‘And then look at yourself in the mirror and compare and contrast?’ Tilda sounds aghast. ‘No thanks! Keep it all in the misty memory, that’s what I say.’
‘Well, anyway, I’m doing it,’ I rejoin, a bit defiantly. ‘I’m going to google it today. There are special companies who do it.’
‘How much do they charge?’
‘Don’t know,’ I admit. ‘But what’s the price of a happy marriage?’
Tilda just rolls her eyes sardonically. ‘I’ll do it, if you like,’ she says. ‘And I won’t charge anything. You can buy me a bottle of wine. Nice wine,’ she clarifies.
‘You’ll do it?’ I give an incredulous gasp of laughter. ‘You just said you hated the idea!’
‘For me. But for you, why not? Be fun.’
‘But you’re not a photographer!’ As I say it, I suddenly remember all her Instagram efforts. ‘I mean, not a real photographer,’ I add carefully.
‘I have an eye,’ says Tilda confidently. ‘That’s the main thing. My camera’s good enough and we can hire lighting or whatever. I’ve been wanting to get more into photography. As for props … I’ve got a riding crop somewhere around.’ She waggles her eyebrows at me and I dissolve into laughter.
‘OK. Maybe. I’ll think about it. I must go!’
And I give her a hug and dash into the station, still giggling at the idea.
Although in fact … she’s got a point. By ten o’clock, I’ve spent a good hour peering at ‘boudoir photo’ websites on the office computer. (I sent Clarissa off to interview the volunteers on their levels of job satisfaction, to get her out of the way.) First of all, the sessions all cost hundreds of pounds. Second of all, some of them make me cringe: Kevin our photographer will use years of experience (Playboy, Penthouse) to guide you sensitively into a series of erotic poses, including advice on hand placement. (Hand placement?) And thirdly, wouldn’t it be more fun and relaxed with Tilda?
I’m getting some ideas, though. There’s a great picture of a girl in a white negligee, arching her leg through a chair which is just like one of our kitchen chairs. I could do that. I’m peering at the screen, trying to work out her exact position, when I hear a heavy tread coming up the stairs.
Shit. It’s him. The nephew. Robert. Shit.
I have literally about thirty windows open on my screen, each one containing a boudoir photo of a woman in a corset and fishnets, or lying on a bed, wearing nothing but ten sets of false eyelashes and a wedding veil.
Heart thumping, I start closing the images down, but I’m all flustered and keep mis-clicking. The wretched women won’t stop pouting at me, with their red lips and lacy bras and hands placed provocatively over their thongs. (Actually, I can see the point of advice on hand placement.)
As I’m frantically closing down the final photo, I’m aware that the tread on the staircase has stopped. He’s here. But it’s OK: I closed everything down in time. I’m sure I did. He didn’t see anything.
Did he?
My back is prickling with embarrassment. I can’t bring myself to turn round. Shall I pretend to be so engrossed in work that I haven’t noticed he’s here? Yes. Good plan.
I pick up the phone and dial a random number.
‘Hello?’ I say stagily. ‘It’s Sylvie from Willoughby House calling to talk about our event. Can you call me back? Thanks.’
I put down the phone, turn round and do an exaggerated double take at the sight of Robert standing there in his monolithic dark suit, holding a briefcase.
‘Oh, hi!’ I exclaim gushingly. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see you there.’
His face remains impassive, but his eyes flicker to my computer screen, to the phone and back to me. They’re so dark and impenetrable I can’t read them. In fact, his whole face has a kind of off-putting, closed-up air. As though what you see is the tip of the iceberg.
Not like Dan. Dan is open. His eyes are clear and true. If he frowns, I can usually guess why. If he smiles, I know what the joke is. This guy looks as if the joke might be that no one will ever guess it was him who severed all those heads and hid them in the coal pit.
Then, instantly, I chide myself. Stop exaggerating. He’s not that bad.
‘Most telephone numbers begin with a zero,’ he says matter-of-factly.
Damn.
And bloody hell. He was watching my fingers deliberately, to catch me out. That shows how sneaky he is. I need to be on my guard.
‘Some don’t,’ I say vaguely, and call up a random document on my screen. It’s a budget for a harpsichord concert we did last year, I belatedly realize, but if he queries it I’ll say I’m doing an audit exercise. Yes.
