‘I begged my dad to keep him, promised I would find a job to pay for his food.’ He gripped the Martini stirrer. ‘But he wouldn’t listen.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘It was a cold day that day, so cold.’
‘What day?’
‘The day my dad shot Rusty with a .38 special.’
My hand few to my mouth. I heard a snap and then saw the Martini-stirrer fall to the table in two pieces.
‘That was the moment I vowed never to be poor again,’ he said.
After he’d blinked his tears away, we ordered more drinks. Then he explained how, when they’d first moved to London, he’d bunk off school and wash cars and windows to help his mum out with the bills and that by the age of eighteen, he had grown it into a national cleaning company.
‘And now, six businesses later, I find myself running a hedge fund,’ he said, sinking back into his chair.
‘What a story.’
‘Yeah, great, isn’t it? Now I get to wear this bloody suit every day and pretend to be someone I’m not.’ He laughed, though I could tell it was forced. ‘And now, I’m embroiled in this ridiculous life. I own a watch that allows me to dive to a depth of three hundred metres. I can turn my Bang and Olufsen sound system on from my desk. I employ someone to book my flights, wash my underpants, clean my toilets and buy my clothes. I have twelve thousand square foot of property that I hardly use, a forty-foot yacht and a car that can accelerate from zero to sixty in two seconds.’ He sighed. ‘The women I meet, they don’t want me. They want a lifestyle.’
I cocked my head and thought about what he’d said.
He leant forward and picked up the broken stirrer. ‘I guess I’m looking for an old-fashioned girl.’ He paused. ‘I want a big family, and a wife who has the time and patience to nurture our children. Not work all hours or shop all day while some stranger plonks them in front of the TV.’ He looked at me, his eyes clouded to the dull blue of his silk tie. ‘Are there any women like that left in the world?’
I nodded while the image of Harriet flashed through my mind. I tried to suppress it, after all, nothing on paper would put them together, but there was a strange feeling niggling in my stomach. And I knew it was more than a litre of house white.
Later that night, vivid dreams disturbed my sleep: a party, Harriet shaking hands with faceless men from behind a Venetian mask, William laughing, waving a joint and wearing a tennis skirt, Jeremy dressed as a dog and holding a shotgun and Brigitte, naked, sprawled across the desk at reception. I woke abruptly when I felt myself falling down a never-ending staircase, blood-red carpet spiralling into darkness. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding as I gasped for air. That was when I realised that there was no going back, that I couldn’t let them down.
They had put their faith in me, and now all I had to do was the same.
‘GOOD AFTERNOON, MRS RIGBY.’ The coiffed estate agent held out his hand.
I fixed my gaze on his tie. I couldn’t stand to look at the house in its entirety.
‘It’s Miss,’ I said, staring at yellow stripes on baby-blue silk and trying to ignore the bay windows that seemed to be taunting me in my peripheral vision.
‘Yes, of course. Shall we take a look around then?’
My stomach tightened and I wondered if this wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever had. Matthew had diagnosed me as ‘borderline psychotic’ once I’d told him that I’d made an appointment to view the house Robert and I were once going to buy. He said that it was tantamount to kissing the cold corpse of a loved one as a means to say goodbye.
‘The front door is all original. Beautiful detail in the stained glass,’ the estate agent said, stroking the frame.
I followed him into the hallway and took a sharp breath.
‘Magnificent entrance, don’t you think, Mrs Rigby? Ten-foot ceilings. Original panelling. Simply stunning.’
I nodded, swallowing hard.
‘Expansive lateral space. Great for entertaining.’ The estate agent wandered off towards the kitchen.
I looked around at the oak floors and marble fireplaces and I felt a weight pressing on my chest. I thought back to the last time I was in this house: skipping over the threshold with Robert at my side and a three-carat diamond on my finger. Back when my head was buzzing, a confetti-coloured future dancing around my mind. But now, as I stood in the hallway, staring up the grand staircase, I realised that the life I had planned to live in this house—the dinner parties, the children, the love, the laughter, the miniature schnauzer—would never be mine.
‘Mrs Rigby,’ the estate agent called. ‘Come through to the kitchen.’
I walked down the passage, towards the back of the house and into the open-plan kitchen. It was flooded with light and exactly as I remembered: a white gloss handleless heaven. I stared at the granite surfaces, where I’d imagined being creative with the contents of an organic produce box, then at the walls, where I’d envisaged hanging thoughtfully collected paintings from upcoming artists, then finally at the breakfast table where I’d foreseen bustling family mealtimes with cheeky yet cherubic children.
The bi-folding doors were open onto the garden, where mature trees erupted from a lush green lawn. A rope swing was swaying in the breeze, as though the spirits of my imagined offspring had refused to leave. No one could blame them.
‘You won’t get a better family home in London,’ he said, opening the kitchen drawers so he could then demonstrate the self-closing mechanism. ‘Do you and your partner have children, Mrs Rigby?’
Suddenly, I felt flushed, my heart rate quickened. ‘Er, not yet,’ I stammered, waving the question away.
The agent winked as though somehow he’d mistakenly gleaned that I were about to bear a litter of ankle-biters.
‘Wait until you see the nursery,’ he said, beaming.
I looked around the room. The sunlight bounced off the white gloss units and into my eyes. Bounce. I rubbed my temples. Bounce. My skin felt hot. Bounce. The light seemed to grow brighter and whiter. Bounce. Bounce. My vision blurred and suddenly sharp pain shot through my head.
‘Mrs Rigby? Mrs Rigby? Are you okay?’
I regained consciousness to find the estate agent fanning me with the property pamphlet.
‘Mrs Rigby?’
The image on the front moved closer then further away, then closer. I could feel the dizziness returning. Closer, then further away, then closer.
‘Can I get you a glass of water, Mrs Rigby?’
I snatched the pamphlet from him and threw it to the ground.
He looked startled. Then he smoothed down his tie and pretended to check his watch. ‘Perhaps we should resume the viewing when you’re feeling better, Mrs Rigby?’
I glared at him. ‘It’s Miss,’ I said, clambering to my feet. ‘Not Mrs.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Let’s chat next week, Miss Rigby.’
I had one last look around, kissing the cold corpse on the head, then the agent closed the door behind us. He was right. It would make someone else the perfect family home.
‘What do you mean there aren’t enough champagne glasses?’ raged Cordelia, throwing up her arms, as though