The Perfect Retreat

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO




Ivo drove his new Volvo down the driveway of his parents’ home.

Evelyn Casselton was waiting for him by the front door. As an only child, his appearance on Christmas Day was important to his parents. He felt the heavy weight of expectations as he stopped the car.

‘A new car, Ivo!’ exclaimed his mother.

‘Yes,’ said Ivo, but he offered no other information. He would wait until the three of them had run out of things to talk about. He calculated that the car talk could take up at least half an hour, even an hour if he got his father banging on about foreign cars and ownership.

Picking up his overnight bag – he had promised to stay the night – he walked towards his mother.

‘Hello Mum,’ he said as he bent down to kiss her powdered cheek.

‘Dad’s inside; he’s looking forward to seeing you,’ she said.

Ivo doubted that very much. His relationship with his father wasn’t exactly warm. Ivo felt like a disappointment to his high-achieving father – and he was, he thought, in many ways. His father was Earl of Casselton; he ran the large Casselton estate and was a committed member of the local Conservative Party. He was educated and careful. The phrase ‘the glass is half empty’ summed him up perfectly.

Ivo dumped his bag in the large foyer, the paintings of his ancestors frowning down on him, and walked into the drawing room.

‘Hi Dad,’ he said. ‘Merry Christmas.’

His father stood up from the leather wingback chair and extended his hand. ‘Ivo. Merry Christmas,’ he said.

His mother walked into the room. ‘Perry, Ivo has a new Volvo,’ she said proudly.

Ivo winced. It seemed the car conversation would be sooner than he had thought.

‘Do you?’ asked his father, surprised. Ivo was forever cadging money from them – well, mostly from his mother, although Perry knew but didn’t say anything.

‘Where did you get that?’ he asked his son.

Ivo stiffened. ‘From my wages,’ he said.

‘As what?’ asked Perry, folding away his reading glasses and putting them next to his cup of tea.

‘I made a film,’ said Ivo.

His mother gasped. ‘Not pornography Ivo?’

Ivo looked at her in horror. What did they think of him? he wondered.

‘No Mother, not porn. Jesus,’ he said crossly.

‘What sort of film?’ asked his father, gesturing Ivo to be seated in front of him.

‘A period romance. Directed by Harold Gaumont,’ said Ivo, waiting for their reaction.

‘Oh how lovely,’ said his mother, relieved; and sitting down next to him, she patted his leg. ‘So, you’re an actor now?’

‘No,’ said Ivo slowly.

His father rolled his eyes. ‘What now, Ivo? If you want to be an actor, I suppose it’s OK with us if it buys you Volvos,’ he said.

Ivo licked his lips. ‘Actually I’m a writer now. I wrote a book, and it was the best thing I think I have ever done.’

‘What sort of a book?’ asked his mother, worry returning to her face.

‘A book about art,’ said Ivo, trying not to laugh. She probably thought it was erotic fiction to go with his porn film, he thought.

‘An art book? I’m intrigued,’ said Perry. ‘Do tell.’

So Ivo launched into the story of Middlemist and the film and Merritt and the paintings and the auction and his parents sat gobsmacked. And then his mother stood up.

‘Oh it’s all too perfect!’ she screamed, and practically ran from the room.

‘Jesus, is she alright?’ asked Ivo as he watched her leave.

His father jumped up – he, too, was beside himself with excitement.

‘You wait my boy, you wait! Stay there,’ he ordered, and hurried after his wife. Ivo sat perplexed as Evelyn walked back into the room.

‘We have your Christmas present,’ she announced, and Perry walked into the room holding the same painting that Ivo had admired so much from the Middlemist collection.

‘It doesn’t have a name,’ said his mother.

‘The Proposal,’ said Ivo, stunned.

‘Oh, is that what it’s called? Well, makes sense. Your father and I bought it at the auction.’

‘I was there. I didn’t see you,’ said Ivo, thinking back.

‘We didn’t go. We did it over the phone; all very private that way,’ said his father, searching his son’s face for an expression.

‘Do you like it?’ asked his mother, dancing around him. ‘I know you don’t have a permanent address yet but it can hang here until you do.’

‘I love it,’ said Ivo, and he reached out and gave his ecstatic mother a hug and a kiss. And then he walked over to his father and pulled him into a hug too, which delighted his father more than Ivo realised.

‘We went to London to see this new Russian artist’s exhibition at the Wimple-Jones Gallery, but it was awful. And so rude,’ said Evelyn. Ivo tried not to laugh. He had heard Tatiana’s show was a sell-out, but it certainly wasn’t to his parents’ taste.

Ivo knew through his newfound friends in the art world that Tatiana had made a sculpture of Kerr, naked, gilded, with a vagina instead of a penis. The piece was entitled ‘Rock Out With Your Cock Out’. Apparently Mick Jagger had bought it and housed it in his chestnut grove in France, where his guests, out of it on expensive wine and enormous joints, would dry hump Kerr all night.

‘Come on then! Time for lunch,’ said Evelyn. ‘Champagne is in order, I believe.’

‘I would have liked to have written a book,’ said Ivo’s father as they settled down at the large oak table.

‘You still can Dad,’ said Ivo, laughing.

‘Did you know I trod the boards at Harrow?’ Perry said, thinking back.

‘No Dad, I didn’t. Tell me about it,’ lied Ivo, remembering the actor from the set talking about him from his schooldays. He listened as Peregrine talked about his brief but successful appearance in a production of The Merry Wives of Windsor.

It was a lovely lunch, filled with conversation and laughter. Ivo kept glancing at the painting, which he had taken with him into the dining room.

‘I do love it,’ he kept saying, over and over. ‘It was my favourite.’

‘One day that might be you,’ said Evelyn, a little tipsy from the vintage Krug.

‘I don’t know Mum. There’s no one special in my life right now,’ he said, thinking of Kitty. ‘My mail box isn’t exactly filled with billets-doux.’

‘Oh, that reminds me,’ said Evelyn, and she got up from the table and left the room.

‘Not another painting, I hope,’ laughed Ivo.

Evelyn came back holding a blue envelope. ‘This came for you here,’ she said, and she handed him the letter. ‘It looks like the name was written by a child. Perhaps it’s fan mail,’ she said hopefully.

‘I doubt it, no one’s seen the film yet,’ he said as he studied the front of the envelope. His name was scrawled across it but the address was written in perfectly formed letters in an almost copperplate script.

He used his bread knife to open it and started to read. His eyes welled up with tears of pride and happiness.

‘Who’s it from?’ Evelyn pried, watching his face.

‘It’s from a woman I love,’ said Ivo, looking up at his parents.

‘I thought you said there was no one special,’ said Evelyn excitedly.

‘There wasn’t, I thought, but it seems in fact there could be,’ said Ivo thoughtfully. He stood up. ‘Would you mind terribly if I nipped back to London? You see I lost her once and I don’t want to lose her again,’ he said honestly.

Evelyn clapped her hands. ‘Of course! Go, go,’ she said.

Perry stood and shook his son’s hand.

‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Women are a mercurial lot.’

Ivo laughed and ran out the door towards his new car. Evelyn stood watching him tear off down the driveway, and decided that buying the other Middlemist, of the woman holding the baby in the orangery, hadn’t been such a mistake after all. It would make a lovely wedding present, she thought.