The Perfect Retreat

CHAPTER FOURTEEN




Willow and Ivo glanced at each other over the table.

She thought she knew him and sat racking her brains until she remembered. Yes, he was that boy Dicky Henley Smyth and his wife Tricky had brought to her cocktail party in London a few years before. Rumour had it that Dicky and Tricky were both in love with the boy, but Willow noticed the way he was eyeing Harold’s assistant’s ass as she bent down to adjust the legs of one of the tables, and assumed he must have been f*cking Tricky, not Dicky.

The boy was pure testosterone, and Willow raised her eyebrows at him when he caught her eye to reprimand his ogling. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘What can I do when faced with a wondrous ass like that?’

Willow made a face at him across the table, similar to the one she would have given Poppy had she been sprung doing something naughty, and Ivo poked his tongue out at her playfully. Willow suddenly felt old. There was a time when this young boy would have been making a play for her; now he was checking out the crew. Never a great sign, she thought, and she wondered when she had gone from ingénue to old crone.

Willow felt her phone vibrate in her pocket, and pulling it out she saw Lucy’s number come up.

‘Hey,’ said Willow.

‘Hello! I have good news,’ sang Lucy’s voice down the phone.

‘Great, I could do with some,’ said Willow softly, getting up from the table and leaving the ballroom to step outside on the terrace.

‘I’ve had a call from Blessings’ rep, and they want you to be the face of their next campaign.’

‘Really? Oh my god!’ cried Willow. She had forgotten what it was like to be wanted and chased after for work. It felt good.

‘Yes, they saw you in Hello! and Kelly was adamant that you needed this gig. Their last face was Sapphira De Mont, who did really well for them, but she’s having a baby and doesn’t want to work for a while. It’s yours if you want it.’

Willow did a little dance on the empty terrace. ‘Tell them yes, yes!’ she cried and Lucy laughed down the phone.

‘Alright, I will, and I’ll get back to you with the details.’

‘Lucy, you are a star,’ said Willow gratefully down the phone.

‘No, you’re the star. I just hold the spotlight,’ said Lucy, doing her best Eliza impression, and she and Willow howled with laughter.

Willow put down the phone. Things were looking up finally. Blessings were the fastest-moving makeup line in the marketplace, created by makeup artist to the stars, Kelly Ryder. Kelly was the coolest person in the business and Willow had worked with her once before on a shoot for Vanity Fair. Then she had moved to London with Kerr and lost all contact with Kelly and Hollywood.

Willow looked back at the people at the table reading. They were still awaiting Harold’s arrival; people were milling about and drinking coffee and getting to know each other. It felt good to be a part of something again, and Willow felt happy for the first time in a very long time. She felt tears run down her cheeks. Walking down the steps onto the lawn, which was thankfully empty of crew, Willow sat on a stone bench and wept openly.

‘Are you alright?’ she heard a voice say, and she looked up and saw a figure looming over her. She rubbed her eyes and they adjusted to the light, and she saw Merritt standing in front of her.

He sat down on the cold bench next to her. ‘Anything you want to share?’ he asked, concerned.

‘No, I’m happy,’ she said, smiling.

‘I never quite get Americans and their emotions,’ he said drily and Willow laughed.

They sat in companionable silence for a while and then she spoke. ‘You see, I have been unhappy for a long time. Over two years, I think, and I got used to living with it. Every day blurred into another day, and I did things to try and push the feelings away, and I thought that I would never know happiness again. And now, right now, I’m happy. And it feels f*cking fantastic,’ she said, looking into the distance, her hands clutching either side of the bench.

Merritt looked into the middle distance with her, not focusing on anything.

‘Are you happy because you’re working again?’ he asked.

‘I’m happy because I’m working, I’m making a difference to my children, I’m happy to be a part of something again and I’m happy to be here with …’ Willow’s voice cracked a little and she stopped.

Merritt sat still, desperate for her to continue, but she said nothing.

