Before and After Read online

  Before and After

  Laura Lockington

  © Laura Lockington 2013

  Laura Lockington has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Rule Number One

  Rule Number Two

  Rule Number Three

  Rule Number Four

  Rule Number Five

  Rule Number Six

  Rule Number Seven

  Rule Number Eight

  Rule Number Nine

  Rule Number Ten

  Rule Number Eleven

  Rule Number Twelve

  Rule Number Thirteen

  Rule Number Fourteen

  Rule Number Fifteen

  Rule Number Sixteen

  Rule number Seventeen

  Rule Number Eighteen

  Rule Number Nineteen

  Rule Number Twenty

  Rule Number Twenty-One

  Rule Number Twenty Two

  Rule Number Twenty Three

  Rule Number Twenty Four

  Rule Number Twenty Five

  Rule Number Twenty Six

  Rule Number Twenty Seven

  Extract from The Cornish Affair by Laura Lockington

  Rule Number One

  ‘The arrival at a new residence must be undertaken with style and panache. It is possible, therefore, in these circumstances to overlook the vulgarity of a Rolls Royce.”

  Most of my business comes from word of mouth. I like to think that all of my clients get together now and again to chat over the changes that I’ve made to their - on the whole - very humdrum lives.

  Of course, occasionally I’ve made mistakes, but who amongst us can claim otherwise? On the whole I think I’ve worked miracles.

  I have made silk purses from sows’ ears.

  Today I’m starting a new assignment. I’ve skimmed the notes, and frankly, I can’t wait to start.

  The family in question have passed my requirements (I have to be quite strict in my criteria). They must have sufficient finances to make my job viable. I need clients who have an income that exceeds the spending power of their imagination for a start. Then there’s the geographical problem. (Although I once broke my own rule and took an assignment in Italy). My excuse, that I lay before you quite honestly, was that I’d never seen Venice or eaten black risotto and therefore felt justified, this once at least, in dabbling abroad. But on the whole it’s simply not worth it, as too much foreign air weakens my concentration and that can have quite devastating effects.

  Children can be a problem too if they are the wrong ages, although I don’t rule them out all together. It can be rewarding to see quite how far the familial love can push things along. Some of my past clients’ offspring still write to me. The letters are forwarded to me as naturally no-one knows about this place. I never open the letters of course but still, I suppose they’re quite satisfactory to receive.

  I flicked through the notes on the Ambles and waited for the familiar tickle of excitement to begin in the pit of my stomach. If I don’t get it, then it’s a bad sign, but luckily I did. A small rippling feeling grew deep inside me and I stroked the pages of closely written notes, and stared at the photographs. The rippling of excitement in the tummy could have been put down to a highly indigestible, but satisfyingly delicious kosher pickle that I’d had an hour ago. Anyway whatever the feeling was, I had no choice. I had to work with them as I had a very pressing engagement in two months from them that simply wouldn’t wait.

  It would soon be time to leave the sanctuary of my house and travel to the Ambles. But I had time to make my usual tour of the property. I checked the portraits and noted the extent of the cobwebs, they’d made good progress since I’d last been here. The books were exactly as I’d left them, tottering piles of them, stacked against the walls. I stopped and frowned slightly at the sight of a silver bowl that was lying drunkenly against the skirting board. I picked it up and put it on top of the ebony stand. I carefully stepped over some shards of splintered glass from the Venetian mirror that I’d broken quite deliberately some years before. I’d clear it up later. I have a very tricky relationship with my reflection and had succumbed to hitting the looking glass with a hammer when it hadn’t shown me the picture that I wanted to see. It was, I agree, quite a ridiculous tantrum, but then sometimes, tantrums are immensely satisfying, aren’t they?

  I walked into my dressing room and tried to decide what to pack for the Ambles. The large well-travelled trunk stood in the middle of the room, waiting to be filled. How was I going to present myself to them? No-one knows exactly how old I am. I can look thirty and dress as if I am twenty, though sometimes I look forty and dress as if I am fifty. My age depends on the light, and what I wear depends on how I feel, which depends on how old I look that day, which depends on the light. It’s very tricky as you can imagine.

