called – not because they claim to be somehow vaguely related to the Russian royal family – which Oleg apparently did. But, you know, the name isn’t about that. They’re a wealthy family, but not…pompous, in that way.”
“It’s quite something,” said Bud.
I wasn’t sure if my husband’s tone meant he thought it was a good something, or not; I thought it remarkable, in the true sense of the word.
Vinnie pulled up in front of the porticoed door. “The wine’s in the boot,” he said, as John unbuckled his seatbelt.
Bud and I also got out, and I gave Vinnie a little wave as I passed his window. He waved back, his face illuminated by the car’s interior lighting; well-balanced features, blue eyes that were even paler than Bud’s, big smile, great teeth.
John was already at the door to the main house, a bottle in his hand. “We’re early, but Bella will have come over by now, in any case,” he said. He didn’t need to check his watch – he’d done so a thousand times on the journey. “She’s always in charge of drinks – and exceptionally good at it. I don’t think Sasha would know how much tonic to add to a gin if you paid her; she’s far too used to others providing her a service to worry about that sort of detail.”
She certainly used to know how to tuck away a fair few G & Ts when I knew her, I thought. “Ah,” was what I said.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” whispered Bud to John, who squared his shoulders, then tugged at the brass bell pull.
I heard jangling inside, then we waited; three nervous people standing in the chill of a winter’s evening wondering what the next few hours would hold.