(5) Up Market Chocolate
Lara refused all offers of a ride and strode out dramatically in what she called a homeward direction. She thanked Jordan for his entertaining company and expressed the hope that he’d be around tomorrow. And you, Mr Andrew, thank you so much for your endless hospitality. A hug and a kiss and she was gone.
Jordan asked if he was to be shown his room and maybe find a nice chocolate on the pillow. Andrew said there’s your bag mate, hike it up yourself and I’ll go find the Belgian chocolates I’ve been hiding, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll give you one. Jordan laughed, and uttering the enigmatic my precious, moved off. Andrew thought, Hmmn, that’s from something, but what, oh yes,… Gollum and the ring, right. From the stairs he heard Mind if I take a bath? Now it was his turn to chuckle. Last time Jordan had a bath here he’d found him two hours later asleep on top of the bed, hair still wet. Definitely a man who lived in the moment. And often got lost in it, Andrew surmised. Mind you, he was pretty good at wandering around in circles ever so purposefully himself.
He thought about tiding up the tea things. He thought about phoning his mother. He wondered about Vee, from who he had not heard in days, and who had warned him not to broach her privacy. He wanted to be understanding, compassionate and caring, but there was often the ring of selfish bitch to her actions. Of course that had started with Bronwen and her endless series of needs. I need, I need, I really need. Bending over backwards to make accommodations had turned into weekly pretzel practice. Awkward and irritating yoga. Maybe he really was a bachelor at heart. Bachelor in a big house. Sounded grim.
He phoned Hetty. She’d gone to bed early and was reading Jude The Obscure. No, she was happy to be disturbed. It was still early, despite her morning yoga group. Hardy was sublime but Jude was a bit on the depressing side. Mervyn was doing well, Sophia had flown home to visit grandparents and wasn’t due back for three whole weeks. Andrew suggested she sounded well pleased. Indeed she was. One of her yoga class ladies, one of the younger ones (Goodness she’s only sixty-one!), had a recently divorced daughter who was just a delight. A perfect English rose. From Gloucestershire. Right out of a Joanna Trollope novel. Just sold her flower shop in Stroud and is at a bit of loose end. Loves theatre and hasn’t seen much in years, so I’ve invited her up for a week.
Andrew wondered if she was going to be called Polly or Sally. English roses always were. There was some kind of unwritten law. Well of course, it was Polly. Hetty questioned his chuckle. Andrew explained and asked: You wouldn’t, perchance, be arranging a dinner with Mervyn while she’s up would you?
As a matter of fact I am. How did you guess?
Oh I don’t know Hetty. Just a hunch. Do you think they’re suited?
Mervyn needs someone to look after him, and Polly sounds like she’s that type of woman. She’ll sort him out and she’ll get pregnant pronto.
What makes you so sure?
Gwen says she’s more than ready and loves Mervyn’s sort.
Which is?
Bookish, fussy, opera loving, sherry sipping accountant, and almost completely incapable of dressing himself.
YOU ARE READING
