house, let alone commandeering his bedroom? He knew damn-all about her. What did she do exactly? On impulse he googled her.
Nothing, other than the same articles that Sylvia had shown him earlier.
Well, some sort of family tree from New England dating from 1822 mentioned a Flora Tate but obviously nothing to do with her. And there was some ridiculous web site about sexual problems that he glanced but cursorily at.
Flora Tate. Flora Tate. Hmm. Good looking woman, no denying it, no idea where she comes from though. Archie wasn’t used to feeling even the slightest of irritations and the novel sensation confused him. A slight ache in his ear and an itchy warm feeling in his groin made him sigh and groan simultaneously. He had the uncanny feeling that Flora could somehow see the scuttling thoughts in his mind, like mice skittering behind a skirting board, and he didn’t enjoy the sensation at all. He sighed again and tried to concentrate on work.
Ten miles away Sylvia Amble was having a surprisingly hectic day. John Taylor was whizzing her around London in his silver Mercedes, taking her to all the shops that she had only ever seen in colour supplements. He was well known in these elite haunts, and the owners of the shops pressed them to tiny cups of mint tea from Moroccan coloured glasses, or sips of icy vodka from silver thimbles. She learnt more in three hours from John Taylor than she had in years. She now knew where to buy a genuine Tibetan prayer wheel, how to source the finest silk, where to get amber, and what cottaging actually meant. He’d found the time to take her for a coffee in Bar Italia where he had many friends whom he had ignored, preferring instead to sit with her and talk to her about the colours that he dreamt of and the mother he missed. When John Taylor dropped her off outside her brilliantly lit house (brilliantly lit because of the severe wattage that builders use and the bare, curtain-less windows) in the chilly early evening, and roared off giving a cheerful wave, a piece of her heart went with him.
Bella Amble was in heaven. She had made snitzen with Maria and distributed the sticky, sweet fruit bread to all and sundry. Fiachra had pronounced it a treat, just like her. He had also confided that the job would take ages . Bella lay on her bed after the builders had gone, turning the pages of a cookery book, wondering what delights she could woo her beloved with on Monday. Perhaps by then the spot on her chin would have gone, too.
Jack the gardener spent the afternoon puzzling over the arty photographic book that he had been given. He brought it back to the Ambles along with a stack of ham and pickle sandwiches. He sat, in his garden shed, looking at grainy black and white pictures of other garden sheds and marvelled at the sheer lunacy of the gentry. He should have been sweeping the gravel at the very least, but the weather was cold and grey and the nasty cough he had made the shed seem very attractive.
Maria Kandinsky surreptitiously gathered the remains of the snitzen together in a parcel of silver foil, ready to take to her room where she could nibble on it later. The Ambles would have been horrified at the thought that Maria was underfed, but that wasn’t the case at all. She just liked the feeling of illicit snacking. It helped her to remember the terrible days of hunger that she had endured as a child. And anything that Maria could dredge from her memory of her hard childhood made her happy. She frowned when she thought of Flora Tate, and had a nagging feeling that she had encountered her before, but didn’t know where or when.
The Ambles house had taken on an unaccustomed air of chaos and dust. It was the dust of years ago that had been unleashed with the upheaval of removing the carpets and pictures and heavy furniture, that had, up till now anchored the dust where it was invisible. Step ladders, rolls of plastic sheeting, tins of paint and boxes of tools were
Nothing, other than the same articles that Sylvia had shown him earlier.
Well, some sort of family tree from New England dating from 1822 mentioned a Flora Tate but obviously nothing to do with her. And there was some ridiculous web site about sexual problems that he glanced but cursorily at.
Flora Tate. Flora Tate. Hmm. Good looking woman, no denying it, no idea where she comes from though. Archie wasn’t used to feeling even the slightest of irritations and the novel sensation confused him. A slight ache in his ear and an itchy warm feeling in his groin made him sigh and groan simultaneously. He had the uncanny feeling that Flora could somehow see the scuttling thoughts in his mind, like mice skittering behind a skirting board, and he didn’t enjoy the sensation at all. He sighed again and tried to concentrate on work.
Ten miles away Sylvia Amble was having a surprisingly hectic day. John Taylor was whizzing her around London in his silver Mercedes, taking her to all the shops that she had only ever seen in colour supplements. He was well known in these elite haunts, and the owners of the shops pressed them to tiny cups of mint tea from Moroccan coloured glasses, or sips of icy vodka from silver thimbles. She learnt more in three hours from John Taylor than she had in years. She now knew where to buy a genuine Tibetan prayer wheel, how to source the finest silk, where to get amber, and what cottaging actually meant. He’d found the time to take her for a coffee in Bar Italia where he had many friends whom he had ignored, preferring instead to sit with her and talk to her about the colours that he dreamt of and the mother he missed. When John Taylor dropped her off outside her brilliantly lit house (brilliantly lit because of the severe wattage that builders use and the bare, curtain-less windows) in the chilly early evening, and roared off giving a cheerful wave, a piece of her heart went with him.
Bella Amble was in heaven. She had made snitzen with Maria and distributed the sticky, sweet fruit bread to all and sundry. Fiachra had pronounced it a treat, just like her. He had also confided that the job would take ages . Bella lay on her bed after the builders had gone, turning the pages of a cookery book, wondering what delights she could woo her beloved with on Monday. Perhaps by then the spot on her chin would have gone, too.
Jack the gardener spent the afternoon puzzling over the arty photographic book that he had been given. He brought it back to the Ambles along with a stack of ham and pickle sandwiches. He sat, in his garden shed, looking at grainy black and white pictures of other garden sheds and marvelled at the sheer lunacy of the gentry. He should have been sweeping the gravel at the very least, but the weather was cold and grey and the nasty cough he had made the shed seem very attractive.
Maria Kandinsky surreptitiously gathered the remains of the snitzen together in a parcel of silver foil, ready to take to her room where she could nibble on it later. The Ambles would have been horrified at the thought that Maria was underfed, but that wasn’t the case at all. She just liked the feeling of illicit snacking. It helped her to remember the terrible days of hunger that she had endured as a child. And anything that Maria could dredge from her memory of her hard childhood made her happy. She frowned when she thought of Flora Tate, and had a nagging feeling that she had encountered her before, but didn’t know where or when.
The Ambles house had taken on an unaccustomed air of chaos and dust. It was the dust of years ago that had been unleashed with the upheaval of removing the carpets and pictures and heavy furniture, that had, up till now anchored the dust where it was invisible. Step ladders, rolls of plastic sheeting, tins of paint and boxes of tools were
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