‘I’m happy you’re happy, and I’m happy you’re here,’ he said, his voice low with a touch of nervousness. He hoped and prayed that she wouldn’t brush him off; he hoped he hadn’t imagined the way he thought she looked at him. He waited, as though for the executioner’s axe, and Willow said nothing; but he felt her hand touch his on the bench and he held it, thin and cold, in his warm soft paw, and the thrill of the touch brought butterflies to Willow’s stomach.

They sat together holding hands and looked across the lawns at the dancing butterflies and the birds that came and went, until Willow heard a voice calling her name. Looking up she saw the young boy from the table reading who ogled asses looking over the edge of the terrace.

‘Oi, they’re calling you. We’re ready,’ he said, noticing the hands being held, and catching her eye he gave her the exact same look that she had given him earlier. She poked her tongue out at him as he had done and he laughed and turned inside again.

‘I have to go and work,’ she whispered.

‘Off you go then. I’ll meet you after work, OK?’ he asked, and Willow nodded and blushed.

‘Bye,’ she said swiftly and kissed his cheek.

They faced each other and then Merritt smiled and leant down and kissed her gently on the mouth. His soft lips met hers and she parted them slightly and felt the tiniest flicker of tongue in her mouth. Then he pulled away and she stood, her knees weak. ‘If I continue I don’t think I’ll be able to stop,’ he said huskily.

‘Don’t stop,’ said Willow, pushing herself against him.

‘I have to stop. You need to go to work and I need a cold shower,’ he laughed.

Willow let herself go. She pulled his face down to hers and kissed him with the passion of a woman who hasn’t had sex in a long time and is feeling desires that she didn’t know existed in her, and Merritt responded the same way. As they parted breathlessly, she smiled sexily at him.

‘Wait for me?’ she asked as she ran up the stairs.

‘Always,’ he said, and after she left he sat down on the stone bench again and wondered if he had just dreamed the interlude with Willow. But his tender mouth told him otherwise, and he laughed out loud. He too had forgotten what happiness felt like. It felt good.

As Willow went in for the table reading, she sat down and accepted the water bottle that was handed to her and then looked up to see Ivo looking at her with an amused expression. ‘What?’ she mouthed at him.

‘Nothing,’ he replied, and winked at her.

Willow blushed, remembering Merritt’s kiss and her passionate response. Her thoughts were interrupted by Harold’s arrival in a black astrakhan cloak, even though it was midsummer.

‘Good afternoon,’ he announced regally as he walked towards the end of the table and waited for Jenny, his assistant, to pull out his chair for him. Ivo wondered if he should stand – it was as though the Queen had entered the room – but he looked around and saw that people seemed quite relaxed. Only he seemed anxious, he realised, recognising several famous faces from British films. They seemed chummy and Ivo felt sick with nerves. As soon as we start to read they’ll know I’m an imposter, he thought as he sat down and leafed through his script, trying to look like one of them.

Harold sat down and opened his script.

‘I shan’t bother with the introductions. I am sure you will all meet each other at the ball tomorrow. Please be aware that I will be filming part of it for the flashback scenes, so please try to be on your best behaviour and in character for at least the first part of the evening.’

The room laughed and Ivo looked around. What ball? he wondered, and he opened up his pack and found a stiff envelope containing a piece of card inscribed with black copperplate handwriting asking him to the ball tomorrow night. All costumes provided.

‘Right then. Shall we start?’ asked Harold.

Ivo was pleasantly surprised that no one looked at him like he was a hack and he even got a few compliments during the break, mostly from women, but an older man whom Ivo had watched as a child on his favourite show, a stalwart of British film, television and theatre, spoke to him too.

‘Well done young man,’ he said to Ivo over an orange cake on the catering table.

‘Thanks,’ said Ivo gratefully. ‘It’s all a bit nerve racking.’

‘Oh no my dear. Just keep on doing it and you will find it comes more and more naturally,’ said the older man. ‘Thornton Wills,’ he said, extending his hand.

‘Ivo Casselton.’

Thornton eyed Ivo. ‘Is Peregrine Casselton your father?’

Ivo paused. ‘He is.’

‘Ah, I went to Harrow with Perry. He was quite the actor too. I was always surprised that he never trod the boards,’ said Thornton as he poured tea for himself and for Ivo.

