‘Oh, hello,’ I say as he appears, in an absent sort of voice, as though I’m in the middle of concentrating. ‘Has “Mike” gone, then?’ I can’t help calling him ‘Mike’ with a sardonic tone, just like Mrs Kendrick did.
‘Yes, “Mike” has gone.’ Robert sounds amused.
‘And have you sold the place for twenty million?’ I add without looking up.
‘Oh, at least.’
‘Good. Because I wouldn’t want you to starve.’ I briskly sign off my email.
‘It’s OK,’ he says, deadpan. ‘The orphans that I trample over on my way to cash my ill-gotten money can knock me up some roast suckling pig while they’re sweeping my capitalist chimneys.’
I can’t help a tiny smile curving my lips. He’s funnier than he lets on, Robert. I finally raise my head and wince at the sight of the bruise which has sprouted on his forehead.
‘You hurt yourself!’ I say.
‘Yes! Thank you,’ he says in mock-aggrieved tones. ‘That’s what I was trying to say.’
‘Has Mrs Kendrick gone, too?’
‘Yes, she’s in a meeting with Elon Musk,’ he says, and I nearly exclaim, ‘Really?’ before I realize he’s joking.
‘Ha,’ I say.
‘On the plus side,’ Robert says, ‘while I was showing Mike around, we found this.’ He lifts up a bottle of wine in his right hand.
‘Oh yes,’ I say, without much interest, ‘that’s the Christmas wine. We give it to the volunteers every year.’
‘Château Lafite,’ repeats Robert, and I realize he’s making a point. ‘Château La-fucking-fite.’
‘Well, you know.’ I shrug. ‘Mrs Kendrick likes the best.’
Robert looks at me, then stares at the wine bottle, then shakes his head incredulously. ‘Every time I think this place can’t get any madder, it does. Well, let’s see if it is the best, shall we? Got any glasses?’
I fetch a couple of cut-crystal glasses from the Trolley, which is where we keep our sherry, nuts and crisps.
‘You’re well kitted out,’ says Robert, watching me. ‘Don’t tell me, Mrs Kendrick …’
‘She likes to have a glass of sherry if we stay late,’ I explain.
‘Of course she does.’ Robert pours out two glasses of the Château Lafite and, even though I’m not a wine buff, I can tell from the smell alone that it’s special.
‘Cheers.’ Robert holds up his glass and I clink it with mine, and I suddenly need a drink so badly, I gulp down about half.
‘Have some snacks,’ I say, decanting some little cheesy biscuits into a cut-glass bowl. Robert sits down on an office chair and we drink silently, hoovering up the cheesy biscuits. After a while, I open another packet and Robert replenishes our glasses. He still looks incongruous up here, with his big shoes and deep voice and way of pushing things aside without even noticing.
‘Careful!’ I say as he leans back, his elbow casually on the computer desk, and knocks over Clarissa’s pile of leather-bound exercise books. ‘Those are the Books.’
‘The Books?’
‘We write summaries of all our meetings,’ I explain. ‘Time, person, subject. They’re actually incredibly useful. They go back years and years.’
Robert picks up the exercise books. He flicks through one of them, reading Clarissa’s careful entries in fountain pen, then puts it back with a sigh.
‘You’re all getting under my skin, you know that? The Dish, the Ladder, the Books, the Wine … It’s like bloody Alice in Wonderland up here.’ He looks around the office with what seems like genuine ruefulness. ‘I don’t want to force this place into the real world. But I have to. We can’t stave off reality forever.’
‘I’m looking into websites,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve done another appeal to supporters. Or we could sell off some pieces, raise some cash that way …’ I break off as Robert shakes his head.
‘That would take us so far,’ he says. ‘But what then? Sell three paintings every year till they’re all gone? This place needs to be sustainable.’
‘It needs an injection of cash,’ I counter. ‘Just one lump sum would really help us …’
‘It’s had injections of cash!’ Robert sounds frustrated. ‘Year after year! There’s a limit! Do you realize how much my aunt—’ He stops himself, and I feel an uneasy twinge. I have no idea how much Mrs Kendrick has spent propping us up.
‘So you’re really going to sell?’ I can’t help a catch in my voice. ‘You said you’d give us a chance.’
‘I haven’t said I won’t,’ Robert says after a pause. ‘Nothing’s definite. It’s just …’ He exhales. ‘It’s a big job. Bigger than I first imagined. It’s not just turning round an ocean liner. It’s turning round an ocean liner while also saving the ocean liner from sinking. YouTube videos won’t save us. A new website … well, maybe. But maybe not.’
The rain is drumming on the windows as he refreshes my glass. I can feel sadness settling about me like a cloud. So that’s it. The end of an era. At home, maybe it’s the end of another era. And suddenly I can’t stop tears rolling down my cheeks. I was so happy. My life made sense. Now I feel like the whole lot is unravelling. Job, income, husband …
‘Oh God. Sylvie, I’m sorry—’ Robert looks perturbed. ‘Look, as I say, it’s not for definite … it won’t be for a while … we’ll help you find new positions …’
‘It’s not that.’ I take out my hanky and wipe my face. ‘Sorry. It’s … personal stuff.’
‘Ah,’ he says – and there’s an immediate shift in the air. I can actually feel the molecules changing. It’s as if my professional life was a beaker of clear water and now I’ve introduced a drop of home life colour and it’s slowly seeping through everything.
I glance up, as though to reassure myself that Robert isn’t remotely interested in my ridiculous private affairs – but he’s leaning forward, a crease in his forehead as though he is interested. Very interested.
His hair is about twice the thickness of Dan’s, I find myself noticing randomly. Thick and dark and shiny. And I can smell his aftershave from here. It’s expensive. Nice.
‘I won’t pry,’ says Robert, after a long pause.
‘It’s not …’ I shrug. ‘I just …’ I wipe my nose, trying to get control of myself. ‘Are you married?’ I find myself asking, I don’t even know why.
‘No.’ He pauses. ‘I was with someone.’
‘Right.’
‘But even that wasn’t easy. Marriage …’ He shrugs.
‘Yup.’
‘But I will say one thing.’ Robert gulps his wine. ‘I probably shouldn’t, but I will. If your husband has, in any way … If he for one moment … If he doesn’t realize what he has—’ He breaks off and looks at me full on, his eyes dark and unreadable. ‘Then he’s mad. He’s mad.’
I can feel my skin shimmer under Robert’s gaze. I’m transfixed by his eyes. His shiny hair. His forthright manner. He’s so different from Dan. He’s a different variety of man. A different flavour altogether.
If life is like a box of chocolates, then getting married is like choosing a chocolate and saying, ‘That’s it, done,’ and slamming the lid closed. When you make your vows, what you’re basically saying is: ‘That’s all I want, ever. That one flavour. Even if it goes off. Yum. I can’t even see any other flavours any more, la-la-la.’
And it might be your favourite flavour. And you might truly love it. But can you help it if you sometimes look over at the honeycomb crunch and think … mmm?
‘He’s mad,’ Robert repeats, his eyes still locked on mine. ‘Do you want to get something to eat?’ he adds, more tentatively.