Worthy Of Marriage. Anne Weale

each one in a plastic pocket labelled with the date and source, when one of his telephones rang. He picked it up. ‘Yes?’

      ‘I have Mrs Wentworth on the line, Mr Calderwood.’

      ‘Put her on, please. Hello, Jenny. How are you?’ He listened to her reply, then said, ‘Are you free this weekend? Splendid. Then call Mum and invite yourself to lunch on Sunday, will you? I’d like your opinion on her latest lame duck.’

      The news that Rosemary’s youngest daughter was coming to lunch made Lucia a little nervous, but she knew that meeting people was something she must get used to.

      It was when Mrs Calderwood added, ‘And Grey is coming too,’ that her nervousness moved up a gear, though she hoped her face didn’t show it.

      ‘Does he visit you often?’ she asked.

      ‘As often as he can…but he’s very busy,’ his mother replied. ‘Jenny’s husband, Tom, is more laid-back than Grey. He’s an architect in a partnership. That isn’t always plain sailing, but it’s nothing like as onerous as the burden on Grey. In these tough, competitive times, having to make decisions that affect a very large work-force is a massive responsibility. It’s what brought on my husband’s health problems. But Grey keeps himself fit. Robert used to play golf, but I don’t think that was as good for him as the swimming and fencing and work-outs that Grey goes in for.’

      ‘What is his business?’ Lucia asked.

      ‘His grandfather was a builder. He never made very much money from the business but he put what money he had into buying land on the outskirts of towns. You may not have heard of a Hollywood film star and comedian called Bob Hope, but he was very famous in his day. He was my father-in-law’s favourite star, and somewhere he had read that Bob Hope put most of his earnings from movies into buying up land on the outskirts of American towns. So my father-in-law did the same thing. He didn’t benefit from it but Robert, my husband, did. It enabled him to expand the business in all sorts of directions. By the time Grey left university, it was one of the largest private companies in the country.’

      Lucia had already learned that the Calderwoods had almost despaired of having a son. As well as having three daughters, Rosemary had had two miscarriages. Then, aged thirty-four, she had conceived again. She had had to spend most of her sixth pregnancy in bed but, at the end of it, had produced the longed-for male child.

      With doting parents and three older sisters, Grey must have been spoiled rotten from birth, was Lucia’s conclusion.

      She wondered why he wasn’t married. The possibility that he might not be heterosexual had occurred to her but been dismissed. In her working life, as a commercial artist, she had met a lot of gay men. Sometimes it was difficult, on slight acquaintance, to tell their orientation. But none gave off the kind of vibes that Grey did. She was certain all his sexual relationships were with women, and that they had been and would always be the most gorgeous chicks available. With his looks and position and money, why would he ever settle for anything less than a combination of glamour and intelligence?

      On Sunday morning Rosemary went to church in the nearby village. She asked if Lucia would like to go with her but did not appear to mind when she declined. Although it was unlikely that anyone attending morning service in the small parish church would recognise her from newspaper pictures published months ago, Lucia wasn’t ready to face the world yet. The family lunch party was enough of an ordeal for one day.

      Since her arrival she had washed and ironed the jeans, shirt and sweater she had worn to come here. Today she was wearing her own things in preference to those that Rosemary kindly lent her. Her other clothes, like the rest of her possessions, were in storage. Not that she had a lot of stuff. Only clothes and books and her painting things.

      Mrs Calderwood had not returned from church and Lucia was in the dining room, making herself useful by laying the table according to Mrs Bradley’s directions, when she saw a car in the drive. As it drew up in front of the house, she recognised it as a Jaguar, the make her father would have liked to own had he had enough money. The driver was Grey.

      He got out but instead of turning towards the house, he stood facing the garden, stretching his arms and then flexing his broad shoulders. Today he was casually dressed in chinos and a blue shirt with the sleeves folded to mid-forearm.

      Before he could turn and catch her watching him, she withdrew to the inner end of the room where he wouldn’t see her.

      Instead of heading for the front door, he went round the side of the house and a short time later she heard him speaking to the housekeeper on the other side of the door that led to the kitchen. It was a thick door and she couldn’t hear their conversation, only the two voices, one deeper and more resonant than the other.

      Then the connecting door opened and he walked into the dining room, making her spine prickle with apprehension.

      Mustering her self-possession, she said politely, ‘Good morning.’

      ‘Good morning. When you’ve finished in here, I’d like to talk to you. Braddy’s making me some coffee. I’ll be on the terrace.’

      Taking her compliance for granted, he withdrew.

      Wondering what she was going to hear, Lucia completed her task. She had chosen and arranged the flowers in containers from a large selection on the shelves of what had once been a scullery.

      ‘Small, low arrangements please, Lucia,’ Mrs Calderwood had said, before leaving for church. ‘We want to be able to see each other.’

      From a variety of possibilities, Lucia had chosen hem-stitched linen place mats in a colour to tone with the flowers. Beneath them were heat-proof pads and, on three sides, mellow Georgian silver knives, forks and spoons. The side plates were antique Spode bone china, the large folded napkins linen in a colour to tone with the mats. The fine sheen of the table’s surface reflected everything on it in a way that made her long to paint it.

      Grey was standing up, drinking coffee from a yellow mug, when she joined him.

      ‘Have you had coffee?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes, thank you…earlier.’

      He gestured for her to sit down then seated himself in a chair at right angles to hers.

      ‘Where would you have gone if my mother hadn’t intervened? Presumably they don’t release you without checking that you have somewhere to go or money for food and lodging?’

      ‘I was planning to collect one of my suitcases and find a bed-and-breakfast place. The flat I was living in before was only rented.’

      ‘Where is your suitcase?’

      ‘There are two, but I would only have needed the one with my clothes and hair dryer and so on. I packed them and put them in storage while I was out on bail, between being arrested and sentenced. My lawyer expected a suspended sentence but I thought it was best to prepare for the worst.’

      ‘What does “in storage” mean?’

      ‘They’re in a furniture repository near where I used to live.’

      He raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Why not with friends or relations?’

      ‘I don’t have any close relations. Both my parents were only children. Two cases aren’t the sort of thing you dump on people unless they have a lot more room than any of the people I knew did. Your living quarters are probably much more spacious than most people’s, but would you want to be encumbered by someone else’s suitcases?’

      He thought about that for a moment. ‘It would depend on the strength of the friendship.’

      ‘My two closest friends weren’t around. One of them works in New York and the other is married to an Italian. They live in Milan.’

      ‘So you’re on your own?’

      ‘Yes, but that’s no big deal. Most people are on their own these days, Mr Calderwood. Large, close families like yours aren’t the norm any more. It’s mostly