  I stared at the well-filled rails that lined the room like serried ranks of old faithful soldiers waiting for the call for battle to begin.

  I paused over the Edwardian section, my hand brushing the dark velvet nap of a riding jacket. The bustles were quite a problem, of course, but once you got used to them they were very comfortable.

  The corsets were another thing entirely. Impossible without help. But I was drawn to the idea.

  The next rail held what I termed my Out of Africa look. Wearable, certainly, but was it quite right? I paused and fingered the linen of a long safari skirt. Hmm, no, not quite what I needed.

  Impatiently I tugged at the hem of the dress I’d been wearing. An original Mary Quant mini. Black and white in saucy checks that I wore with lacy tights and hoop earrings. I stripped off and stood naked, apart from my beret, in the clothes room waiting for inspiration. It was cold, and I wrapped my arms around to me to keep warm. I’ve noticed that physical discomfort has a wonderful way of forcing the mind to make a decision.

  My eyes alighted on a rail of floaty black chiffon. Now, that wasn’t a bad idea. I hurriedly pulled on a long black skirt and a beaded black see-through top. I draped an enormous black cashmere throw over it, and hurriedly piled the rest of the rail into the open maw of the trunk, triumphantly slamming the lid down with a flourish. Damn, I’d forgotten shoes. I pushed the lid up again and rummaged around the back of the room. A beautiful pair of grosgrain ribbon high heels, and a pair of black embroidered silk mules found their way into the trunk. I carefully wound a feather soft paisley shawl around my precious jar of marbles and placed that in there as well. I could never leave them behind, they represented the passions of my past and the consolations of my future. I pressed the lid firmly down and clicked the lock. Done.

  As an after-thought, I threw in a tennis racket and a snorkel. I find it’s so important to give the impression that one can do anything.

  I then collected my notes and called the taxi company I’ve used for decades now. They know me very well, and, unlike many a modern fly-by-night firm, can be relied upon to be punctual and, more importantly perhaps, discreet. Some clients have been known to try and bribe the cab driver for my address. This hurdle I overcome by always using the same firm and tipping as extravagantly as the late Aga Khan. Then, of course, there’s the bonus of the divinely suave and handsome Ray. As a driver he is second to none. The sparklingly fresh Mercedes (he buys a new one every year with monotonous regularity) purrs like a dream and delivers one to a front door without a hitch.

  I adjusted the pale grey rose in my velvet turban in front of the shadowy looking glass and smiled at my reflection. Perfect, quite perfect, if I do say so myself. I looked like a large exotic bird in mourning. I pride myself on my pale complex
ion, and always carry a parasol in case of being directly in the sun’s invidious rays. When Coco Chanel started the fashion for being tanned like a farm worker, she started nothing but trouble, in my opinion. Although of course the giant multi nationals that produce the tons and tons of oily gloop year after year which the hordes smear over themselves in the hope of avoiding skin cancer would disagree with me. But, on the whole, I trust my judgements about things. I was right, after all, about microwave ovens, smoking, whale hunting and the dangers of hand rearing badgers, so why wouldn’t I be right about sun bathing?

  Ray would be arriving in an hour, which gave me time to re-read the dossier and sip a glass of water. I would, naturally, prefer a glass of the widow, but I don’t keep alcohol here. The temptation on the rare days that I am home, and prone to a certain ennui, or mooniness to imbibe is not to be encouraged. Solitary tippling is a vice of the worst possible kind, and one I make sure never to succumb to.

  I settled down in the zebra skin chair, and took a deep breath. I flicked the pages until I came to the Ambles’ dog. I find pets very receptive to me. Animals often give me more help and information in five minutes than hours of tortuous conversation with humans. I say pets, though I draw the line at goats. They tend to keep themselves to themselves and have never knowingly helped anyone. Even goldfish can be remarkably incisive.

