The Perfect Retreat

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE




Kitty rang the bell of the elegant Georgian townhouse, and it was opened almost immediately by Harold.

‘Hello Katinka,’ he said regally, with a little bow.

‘Hi Harry,’ she said, and she kissed his cheek shyly.

‘Come in, come in; I have the Assam tea steeping,’ he said, and he led Kitty into the hallway. The walls were painted vermilion and every part was covered in art. Most of the pictures were in gilt frames: Russian and Greek icons, mirrors concave and flat, a huge portrait of a nude woman bathing over a seashell. Kitty looked up, her eyes feasting on the lavishness of Harold’s taste.

Harold watched her taking it all in. ‘Come into the sitting room,’ he said, and Kitty followed him to the small but cosy room.

The same vermilion colour covered the walls and even more art surrounded them. The deep purple velvet sofa was piled high with cushions of every colour and candles of different sizes filled in the fireplace.

A small Moroccan table sat to the side of the sofa and a large wooden coffee table was in the centre of the room. Snuffboxes and books covered it, along with a huge crystal ball. Kitty wondered whether it would foretell her future if she peered into it.

‘I call this interior style “Jackie Collins meets opium den”,’ said Harold cheerfully.

‘It’s amazing,’ said Kitty truthfully.

She had called Harold from her small hotel when she first arrived in London. He had been insistent she stay with him.

‘My secretary has headed abroad for a time and I’m lost without her,’ he had said. ‘Perhaps you can fill in for her.’

‘But I can’t do any typing or reading or anything,’ she had protested.

‘Yet,’ Harold had said firmly, ‘you will. Meanwhile I need someone to answer the phones, take messages – you can tell me them using a small Dictaphone perhaps – make the tea, do a tidy-up,’ said Harold.

Kitty had paused, wondering about his intentions, and Harold had sensed it.

‘Don’t worry my dear Kitty, you’re far too young for me. I like them around thirty,’ he had said and Kitty had laughed.

Staying in a hotel for the time in London while she found a teacher to help her with reading would eat away at her meagre inheritance, which Merritt had released to her when she left Middlemist.

Also, she thought being with someone else would be nice company, especially someone as witty and clever as Harold.

Now she was in Harold’s house with her small bag of belongings and hope in her heart, where once there was none, that she might be able to conquer reading.

Harold insisted she join him for tea and then she could head up to her room and do as she pleased. He was out for the evening; the opera, to which Kitty declined the invitation.

After tea and divine shortbread, which Harold had had flown down from Scotland, Kitty learned, he took her up to her room.

She almost cried when she saw its beauty. A wooden four-poster bed in the middle of the room against a delightful wallpaper of sprigs of daphne that looked as old as the house but perfect.

The bed had a canopy of dove-grey silk and the linen was white, with a blue silk patchwork counterpane over the foot. The rug was large and dark brown with a woven pattern of a basket of flowers in each corner, and a chintz armchair that looked as though it had taken the weight of a thousand behinds sat peacefully in the corner, with a small footstool in front of it.

Bookshelves lined with books and decorative plates highlighted the room, as did a gorgeous window that overlooked the street below. The mantelpiece was bare except for a silver box, and a small fire was laid ready to be lit in the grate.

‘Oh it’s lovely,’ cried Kitty.

Harold beamed. ‘It is lovely. Many a famous body has lain in that bed after too many clarets downstairs,’ he mused. ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ said Harold. ‘Make yourself at home, bathroom next door. I’m on the next floor. I like to be in the ivory tower, overseeing everything.’ He laughed and Kitty kissed his cheek.

‘You are so kind to me. Why, I have no idea – I hardly know you,’ she said, her eyes brimming with tears.

‘I know enough about you to have you stay with me,’ he said and he smiled as he walked to the door. ‘Will Ivo be visiting you here?’ he asked innocently.

Kitty’s face darkened. ‘No,’ she said, and went to look out of the window.

Harold nodded. ‘Right then,’ he said and he left Kitty in peace.

Kitty set about exploring her room. The thoughtfulness of Harold towards his guests was delightful. The silver box on top of the mantelpiece housed chocolate coins by Debauve & Gallais. If Kitty had been able to read the label, it would have told her that they were the chocolates which were originally made for Marie Antoinette, but she just popped one in her mouth, the delicious flavour melting over her tongue. The cabinet at the end of the bed disguised a state-of-the-art television and DVD player.

A small brass carriage clock sat on the bedside table along with a bowl of grapes, a notepad and pen and a phone.

The desk in the corner of the room was bare except for a crystal vase of purple roses, whose scent filled the room. Kitty opened the centre drawer and a set of stiff blue stationery with Harold’s address on it sat neatly inside with a pen and a box of stamps.

The wardrobe had scented paper lining the drawers, padded satin hangers and garment bags for travel. It was the most supremely elegant room Kitty had ever seen and she wondered how on earth she would be able to leave.

Downstairs, as he made more tea, Harold was thinking.

There was no doubt that Ivo was in love with the girl. He had seen them in between takes on set, sometimes with Willow’s children in tow.

Willow had told him that Ivo visited her most evenings at the house. A shame, thought Harold as he pottered about his white and blue kitchen. The boy seemed better when he was with Kitty; less anxious and cocksure.

Harold knew enough about love after his four marriages to understand heartbreak. The women he chose were works of art; beautiful. He was a collector of beautiful things, but they didn’t last, he thought as he rinsed a delicate white cup carefully.

No more marriages, he decided; no more beautiful women. He felt fatherly towards Kitty, although he wasn’t sure why. She was lovely, but not his type – too French, he thought; he preferred cold, distant and fragile. Kitty’s warmth leapt out at you and her gentleness, her childlike enthusiasm, was intoxicating. No wonder Ivo fell for her. She was the realest person he had met in a long time.

Yes, he decided, as he put away the china in the ancient Japanese tea cabinet, it was a shame to let love linger with no reward; and he decided that he would be Cupid. He had a bow and arrow and a set of wings in storage. Now he just had to retrieve them and get to work, he thought as he climbed the stairs to his ivory tower.