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‘I am sorry for all the times I may have mocked your poshness,’ I tell him.
‘Oh, I am sort of posh. I went to a private school. I know someone called Tarquin.’ I laugh. ‘Posh, just not rich like you may have assumed,’ he informs me.
‘The man before who met us at the door, the one I hugged. I’ll assume that wasn’t a relative,’ I ask quietly.
‘That was Philip, the head butler.’ I don’t say a word. ‘The estate has a team and yes, that includes butlers, maids and two groundsmen.’
‘Are they called Mellors and Willie? Is Willie Scottish and angry when people park on the grass? Does Mellors walk around with a shotgun and rabbits hanging off his neck?’
‘I feel like you’re mocking me now, Maggie,’ he says, nudging me with his elbow.
‘What do I do? Do I tip the butlers? Should I have broughtthem gifts? Will they turn down my bed? Draw me a bath?’ I ask.
‘Oh, you’re being serious,’ Jasper replies. ‘You watch too muchDownton Abbey. They mostly clean, do the laundry and accept delivery of the Ocado shop.’
I laugh under my breath. He’s that sort of posh.
‘Fill your own bath, make your own bed, please. You won’t wake up and find staff standing at the end of your bed waiting to dress you.’ I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved but I also realise that apart from Philip and another gentleman who insisted he carried my bags, I’ve only met his mum, the rest of the people milling around have been decorating, hoovering, delivering glassware for tonight’s party.
‘So can I ask where is everyone? Cressida, Albert, your dad? Maybe young Miles?’ I enquire tentatively.
‘You are funny…’ he says, plainly, still not really comprehending why I’m so excited to meet him.
‘Jasper, you have a boyfriend you never told me about,’ I moan.
‘Well, do I look like the sort of person who’d have framed couples pics on my desk?’
‘Well, no…’
‘We’re quite a low-key couple, you know? And remember when I told you about the old-fashioned relatives when we were on the train? Sometimes it feels like a safer option to protect ourselves from their opinions.’
I nod, trying to piece together what he means, about how he asked me for a favour on that train of my discretion. I salute him to show him I silently understand what I have to do this weekend. Complicated. I think I get what he means now.
‘The others will show their heads eventually too. Dad is napping before the party. Cressida is driving in from Fulham. You will hear Albert and his family before you see them. I have earplugs if you need them. I’ll leave you alone now. You canstart getting ready if you want. I am going to unpack and then make a cup of tea? Sound like a plan?’
‘Sounds perfect,’ I tell him. ‘Jasper?’
‘It will be in a mug. We don’t get the good china out for the commoners,’ he jokes.
I giggle. ‘What I was going to say is that I’m glad to be here.’
He’ll never say anything like that back, but he smiles and nods his head, going to his room, and closing the adjoining door, leaving a small crack of space open.
I don’t quite know what to do with myself so I lie back on my bed and notice the carvings to the frame. Such is the problem with work and possibly men but I’m not the nosy sort to really delve into their family backgrounds. I did think I knew them all reasonably well, but none of them display photos at work and their social media is limited to memes and, in Jasper’s case, political rantings on Twitter. They all have their own stories, they exist in these complicated dynamics and I suddenly feel grateful for my own mum and dad. We lived in a three-bedroomed semi in West London, just us three, and it all felt bound together tightly with love and appreciation for each other. I suddenly miss it. I feel grateful for the simplicity of it all, us sat around in our living room, eating fish and chips off our knees, watchingPointless. I can imagine Dad’s face if he’d pull up to this place.It’s nice and all but what’s your electric bill like?I get out my phone and scroll through to the family WhatsApp group. Their last post to me was in some restaurant in Oslo where Dad was waxing lyrical about the herring.
Love you both. Hope you’re both safe, Send me pictures xxx
The message is read straight away and three dots appear. However, a picture appears that maybe they should have kept to themselves. They seem to be in some sort of sauna, hot springsituation, some lengths of greenery protecting their modesty. I laugh heartily.
We’re naturists now. It will save us so much money in clothes and laundry. Love you more beautiful xxx
I smile, perhaps thankful now that I’m not there with them. They are living their best lives and maybe that’s the best Christmas gift they can give me. I scroll through my phone again. I really do need to text someone else, don’t I? Have I left it too long? Should I have called? I am not quite sure what to say or how to open it…Hey, I saw your wang. Wanna chat about that?Obviously, no. MaybeWe need to talk?Too serious.Last night was funny, eh?Too flippant. I take a deep breath and type.
Hey x
I sit there for a moment to see if it gets read, whether he replies straight away, not knowing if I’m willing him to be on the other end of the phone or hoping he’ll pretend none of it ever happened. But nothing. I hope he’s OK. Maybe the ‘hey’ was too casual. It screams, ‘let’s do it again’ like I’m treating him like a booty call. I lie there on that opulent bed thinking about last night. Like he is in life, Leo went straight to the point, he knew exactly what he wanted and how he wanted to do it, and there was some surprise that he even had that vocabulary hidden away inside him. I think about the sounds he made, how I was fixated by his thighs, the lowness of his Northern tones like whispers in my ear.
Not now. I exhale deeply to compose myself. Now is certainly not the time to be entertaining those thoughts in a guest bedroom, on this hugely regal bed. I’ve never had a bed with posts and a roof before. I always assumed they were for people who needed curtains for a bit of privacy and warmth,and the posts always felt a bit kinky. I get up and explore the room a bit more, opening drawers and cupboards and opening my bag to maybe put some things away. There’s a glass bowl here. Is that to wash my face or is it a chamber pot? I line up bottles of moisturiser and get out my red dress to air it properly before wearing it again tonight. I’ll have to find Philip and ask him for some Febreze. I hang it on the curtain rail and as I do, I see a car pulling up outside. It’s a fancy Chelsea tractor style Land Rover and five people emerge from it, one of whom puts her arms out to welcome everyone who stands there in awe, looking up at the place. She wears a quilted gilet, knee-high riding boots, a pink shirt, pashmina and sunglasses and if I were to take bets, I would say this is Cressida. I stand there surveying them all from behind the thick brocade curtains. This material is lovely. I hold it to my waist. It feels like something a Tudor queen would make into a dress she’d wear to court. However, I suddenly also hear a voice next door.
