Mr Andrews unfurled a cream silk stocking up and over his leg, admiring his shapely calf muscles in the driftwood mirror as he did so. He procrastinated over which pair of calfskin shoes he would wear and, by the time his wife gave her melodious rap to his door, he had whittled it down to any of three pairs.
‘Which oh which?’ he implored her, fret and worry etched persuasively across his brow.
‘The black. With the plain buckle I think.’
‘You are a doll,’ he sighed, ‘but which cravat, in heaven’s name?’
‘White damask,’ she exclaimed as if it were a very simple question.
‘And the tricorn edged in gold?’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I want to look dandy for our girl Cadwallader. After all, it is her generosity that has seen us so comfortably ensconced in this delightful abode.’
‘And away from those bloody Latino counterparts in bloody Notting Hill,’ Mrs Andrews furthered with a little shudder.
‘Language, dear,’ chided her husband.
They looked around them. All was neat, tidy and comfortable. And deserted. It was nice to have the place and some peace to themselves, having arrived late the day before when nearly every chair was taken and all the muffins had gone. The silence now was welcome. Soon enough, the healthy din which had surrounded them the previous day would no doubt be upon them again; conversations in earnest, letters spoken out loud whilst being penned, poetry being recited quietly in a corner. Not that they minded, they were quite looking forward to it. Colourful. Friendly. Ambient.
Mrs Andrews straightened the lace panel on her sky-blue frock and fluffed the frill of her sleeves.
‘Oh, you look divine!’ enthused her husband in a gruff voice laced with desire. ‘Come here, wench!’
They embraced tenderly, Mr Andrews bucking gently up against the skirts of his wife’s dress while she wriggled daintily against him.
‘Mr Andrews,’ she declared, quite breathless, ‘per-lease!’
She walked over to the driftwood mirror and straightened her straw hat before pulling it jauntily to one side. Running a finger over the oddment of tables and chairs, she held it up for her husband to inspect. It was perfectly clean.
‘Good old Chloë!’
‘Quite the house-proud hussy,’ Mr Andrews declared.
‘Oh, she doesn’t live here at Number Three,’ Mrs Andrews informed him, ‘she’s still in those funny digs near the beach and the artists.’
‘Not building a love nest with her potter chappie?’
‘No. Or “not yet awhile” as Chloë herself said to me yesterday. They are, however, building their love on very firm foundations. They are taking their time and luxuriating in all the various stages of finding one’s true fellow.’
‘Sensible and sweet,’ said Mr Andrews.
‘That’s our girl,’ his wife replied. She went over to the window which looked out to the small sunken garden at the back. An ivy had started to clamber up a trellis. Snowdrops peeped out here and there, and small green shoots stuck their heads above good soil to see if it was a good time to grow. It was.
‘Come, my love,’ Mrs Andrews called to her husband, ‘see the magic woven by old Queen Jasper.’
‘Dinky!’ rolled Mr Andrews. ‘Isn’t that grand!’ They admired a large, burnished terracotta urn out of which a healthy pieris was beginning to blaze.
‘Is that one of his?’ asked Mr Andrews.
‘Need you ask!’ his wife retorted, sweeping her arm in a wide arc to direct attention to the large consignment of William’s ceramics elsewhere in the room. She sat herself down demurely in a small, comfortable sofa festooned with cushions. He stood beside her, his leg cocked, his hand in his pocket. She took a paperback book from a small, rickety table at her side and placed it in her lap.
‘From Chloë’s selection here,’ she explained, ‘I wanted a nice introduction to modern literature so she suggested this, it’s called Middlemarch, by George Eliot. Rather good, actually.’
‘Never heard of ’im!’
‘Her,’ Mrs Andrews corrected witheringly.
‘How you women now get up and go!’ Mr Andrews marvelled. ‘Look at this place, a credit to Cadwallader, don’t you think?’
‘Certainly,’ enthused his wife, looking about her and noting all the details. Tables and chairs. Plants and pottery. Two hat-and-cloak stands either side of the door; one antique and in oak, the other contemporary and in steel. Etchings clamouring for space in between the bookshelves. Finally, the Andrews estate, pride of place, above the counter behind which Chloë surveyed her kingdom while pouring coffee into pixie-clad mugs.
‘She’s found her feet and her home,’ Mr Andrews declared, perusing the scene and nodding sagely.
‘And, my duck, her clitoris,’ added Mrs Andrews, ‘via dear Mr Coombes.’
Mr Andrews, speechless momentarily, was about to admonish his wife’s impropriety when the front door opened and the wind-chimes rang out.
‘Morning you two!’ greeted Chloë, carrier bags heaving and hanging from her bicycle handlebars.
‘A very good morning to you, Cadwallader dear,’ said Mr Andrews concentrating hard on his corn stooks.
‘Morning, dear,’ called Mrs Andrews from her bench, winking.
‘Right!’ said Chloë, unpacking cartons of milk and a clutch of books. ‘To work.’