‘Really?’ asked Ivo, intrigued. His father had been so against him acting, wanting him to take over the family estate instead, but Ivo couldn’t imagine living in the country away from friends, women, drugs. Ivo tucked the information away at the back of his mind, unsure what to do with it but knowing it was important.

‘Thanks for the advice,’ said Ivo.

‘No problem. Any time you need a hand with anything let me know. It’s good to have a mentor when one is new. I would have been lost without Larry when I started out,’ said Thornton in his cut-glass accent.

‘Larry?’ asked Ivo.

‘Larry Olivier!’ exclaimed Thornton.

‘Of course,’ said Ivo, trying to remember who Larry Olivier was and wondering if he was still around to coach him when he saw Willow walking towards them.

‘Hello love,’ said Thornton, and kissed her on both cheeks.

‘Hi darling,’ she said. ‘How’s James?’ she asked.

‘Heavenly,’ said Thornton. ‘Now how are you?’ he asked, his face serious.

‘OK. It’s good to be working,’ said Willow.

‘Well if that is the panacea you need, then do it. Idle hands are the devil’s work and all that,’ said Thornton.

Ivo tried to walk away without being noticed, but Thornton grabbed his arm. ‘Have you met Ivo properly?’ he asked Willow.

‘No, not formally,’ she said to Thornton, and she turned to Ivo and put out her hand.

‘Willow Carruthers.’

‘Ivo Casselton.’

‘Thornton, they need you in costume,’ said Jenny as she walked up to the group.

‘Oh dear, I think I need to stay off the cake or the waistcoats won’t fit me,’ laughed Thornton, and he handed his plate of cake to Ivo and walked away with Jenny.

‘Thank you for not mentioning what you saw on the terrace,’ said Willow, formally. ‘Thornton’s a bit of a gossip I’m afraid. I know him through mutual acquaintances.’

‘No problem. Thanks for not mentioning my lecherous behaviour earlier.’ He laughed and Willow found herself smiling at the young man. His energy and intensity during the reading was exciting, and she knew they would have a good chemistry on screen.

‘So we’re lovers,’ he said.

‘Pardon?’

‘In the film,’ said Ivo.

‘Yes, we are,’ said Willow. ‘It’s an amazing script.’

‘Seems like a good yarn,’ said Ivo casually, and Willow looked at him. ‘Have you been in a film before?’ she asked.

‘Nope,’ said Ivo, flushing a little as he munched on Thornton’s orange cake.

‘Really?’ asked Willow. She was surprised at how good he was; he had a natural understanding of the timing and the text. The language in the film wasn’t easy, it was very formal, but Ivo spoke it as though he was a Victorian suitor brought forward in time.

There was an awkward pause between them, Willow thinking about his prodigious talent and Ivo mistaking her silence for disappointment in his skills.

‘It’s an amazing house,’ he said politely to break the silence.

‘Yes, it is.’ How was it so easy for him? thought Willow. His natural talent was something she had worked so hard for, and there he was, like a young Lord Byron.

‘You been here long?’ asked Ivo again.

‘Yes, a few weeks,’ said Willow.

‘Wow, then you must know the girl who owns the house,’ said Ivo excitedly.

‘What?’ asked Willow, confused.

‘The girl who owns the house. I met her this morning, she mentioned a brother too. Any chance you can introduce me?’ asked Ivo.

‘Kitty? You mean Kitty?’ asked Willow.

‘Is that her name? Kitty.’ Ivo rolled it over his tongue and smiled wickedly at Willow. ‘She’s bloody stunning.’

‘She’s also my nanny,’ said Willow sternly.

‘Well, I might have to be a naughty boy then and see if she’ll tell me off,’ said Ivo.

Willow shook her head at him. ‘I have a new name for you,’ she said.

‘What?’ he asked, small crumbs of orange cake at the edges of his beautiful mouth.

‘Ivo the Terrible,’ she said, her voice serious.

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Ivo and he sauntered off, his jeans loose on his slim hips, with the cocky stride of a man who knew he could have everything he wanted and come back for seconds.