‘Built in 1730. My father’s great-great-grandfather, or I think even one further back, was the first person to own it, and it’s stayed in the family ever since.’
The sitting room was even more spectacular. From floor to ceiling, bookcases were filled on every shelf with serious-looking literature. Between two of them an arched alcove painted in a deep, ruby red housed a writing table with turned baluster legs and a tier of narrow drawers on each side of the central recess. A black and gold lamp base topped with a black lampshade gave out a muted light, and along with an Apple Mac, was the only item on the desk.
Heavy gold curtains hung over the Georgian windows, and high-backed red brocade settees faced each other in front of a grey stone fireplace.
The splendour of her surroundings and the obvious wealth of this woman whom she didn’t really know awed Alex. She had grown up in an early-Edwardian semi with a downstairs that would probably fit into this room. Her parents had provided both their daughters with enough luxuries in life. They certainly hadn’t gone short of anything, but this wealth was a wealth backed up by old money. There had to be at least a dozen more rooms in this house.
She again regretted making the call. It was like visiting royalty.
‘Look, I have to make a quick call,’ Maggie Fielding said. ‘Make yourself at home. Have a wander. The kitchen is on the left at the end of the hallway. There’s some white wine in the fridge that you can pour for us. I’ll only be a few minutes and then we can talk.’
Alex was pleased to have a moment alone. If they had started talking straight away she would have probably gone into patient mode and drivelled on about lack of sleep, weight loss and nightmares until the woman politely but determinedly rushed her back out of the house. She needed to calm down and think like a sane woman before she said anything about how she was feeling.
Maggie held up her mobile phone to indicate she was now going to make her call, and Alex slipped out of the room, giving the woman privacy, and went in search of the kitchen. She had to walk along a second hallway as she turned left to get there.
Another room to take her breath away. White wooden cupboards surrounded an island made of rich dark wood where at least a dozen people could stand and prepare food. A round copper sink was set into the wood, presumably for washing vegetables. Two more sinks, deep and wide, were set beneath a window looking out onto a high stone-walled garden, large and private enough to hold grand garden parties.
Determined not to be further fazed by such blatant affluence, she went in search of the fridge, which she found in a prep room just off the kitchen. The silver fridge provided cool water, cubed ice, crushed ice and probably even a vodka and Coke if you pressed the right button.
She pulled out the bottle of wine without even glancing at the label. She didn’t want to know how expensive it was. She didn’t even want to be drinking it. She wanted to be at home in her moderate luxury surrounded by her own things and drinking vodka.
Out of politeness, she would stay for one drink and tell Maggie Fielding everything was fine. And—
A fleeting movement caught her attention and the fine hairs on the back her neck sprang up. She couldn’t move; instinct held her rigidly still as whatever it was on the shelf above the fridge was close enough to jump on her head. Petrified, she made herself raise her eyes and saw eyes staring back. Then its fat brown body moved and she saw its long repulsive tail.
The bottle slipped from her hands, smashing to smithereens as it hit the stone floor, and the scream she unleashed almost ripped her tonsils out.
Maggie Fielding tore round the corner and saw her guest rooted to the spot in complete terror. Shaking uncontrollably, Alex was guided to the nearest chair. It took several attempts before she finally understood what Maggie Fielding was telling her.
‘It’s Dylan. I’m so sorry. I forgot he was out. I’m so sorry, Alex. I just completely forgot.’
Alex stared at her stunned. ‘You mean .?.?.’
‘He’s a pet rat. Terribly tame and now probably cowering in fear.’
‘Aren’t you worried he’ll pee and poo everywhere?’ It was the only thing she could think to say.
Maggie Fielding smiled. ‘He doesn’t. He’s house trained. Or rather, I know his habits. He doesn’t poop out of his cage.’
Like a professional waiter she uncorked a second bottle of white wine and poured Alex a large glass. After the first few gulps on an empty stomach Alex felt herself calming.
She wasn’t prepared to meet the rat formally, but Maggie Fielding was determined that Dylan would make a better impression on second introduction. When she returned she had a box of Cheerios in her hand and Dylan perched on her shoulder.
As she set the rat down on the worktop, Alex stood up and backed into a corner. ‘Does he jump at you?’ she asked nervously.
‘No. He’s a friendly little chap if you give him a chance.’
The rat hadn’t moved from its place. Maggie gave the box a slight shake; his large head lifted, and his pointed nose and whiskers moved. His eyes were fixed on his owner. Maggie took out a single Cheerio and held it between her fingers. Without hesitation the rat scurried towards her. He sat up on hind legs, long bony feet splayed, and claws that looked far too naked and small stuck out in front waiting for food. Maggie placed the Cheerio into the bald claws and the rat – very delicately, with its two long teeth – began to chomp away.
‘You want to try?’
Alex shook her head and Maggie chuckled.
‘Maybe next time.’
Alex didn’t think so. Not in this lifetime. She would rather deal with the fear of buildings collapsing around her as she helped trapped people than put one single finger anywhere near that rat’s teeth and claws.
When the prep room floor was cleaned, and Dylan was safely back in his cage, the two women finally sat down to talk. It had taken time for her to warm to this woman, but Alex had to admit she was beginning to like Maggie Fielding, and in her mess of a world right now she needed new friends. ‘Tell me, where did you get all the wonderful art?’ Alex asked Maggie.
‘From my grandparents, mainly. They spent a lot of time living in France and Italy. Many of the paintings were brought back by them. I’m not really an art collector myself. I haven’t the time.’
‘What about the one above the writing desk?’
It had caught Alex’s attention when she’d arrived, as soon as she stepped into the sitting room, and during their conversation her eyes were drawn to it time and again.
A woman was lying on a bed, her breasts bared as she stretched her arm towards the retreating man. In her hand she held out a garment, as if gesturing for him to come back. But he was walking away, already dressed.
‘It’s called Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife. The artist is Orazio Gentileschi. Many artists, including Rembrandt, have painted the lovely lady.’