  Marmaduke – known as Duke. A four- year- old long- haired golden retriever. Bought for Arabella on her tenth birthday. Boisterous, very fond of water in all forms, has been known to break the ice in a lake to go swimming. It is advisable to lock the bathroom door when bathing, as Duke will attempt to dive into the bath with you. Suffers from periodic bouts of depression. Eats anything that isn’t locked up. Considers himself to be the alpha male of the household, and is desperately in love with Miss Marple, the poodle from next door. This love has been consummated, but unfortunately Marmaduke is firing blanks. This is probably just as well, as Marmaduke has a highly developed libido and will shag anything that is furry and moving. Likes to sleep on the chesterfield next to the piano, as the light from the hallway shines into the music room. Frightened of the dark. Adores cold cooked meats.

  I sipped my water (God alone knows how we’re meant to drink litres of the stuff a day) and gazed at a photograph of Marmaduke sitting on the lawn, his tongue lolling wolfishly out of the corner of his mouth. Intelligent, humorous hazel eyes stared back. Good. I was relieved. A dog without a sense of the ridiculous can be quite dangerous.

  I flicked the pages and read about the cook-slash-housekeeper (it seems even the Ambles can’t afford much indoor staff), a Polish woman called Maria Kandinsky (prone to sobbing over cabbage) and the gardener (Jack Blair, part time, no teeth). They could come later.

  Arabella Amble – Known as Bella. I gave a cursory glance at a photograph of a sullen overweight teenager scowling behind a pair of dark glasses on a beach somewhere far too hot judging by the sunburn on the end of her nose, and then continued reading. Aged seventeen. Attends Haberdasher Bobbins School for girls where she mainly stares out of the window. I stifled a yawn, really, could any family be more vin ordinaire? A slight uneasiness in the middle region told me that I had perhaps been unwise in the nibbling of pickled cucumber, so I made myself a restorative glass of salts and did a few deep breathing exercises – most beneficial, I assure you, for any form of stomach upset. I urge you to try them the next time you are a victim to rich food and poor health. Allergic to bee stings. Dislikes sports. Adores reading gothic romances. Writes poetry on rainy days which she then reads to Marmaduke. Adores her elder brother Harry with a passion that is unsuspected by him. Sometimes she sneaks into the kitchen to watch Maria make bread, as the smell of yeast makes her yearn for something she cannot name. Worries about her weight problem which results in midnight binge-eating of chocolate.

  Bless. I smiled at the sulky school girl and flicked over the page to her brother Harry, known as Hal. Was no-one called by their full name in this family? Hmm, just as I thought - a nineteen year old toying with the idea of university, but more likely to do the ubiquitous travelling bit for a year somewhere safe yet sunny, where he doesn’t have to learn another language, like Australia. Apart from his tendency to score pot from a dodgy dealer and an unconfessed liking for the art of a certain Mexican naive painter there wasn’t too much of interest here. Although he was undeniably handsome.

  I sipped more water and glanced at the grandfather clock, although why I don’t know. It had stopped over three years ago, but all the same, the mere act of skimming the surface of a clock face I find very soothing. I know, of course that it’s the height of bad manners to keep people waiting, but I often like to imagine that I am late, just to feel the frisson of tension mounting between my brows. I judged by the sun that I had at least another half hour before the taxi arrived. Of course, I never wear a wrist watch, they are the height of commonness in my mind.

  Mr Amble was next.

  I stared at the photograph till I had his image fixed in my mind. I then set light to it, and watched it burn in a Murano glass ashtray that I keep by my chair for this very purpose.

  He was a tall man, well over six foot. His thick black hair seemed at odds with his very English way of dressing, and yet… there was something about him that breathed of the boulevards. It may have been the angle of his head that suggested a hint of, what? A rake? No, nothing as strong as that, but a ladies man, I would guess, from the clear, knowing bright blue eyes and the silk handkerchief peeking from his pocket. He was standing in front of an ornate fountain that was spurting flumes of water, holding towards the camera a glass of what looked like red wine, smiling gently and lifting his eyes as if sharing a joke with a good friend who had recently taken up residence in heaven.

