‘You’re late,’ she says, even though it’s exactly nine o’clock, the time Elspeth asked me to arrive. ‘And haven’t you things to be getting on with?’ She fires this question at Lewis. ‘The greenhouse needs emptying.’ He flashes her an apologetic smile and lopes away.
I step into the house. I was hoping Kathryn wouldn’t be here today. Doesn’t she have a job to go to? I wonder if this is what it’s going to be like working for Elspeth, her grumpy, disapproving daughter looking over my shoulder all day. It will be worse than Surly Cynthia – and I hadn’t thought anyone could be that bad. Even Randy Roger, with his leers and suggestive remarks, didn’t compare. I suddenly yearn for my old life: my flat with Courtney, the job I’ve had for the past four years. The familiarity of it all. I feel like I did on that rainy school trip to Wales in Year 6 when I wanted to be at home with Mum, huddled in front of the TV, dunking Digestives in our mugs of tea instead of hiking across fields and sharing a room with five other homesick girls.
Kathryn’s face softens, as if she’s sensed my distress. ‘I’ll show you to your room and give you half an hour or so to settle in. Then you can come and see Mother. I’ll need to head to work for ten a.m. Is that okay?’
Mother. It sounds so formal.
‘I … Yes, that’s great.’ I lug my case up two flights of stairs to the top of the house, in what I imagine was once the servants’ quarters. When we get to the top there is a small landing and one door. She opens it and says, ‘This is your room.’
I walk in, my mouth falling open. It’s more of a suite than a room, with an en-suite bedroom, leading into another smaller room, which has been set up as a lounge.
‘To give you some space if you don’t want to be in the sitting room with my mother,’ Kathryn says, as I gaze at my surroundings in awe. ‘Believe me, there will be times when you’ll be glad to get away.’ She laughs then, loud and throaty, which catches me by surprise. It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh properly. She hands me a key. ‘You can also lock your door,’ she says.
Why would I want to?
Kathryn is looking around the room, a wistful expression on her face. Then she suddenly seems to remember I’m there and comes to. ‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to unpack.’
When she’s left the room, I perch on the edge of the sleigh bed that’s been pushed up against two sash windows overlooking the suspension bridge and vow to keep it tidy. The duvet cover is white with pink rosebuds dotted over it, the walls are painted a soft grey and the floorboards are sanded and varnished. It’s a lot nicer than my room at the flat. I get up, smoothing the bedding where I’ve just sat, and wander into my lounge area. A wooden desk faces another large sash window, there’s a grey linen sofa with pink scatter cushions, and a lamp next to a small TV.
This window overlooks the back garden, which is vast, with a shed and a greenhouse. I can see Lewis piling rubbish into a wheelbarrow, his back bent, his breath steaming. Right at the back of the garden, poking through the trees, is an ugly wooden structure that might once have been a tree house. I imagine Kathryn playing there as a kid. I wonder if she was lonely in this big house with its huge garden, no brothers or sisters to play with. I’m an only child and I was never lonely. But then it was always just me and Mum. We were a team, a unit. Self-contained and all the happier for it.
I go back through to the bedroom, unpack my clothes and put them away in the ivory French-style wardrobe and chest of drawers. I resist the urge to bung them all into one drawer, as I would have done at the flat. I pull out a framed photograph of me and Mum at the beach, taken a year ago. Before the cancer diagnosis. I hold it for a while, remembering our holiday in Devon and wishing I could go back to that time when everything was simpler, then place it on my bedside table.
I fill my bottom drawer with the snacks I’d bought on the way here. All my favourites: Cheddars, Oreos, a packet of Penguins and a couple of cans of Sprite. I know my meals are catered for, but I do love my snacks. And I don’t feel comfortable helping myself to whatever Elspeth has in her cupboards.
I take my sponge-bag into the bathroom. It’s small but well equipped, although I can’t help the little thud of disappointment that there’s only a walk-in shower and no bath. It’s my way of relaxing, although it used to drive Mum mad when I was a teenager and my bath bombs left a coloured ring. Still, a shower is good and, more importantly, I won’t have to share this bathroom with anyone else. Courtney could spend hours in the morning faffing with her hair extensions and her fake eyelashes and self-tanning cream. I finger one of the plush grey towels. Everything has been thought of, right down to the White Company room spray sitting neatly on top of the cistern.