Ariel followed me into the bedroom that would be Ben’s and mine during our stay at Cragstone House. “Can I come, Ellie? I could show you where Mr. Scrimshank has his office; that would save you time.”
“That’s awfully nice of you, but better not.”
“Then I won’t tell you my surprise.” She sat down with a thump on the dressing-table stool.
This was another lovely room: luxury converted into cozy comfort. The wallpaper was striped green and white; the daffodil-yellow curtains matched the slipcovers on the two easy chairs by the fireplace. The bleached pine of the four-poster bed and armoire, the perfect placement of the lamps, the velvety sage carpet underfoot: all whispered of relaxation and ease. Ariel sat raking a tortoiseshell comb through her lank hair as I nipped into the bathroom with its tasteful appointments to freshen up, to use Betty’s phrase rather than Mrs. Malloy’s more blunt talk of going to the lav.
Betty’s words were far more suitable, given that the toilet handle, as well as the taps for the shell-shaped sink, looked as though they’d been hand-picked for Versailles by Marie Antoinette, with a little help from the royal decorator. (Somehow, I doubted that that soon-to-be-headless wonder had made do with the suggestions of an amateur.) Looking up from washing my hands with rose soap from a crystal dish, I searched my reflection in the mirror. Was I jealous of the yet unseen Val’s accomplishments throughout the house? Or merely amazed that according to Betty she was untrained?
I frequently advise my clients that an excess of perfection can be not only monotonous but stressful. You can’t wear the wrong clothes without the fear of failing your surroundings. Something always needs to be just a little off: a picture looking as though it has been randomly chosen, a mismatched cup and saucer placed where they seem to be left out by mistake, a brass or silver candlestick in need of polishing. It was advice I had received from a guru designer, a former teacher and now friend of mine, who knew everyone in the business and, in my opinion, more than all of them combined. But getting things too right wasn’t the kind of mistake likely to be made by even the most gifted nonprofessional. The risks of such a person’s efforts looking more like a five-star hotel than a home were minimal.
The chances were good I’d meet the woman behind the enigma, I told my reflection as I toweled off my face. No point in dredging up excuses for disliking her unseen. So what if I hadn’t slept well the night before, was missing the children, had got drawn into another family’s problems. Laying down the monogrammed hand towel and sticking a smile on in lieu of lipstick, I went back into the bedroom and said to Ariel, still seated on the dressing-table stool, that we should go and look for Mrs. Malloy.
“She just popped her head around the door to say she’d like another ten minutes to finish her makeup.”
“Then we might as well stay put until we hear her coming.” I perched on the side of the bed. “There’s never any missing the sound of her high heels clicking down a wooden floor.”
I pictured Mrs. Malloy in her bathroom, mixing one facial cream with another, intent on concocting an instant rejuvenating formula of the sort that had eluded scientists for the last fifty years. I doubted we would hear her high heels tapping along the gallery very soon, which was all to the good, seeing that there was a matter I wished to broach to Ariel without seeming to pounce.
“What a lovely room. Ben and I will be really comfortable here,” I said from the bed.
“Yes, I suppose Val didn’t do a bad job. Better anyway than Betty’s attempts. She kept ordering furniture that she didn’t like when it showed up in the van. Poor Dad; she made him move it from place to place before sending it back. He’d get fed up, but most of the time he didn’t say anything, because she goes off at the drop of a hat, just like she did at Mavis.”
“We all lose our tempers from time to time.”
“Not the way she does.”
“Let’s discuss why she was on edge.” I shifted farther around to face her squarely.
“Why?”
“That business about the phone call to the catering firm. The one Betty said she didn’t make, canceling the arrangements for the garden party on Thursday.”
“What about it?” Ariel was now scraping the tortoiseshell comb along the edge of the dressing table.
“Who would have made that call?”
“How would I know? She should have kept her temper when she rang yesterday and got the news, but no! She had to go into one of her screaming rages. I’ll bet she was the one who threw the dishcloth at Mavis.”
“And now she’s been forced to invite us to stay so Ben can take on the catering.”
“Well, I didn’t set that up, but only because I didn’t think of it,” Ariel replied defiantly. “Maybe it was Mavis, out to get back at Betty for not letting her bring her son to work. That’s pretty scummy, don’t you think?”
“Not if he’s as destructive as she said.”
“Oh, I might have known she’d get you on her side!”
I looked at her, still fiddling with the comb, and, despite the rudeness, felt a pang of pity. Why wasn’t something done about her hair? A more attractive cut and frequent washing could make all the difference. And then there were the oversized spectacles and the clothes, which did nothing to give her life and color. I had been far from a childhood beauty, but my parents-my mother in particular-had always boosted me up, pointed out my good points, made sure that what I wore suited me and helped me feel good about myself. And they hadn’t had the money that was now at the Hopkinses’ disposal. Again I was making judgments. Suggestions, especially if coming from Betty, were apt to be summarily spurned by Ariel.
“I’m not on anyone’s side,” I said gently, “but I don’t think you should criticize your stepmother to me. Last night was a little different; you had to give me your account of why you ran away. Now I’m a guest in her home. Isn’t there someone else you can talk to about your feelings?”
“Such as a psychiatrist?” She pounced to her feet to stand glaring at me, skinny arms folded. “You’re saying I’m crazy, aren’t you?”
It was too much… the scared look in her eyes, the quiver of her lips before she tightened them; the sight tore at my heart. I could have been looking at one of my own children, but I didn’t dare go over and put my arms around her. She would have pushed me away, become even more upset. Her pride was something she held on to grimly. I understood. I’d been there. And my childhood had been a day at the seaside compared to hers. No devastating loss of a parent in a tragic accident.
“That’s not it at all,” I said crisply, setting my mood to hers. “We all need to get things off our chests from time to time. Have someone really listen to us. What about one of your teachers at school?”
Ariel hunched a shoulder.
“What about your church?” I asked.
“What about it?”
“Is there anyone there you could talk to? The vicar’s wife, for instance?”
“We go to the Catholic church, remember? And Mr. Hard-castle, the Anglican vicar who’s coming to tea tomorrow, doesn’t have a wife. She ran off with one of the altar boys.”
“No!” I stalled on my way to the door, having heard Mrs. Malloy’s heels clicking down the gallery.
“You’re right.” Ariel trailed after me. “I remember now; it was one of the vergers. Okay! I’m kidding. Mr. Hardcastle hasn’t ever been married. Mrs. Cake says many a woman has pricked her little fingers to the bone embroidering altar cloths and kneelers, but it hasn’t got them measuring for curtains at the vicarage. She said he’s a confirmed bachelor. And I told her he should be. A bad example if he wasn’t confirmed. It was a joke, but I don’t think she got it. She spent twenty minutes explaining she meant he’s happy as he is.”