  I peeked at his notes, but was arrested by an undeniable rumble from my stomach. Oh dear. Perhaps this called for the yoghurt and apple remedy? I tilted my head and consulted my inner self. Damn. Yes. I thought so. I pushed the rest of the notes into my bag, I would read them in the car and went to my bathroom. I have to be so careful with my health, but then, who doesn’t?

  I emerged twenty minutes later, lighter in weight and spirit. I gave a cursory glance at the notes whilst I was waiting for Ray. A photograph of Mrs Amble fell out on the floor.

  Poor woman.

  One look was enough really. A slightly hurt pair of eyes gazed out from long hair that had not a few grey streaks in it. She was sitting on a chair that was slightly in front of a large decorated Christmas tree (trimmed, I noted with interest, by professionals as there was no margin on that tree for childish sentimentality. It was a hideous affair in pink and frosted glass) She had a parcel in her lap and was caught looking at the camera with a bewildered expression. One that said – I know that this is meant to be fun - but when does it start? Her make-up was at least five years too young for her and the size of the diamond on her fingers merely seemed to weigh her down rather than create any sparkle or gleam, as it would have done with any other woman aware of the carats so carelessly dangling from her fingers.

  I heard a rustle behind me and saw from the corner of my eye Percy, my cat, lounging in the shadows. A pure bred Siamese, he knew when it was time to say goodbye. I formally patted him on his head and bade him go to Cecilia’s down the road, where he would be welcome. I couldn’t take the risk of having him with me this time. He hadn’t behaved at all well on my last mission, although to be fair, his distaste of the amount of insects that were to be found in that house fully justified a bit of cat vandalism.

  He twisted himself around my legs and without a glance backwards headed out of the door that I opened for him. Training a cat can be very tiresome indeed, but, I do have a knack for making animals (and I count humans in this category) do what I want them to do. I call it bending them to my will. It sounds nicer, don’t you think? How do I do it? I think it’s a little too soon in our acquaintance for me to divulge secrets, but I will tell you that a wonderful Hungarian book (now sadly out of pri
nt, but can no doubt be tracked down by the zealous book lover amongst the stalls of antique books that line Charing Cross Road) called Mesmerism and Mantras to Enslave by Count Emmanuel are part of my powers. Chapter Eleven is particularly efficacious. The eye commands are helped by the judicious use of greatly diluted belladonna, and I always keep a small bottle of the tincture about my person.

  I heard a car engine outside and stepped into the daylight, feeling the surge of blood in my head that told me I was ready for my new task ahead.

  A rusting estate car, held together with rope and wire stood at the curb and a large man with no hair, wearing a sweat stained shirt jumped from the driver’s seat.

  I stared at him in dismay. This was not my usual driver. This was not Ray.

  He advanced towards me, looking, I noticed, equally as dismayed. Perhaps he thought I was going to a funeral?

  He pointed to a badge on the lapel of his jacket which proclaimed in a Gill Sans typescript, if I’m not mistaken, the single word Jake. I continued to stare at him, not having the heart to tell him that his name was a derivation of the word lavatory. I eventually summoned up the wherewithal to shake his proffered hand.

  We stood shaking hands for a while, and he said, “Miss Tate?”

  I nodded.

  “So then, I was told you’d be waiting and they weren’t wrong. Yer usual man, he’s off on his holidays and so you’ve got me. Big trunk, is it? I was told about that, too. Well, point me in the right direction and we’ll be off.”

  I gestured towards the hallway and helpfully held the door open for him. I pride myself on making the best of, and though bitterly disappointed that my lovely driver was not to be, I shouldered the frustration and prepared to pull towards the main goal, which was, of course, shopping and the delivery of myself to the Ambles.

  Jake struggled with the trunk till beads of sweat appeared on the roll of pink naked flesh above his shirt collar, but eventually with a lot of grunting and puffing, the trunk was installed in the car.