‘Dearest, don’t look so worried. Arty will be on his best behaviour, won’t you?’ Edmund gave his brother a look, like he was a five-year-old prone to naughtiness and off to a birthday party.
Arty’s response was the epitome of sincere, to begin with. ‘Why, of course, brother dear. Robin will be safe with me. You have my word.’ Then he turned to me, mischief written all over his face, his eyes dancing with mirth. ‘So, what time do they let you out to play? I shall collect you on the dot and treat you to something magnificent. Whatever you fancy, your every wish will be my command.’
I gulped, knowing full well that Arty did not mean an egg and cress sandwich and a cup of tea at the Bob-In Café. Even Sandra Dee wasn’t that stupid. And yet while half of my brain was running around in a panic looking for an excuse, the other half wanted to go, so badly.
‘I take lunch from twelve thirty. I get an hour, but I only work half-day on Mondays.’
Arty merely nodded. ‘Perfect. Then I will whisk you to lunch and afterwards, perhaps we can stroll along the river, or maybe take in a museum. What do you think?’
‘I think that would be very nice, thank you.’ Nice! I cringed at my trite response as heat flooded my entire body because I didn’t want nice. I wanted more.
After an almost imperceivable nod, Arty craned his head in the direction of the vicarage. ‘Now, where is that tea we were promised?’
And as if by magic mother appeared with her trusty golden hostess trolley packed with handmade delights. The conversation soon flipped to the weather and our attention focused on cucumber sandwiches and Battenburg. As I passed Arty his cup and saucer his finger connected with mine, ever so slightly and unnecessarily. I left mine where it was, just for a touch, and in doing so, booked myself a room in hell.
CHAPTERTWELVE
It won’t surpriseyou to know that the hours before I stepped out into the midday sunshine, to where Arty was waiting for me, were spent in a state. One that pinged me into the arms of terror, then twang, back into the grip of shame. I was buffeted by waves of sheer romanticism, feeding on lines from books that had been my guidebook to life.
I’d barely slept, averted my eyes from those of my mother over breakfast in fear she might see what lay behind them. At work I spent the morning making errors or lost in a daydream, jumping if anyone called my name, coughed, or slammed a door. I was guilty before the fact, and acting like it, too.
But nothing – nothing at all – would have prevented me from meeting Arty that day. Not the crucifix I wore around my neck; or the photograph of my parents on my desk; not even the one of Edmund tucked out of sight in my purse. Even though I knew it was wrong, I still went.
What was I expecting? An adventure, I think. A dance with the devil. To look temptation in the face and turn away. But not until I’d savoured an afternoon of life on the edge, of not being me. To dare. Nudge the boundaries with my toe.
I was so mixed up, bubbling with hormones and desire, dreamy notions of Grace Kelly wedding days and how wonderful doing bits and bobs would be, with Edmund of course. I had also, in the darkness of my room, allowed myself to imagine doing bits and bobs with Arty.
Oh the shame! So to assuage my guilt I assured myself that lunch with Arty, in public, was safe and I’d be fine. After all it was just a bit of fun. Our chance to bond and start afresh.
He was waiting for me on the pavement on the dot, as promised. When I reached the bottom of the steps he smiled and offered me his arm. ‘Shall we?’
I giggled, Lord knows why because it was merely a polite gesture to which I replied, ‘Yes, we shall.’
And, God forgive me, we did.
We ate lunch at Arty’s hotel, the Tewkesbury Manor. He wasn’t staying with Edmund. His aversion to all things Godly also applied to vicarages or so Edmund had quipped. However, it transpired that it was much more than that.
Lunch was, as I expected, a very polite affair where Arty showed me his best side, his wit minus the sarcasm I’d endured in our previous meetings. His enquiring mind focused solely on me. He wanted to know all about my job that was pure tedium to perform, let alone chat about so during our melon boat starters, I turned the attention to him.
‘You seem different to the last time we met. In fact I’d say you’re not the same person, so why the change? Has the Japanese culture rubbed off on you?’
That was bold, but it felt like playing a part. I was the leading actress in a film who hadn’t rehearsed her lines, so I had to wing it. This panicked me because we only had a few hours, and I desperately wanted them not to be fake.
Realising that was almost as startling as Arty’s response.
‘Well, I’m glad you’ve noticed I’m on my best behaviour and I’m trying very hard to be good. Now, would you like my cherry?’ Arty held out the glacé orb that wibbled on his spoon. I blushed to match the fruit, reminded of one of Francesca’s phrases and desperation to lose her virginity.
‘Heavens no, they’re terrible things. I was going to ask you if you wanted mine…’ Oh dear God, I actually said that? What was I thinking?
When I dared to look from the cherry to his eyes, they were laughing at me but not in an unkind way. Then he saved me by lightening the moment. ‘Shall I flick this one at sour puss over in the corner then, see if I get a bullseye. I was a cracking shot at school. Nobody in the refectory was safe from my aim.’
I relaxed, glancing at the portly man who slurped his Windsor Brown soup, then smiled at the image of a young Arty, dressed in his grey boarding school uniform, flicking bits of his dinner at unsuspecting teachers and prefects. Apparently Arty had been a challenge both to his parents and his very expensive school alike, but everyone agreed, apart from his masters, that it was worth every single penny.
‘Well, normally I’d encourage you but I’m starving and don’t want to be turfed out before I’ve had my Dover sole, or my Queen of Puds, so behave! And you still haven’t answered my question. Who stole the real Arty?’
Lowering his spoon he sighed. ‘Well I hate to disappoint you, but he’s still right here, however, since we last met I realised the error of my ways and spent the last two years regretting being a complete arse. Which is why I resolved to show you a better side to me, this time.’
‘Well, I’m flattered that you’re going to so much effort on my behalf and rather taken aback, that I was on your mind because I genuinely thought you didn’t like me enough to care.’ Inwardly I was flattered and also astounded by my own honesty and the fact I was fishing, not necessarily for a compliment, more the truth.
