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‘I have plans with other friends but that’s very kind, thank you.’
Jasper giggles in the passenger seat. ‘“Friends”…’ he says, putting imaginary speech marks in the air. His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror and I stick my tongue out at him.
I gaze out the window at the narrow country roads, the fields and hedges that mark out that we are truly in the countryside. Carmel whizzes past. Sheep. I just saw sheep.
‘I’m surprised Miles didn’t come up with you guys?’ she asks Jasper in the front seat.
‘He’s driving up later. He had to run some errands,’ Jasper explains.
That’s the boyfriend. I grin to hear his name. I can piece together little details about this man. He lives with Jasper and given that his mum knows about him then this is more than dating. While it will be wonderful to meet him, I do wonder why I haven’t known about him sooner. I’m simmering with curious excitement to meet the man who tamed our grumpy office cat.
The car starts to slow down and I look around at the infinite expanse of fields. There are no houses around this place. It’s hedgerows and signs telling me to look out for horses. There’s a stone wall to the left that suddenly opens up and there is a blackgate there and we slow down and pull up to it. Carmel winds down the window and punches in a code. I sit there quietly. We knew you were posh, Jasper. We joked about it, but how posh? Are we talking private jet posh? Or does a weekly shop in Waitrose posh? The gate creeps open and Carmel drives on through, the car crunching against the gravel. We carry on through a drive lined with trees, the winter light filtering through and, for a moment, I put my hands up to the window to take it all in.
‘Is that a…lake?’ I ask them.
‘Oh yes. The trout are all on their Christmas holidays though,’ Carmel laughs.
And then around the very next bend of the drive, his family home comes into view, and I think I must feel the same way that Elizabeth Bennet felt when she first saw Pemberley. I expect she didn’t cry out, ‘Holy Fuck,’ to see it, however. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud,’ I mumble, apologising. ‘It’s really…’
I catch Jasper’s eye in the rearview mirror again. ‘It’s fucking huge,’ I say mouthing the words. It’s a large stone house adorned in ivy, stairs to the front that lead on to wooden doors that most people would decorate with a simple wreath at this time of year but this is adorned with an archway of ribbons, pine cones and foliage, the door flanked by two sparkling Christmas trees. I don’t know why but I start counting windows, noticing how every one is illuminated, decorated, and I try to peek at what it may look like inside. I feel my mouth agape to take it all in. I look back to Jasper. A mansion, my arse. You live in bloody Saltburn.
FIFTEEN
‘It’s not Saltburn,’ Jasper tells me. ‘Fear not, you won’t be seeing me dancing naked through the parlour to “Murder on the Dancefloor”.’
‘I bloody hope not,’ I laugh, though I don’t think he realises that having a parlour is not very normal for most people. In fact, the only time I hear that word used in everyday parlance is when it refers to ice cream or funerals. This may not be Saltburn but this place is Moormount House and oh my life, it feels like all those country houses my mum used to take me to when I was little for afternoon tea, the sort of house people get married in, not live in. I’m almost too scared to move, to touch anything. I might break an antique that I can’t replace. I pull my bag towards the room that adjoins Jasper’s and peek inside. It’s an oak-panelled room mainly taken up with a four-poster bed, a dresser and a large circular mirror draped in Christmas berries and fir. The curtains are heavy brocade, and there’s a dark green patterned rug on the floor. I look around and head to the window to see a stunning view of the drive framed by the lake and surrounding woodland.
‘There’s a bathroom down the hall,’ he tells me, heading over to an ottoman at the base of the bed. ‘And towels in here.’
I am quiet, peering over the ottoman to see a variety of white cotton towels, folded in neat triangles, and a robe should I choose to wear one. I head over to the side of my bed where there’s a bowl of Christmas-scented pot pourri. I pick it up to smell it.
‘How many bedrooms are there, Jasper?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Oh.’
He stands there waiting for me to pass judgement but I have nothing. Every little moment of this house blows me away. The giant Christmas tree to the main atrium when we walked in could compete with the one we saw in the concourse in Waterloo. There was a grand piano in there, a suit of armour, huge paintings of landscapes hung to the walls. ‘You’re in the East Wing,’ Carmel said. Their house has wings. Do you know what I own that has wings? Sanitary towels. I walked in and there was a man there who bowed to me. I didn’t know what to do so I hugged him and wished him a Merry Christmas.
I sit on the edge of the bed, looking around at the grand cornicing of my bedroom, and a painting that may or not be an original Turner.
‘I mean, I expected an en suite at least. This is disappointing,’ I joke. He joins me on the edge of the bed and laughs. ‘Jasper, this is insane. We always joked about this and you always told us off.’
‘It’s because I don’t live here. I live in a maisonette in Golder’s Green,’ he corrects me.
I pull a face trying to get my head around that. He constantly complains about that maisonette and its faulty plumbing. He could live here and commute in. We could all move in with him and take a wing each. It would be awesome.
‘That’s how the story gets all complicated. None of this is mine,’ he says, putting his arms out.
‘None of it?’ I question, noticing a sadness in his eyes. ‘Surely at some point, it will be?’
‘No,’ he continues. ‘I was the bonus child that no one saw coming after my dad remarried. My father’s first wife’s family never really approved of me or my mum so they went out of their way to ensure we would never inherit the estate,’ he tells me.
I don’t quite know how to reply, it feels steeped in scandal but I also feel the weight of the emotion behind his words. ‘Oh. Is that allowed? But your mum, she’s so nice.’
‘She’s the bloody best.’
I put a hand in his. I have so many questions. But for now, there’s something there that speaks of some disappointment for his mum, and perhaps his family not being as united and traditional as hoped.