I feel all fake and self-conscious, sitting here under his gaze – and it’s his fault, I decide. He shouldn’t have such a forbidding air. It’s not conducive to … anything. At that moment, I hear Clarissa on the stairs – and as she enters she actually gives a little squeak of dismay at the sight of him.
‘Good, you’re here,’ he says to her. ‘I want a meeting with both of you. I want a few answers about a few things.’
That’s exactly what I mean. How aggressive does that sound?
‘Fine,’ I say coolly. ‘Clarissa, why don’t you make some coffee? I’ll just finish up here.’
I’m not going to jump when he says jump. We have busy lives. We have agendas. What does he think we do all day? I close down the harpsichord concert budget, file a couple of stray documents which are littering the screen (Clarissa leaves everything on the desktop) and then thoughtlessly click on some JPEG which has been minimized.
At once the screen is filled with the image of a woman with a massive trout pout and a see-through bra, her fingers splayed over her breasts (excellent hand placement). My stomach heaves in horror. Shit. I’m an IDIOT. Close down, close down … My face is puce as I dementedly click my mouse, trying to get rid of the picture for good. At last it disappears, and I swivel round in my chair with a shrill laugh.
‘Ha ha! You’re probably wondering why I had that picture up on the screen! It was actually …’ My mind casts around desperately. ‘… research. For a possible exhibition of … erotica.’
Now my face is flaming even harder. I should never have attempted to say ‘erotica’ out loud. It’s a bad word, ‘erotica’, almost as bad as ‘moist’.
‘Erotica?’ Robert sounds a bit stunned.
‘Historical. Through the ages. Victorian, Edwardian, compared to modern … er … It’s only at the early planning stages,’ I finish lamely.
There’s a bit of a silence.
‘Does Willoughby House contain any erotica?’ says Robert at last, frowning. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was my aunt’s thing.’
Of course it isn’t her bloody thing! But I have to say something, and from the depths of my memory I pluck an image.
‘There’s a picture of a girl on a swing in one of the archived print collections,’ I tell him.
‘A girl on a swing?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t sound very …’
‘She’s naked,’ I elaborate. ‘And fairly … you know. Fulsome. I guess for a Victorian man, she’d be quite alluring.’
‘What about for a modern man?’ His dark eyes gleam at me.
Is that appropriate, for his eyes to gleam? I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice. Or hear the question. Or start this conversation.
‘Shall we begin the meeting?’ I say instead. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’
‘I want to know what the hell you do all day,’ he says pleasantly, and at once I bristle.
‘We run Willoughby House’s administration and fundraising,’ I say with a slight glare.
‘Good. Then you’ll be able to tell me what that is.’
He’s pointing to the Ladder. It’s a wooden library ladder, set against the wall, with boxes of cards on the three steps. As I follow his gaze, I gulp inwardly. I have to admit, the Ladder is idiosyncratic, even by our standards.
‘It’s our Christmas card system,’ I explain. ‘Christmas cards are a big deal for Mrs Kendrick. The top step is for the cards we received last year. The middle step is for this year’s cards, unsigned. The bottom step is for this year’s cards, signed. We each sign five a day.’
‘This is what you spend your days doing?’ He turns from me to Clarissa, who has brought over three cups of coffee and almost jumps in alarm. ‘Signing Christmas cards? In May?’
‘It’s not all we do!’ I say, nettled, as I take my coffee.
‘What about social media, marketing strategy, positioning?’ he suddenly fires at me.
‘Oh,’ I say, caught off-guard. ‘Well. Our social media presence is … subtle.’
‘Subtle?’ he echoes incredulously. ‘That’s what you call it?’
‘Discreet,’ puts in Clarissa.
‘I’ve looked at the website,’ he says flatly. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes.’
‘Ah.’ I try to think of a comeback to this. I was rather hoping he wouldn’t look at the website.
‘Do you have any explanation?’ he asks, in tones that say, ‘I’m trying to be reasonable here.’
‘Mrs Kendrick didn’t really like the idea of a website,’ I say defensively. ‘She was the one who came up with the eventual … concept.’
‘Let’s have a look at it again, shall we?’ Robert says in ominous tones. He pulls a spare office chair towards him and sits down. Then he takes out a laptop from his briefcase, opens it, types in the web address – and after a few seconds our home page appears. It’s a beautiful, black-and-white line drawing of Willoughby House and on the front door is a very small notice, which reads: Enquiries: please apply in writing to Willoughby House, Willoughby Street, London W1.