The killer about serializing a story on the blog is that, due to the format, it all unfolds backwards, Memento-stylee. If you're just coming in, click here to begin...Ellen did not arrive at the office until ten-thirty the next morning, hair still wet, her eyes those of a bloodshot raccoon. The office manager looked at her in disbelief, then informed her that Bryan had called twice already.
Bryan. Oh, God. What she had done yesterday, the terrible things she’d thought, all rushed back to her. She did not know if she could bear to speak to him—or hold it together in the face of his patient kindness. How could she apologize? How could she make him understand? It was too much.
Ellen went into her office and sat down. As she swiveled her chair towards the window, the phone rang. It was Bryan.
“Ellie, is everything okay? What happened yesterday?”
Hearing his voice threw her off-balance. Her throat began to close. “Oh, Bryan, I just—I just couldn’t.”
His voice was warm with concern. “What’s wrong, love?”
“Everything.” The tears were coming now, as she had feared. “I just—I haven’t been sleeping very well, and I can’t seem to concentrate on the book, and I was so mean to Cynthia—oh God, Bryan, I can’t, I’ve looked and I’ve looked— d’you know what it’s like?” she heard herself say. “It’s like when a piece of a tune that gets stuck in your head—it just drives out everything else, and you can’t think of the name of the song and you can’t remember how the rest of it goes and it just ruins everything—” A sob rattled her breastbone, but she could not stop talking. “You’ve got these three goddam notes in your head driving you crazy and you’d give anything to know what the tune is, sell your soul just to hear it all the way through, just to recognize it—”
“Oh, Ellie,” he said quietly, “I feel so terrible.”
She couldn’t answer him.
“I’ve been so selfish. I should have—I mean, this whole thing with Ted, and everything—well, you’ve gone through a lot. A lot of stress. We shouldn’t have come on quite so strong with work straight off.”
She sniffled, to show she understood.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, his voice brightening, “why don’t we just forget about the book for a bit? I’ve been needing some time off, too. Let’s take a couple of weeks and just go on holiday.”
“Holiday?”
“Yeah. Forget the book, just get some downtime. Go see the countryside. We could take the train to the Lake District, maybe Scotland—or—you know, do all the tourist sort of things. Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s, all that—go to the theatre, hit the restaurants. I’ll really show you the town. D’you fancy that?”
“But the book—“
“Ellie, the deadline’s in six weeks. The state I’m in, I won’t finish the rewrite for eight—and I’ll wager you could say the same. If we take two weeks now, have a good time, recharge a bit, we’ll come back in fighting trim and knock it off in three.”
She couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Leaving us a week to spare—I like that. What about Cynthia?”
“Oh, it’s okay with her.”
“She’s not mad at me?”
“Cynthia? Of course not. She understands how stressed out you are.” She swore she could hear his grin over the phone. “In fact, it was her idea. What d’you say?”
Her shoulders slumped as the tension left them. She felt inexpressibly grateful. “Thank you, Bryan. That is so sweet.”
“Right then. How’d you like a day in the country tomorrow?”
“I would love to. God, you guys—Bryan, you are such a good friend. If you only knew—“
“Think nothing of it, love.” His voice hummed with good cheer.
It was agreed that Bryan and Cynthia would pick her up at her flat the next morning at nine. After she rung off, Ellen left under the baleful gaze of the office manager. She picked up an Indian take-away on the way back to her flat, devoured most of it straight from the carton, and slept untroubled through the rest of the day and night, until woken by a golden dawn.
It was not until she had risen and washed and dressed that Ellen began to have second thoughts. To leave London, now? To leave the Angel? But when she heard Bryan’s knuckles on the door, she slouched into her raincoat just the same.
Bryan met her with a grin. “Ellie. You look better already.”
She smiled despite herself. “I’m feeling generous, so I’ll take that as a compliment. Where are we going, anyway?”
“Oh, you’ll like this,” he said. “Did you read the Albertine Vollinger books when you were a kid?”
“Dick Marmot and all of those? I loved ‘em. Wow, I haven’t—wait. Tell me where we’re going.”
“There’s one condition.”
“What?”
He smiled, almost embarrassed. “Will you let me drive the Bentley?”
She did, of course, and soon the smoke and pavement of London fell away as Bryan rolled them up the M1 towards Torkenham. Cynthia chatted amiably over her shoulder to Ellen in the back seat. It was a fine, clear day. Ellen watched the play of sunlight on the turf of the hills. An ache, so deep she’d hardly known it was there, seeped slowly out of her bones. The wind through the half-open car window was fresh with recent rain and cut grass. Ellen closed her eyes and felt a weight of desperation begin to slip from her. It was good, so good to be in this car, with her friends, in the light of a new day. She didn’t even look back at the city receding behind them.
Ellen rode in quiet contentment, nearly dozing, until she heard Bryan say, “There it is, Ellie. Russell House.”
She looked up as the pulled off the main road. A Georgian manor nestled comfortably amidst its gardens; the gables and roofs caught the madder rose light off the brick facade, stagger-stepping upwards several storeys until capped by an attic loft like a steeple, with a single window looking out on distant London.
“This is where she lived? Albertine Vollinger?”
“Where she lived, where she wrote. This landscape was her inspiration. I think you’ll find some of it familiar.”
Ellen laughed with delight when she saw the old manor house and its gardens; she’d seen them before, in crystalline watercolors, in the pages of her treasured little Dick Marmot books. The long path leading up to the house was bordered with marigolds, lighting their way in gold and red. In those marigolds Dick Marmot and Pyramus the Vole had capered.
“Oh, Bryan, it’s beautiful!”
Cynthia nodded. “It’s something, isn’t it? Just like stepping into a fairy tale.”
“We found this place a couple of years ago, on holiday,” Bryan said as he parked the Bentley. “It’s a landmark, now, since the last Lord Russell died.” There was only one other car in the drive, an old Morris Minor pulled up beside a small garden shed. “Looks like we’ve got the run of the place—that’s the caretaker’s car, I think.”
A fat man in a rusty corduroy suit emerged from the shed as they were getting out of the car. He put on a smile and cried, “Welcome, welcome. Just been raking out the drive, you know. How d’you do,” and here he extended a thick pale hand, “my name’s Griggs, Fred Griggs. I’m your guide—that and man of all work, you know.”
Griggs shook hands all around. “Lovely day you’ve chosen for your visit, just lovely. The gift shop won’t be open ‘til two, you know, but feel free to have a look round. There’s the gardens.” He handed Ellen a smudged brochure from the pocket of his jacket. “Very nice this time of year. The strawberries will be in any week now.”
“The strawberries,” said Ellen. “Pyramus Vole loved the strawberries.”
“Yes, lovely,” said Bryan. He handed Griggs a ten-pound note. “I think we’ll have a look at the grounds first, hey? Then perhaps you could show us round the house, say, one o’clock?”
“One it is, sir. Enjoy your walk.”
The gardens were both lush and orderly, in their peculiarly English way, and sweet with hyacinth and sunshine. Ellen thrived on it. The fatigue that had hung like bruises around her eyes faded away as she and Cynthia strolled among the strawberry bushes, laughing like girls. Cynthia got the cooler from out of the car and they picnicked by the birdbath; cucumber sandwiches (“So English,” said Cynthia, then laughed her guffawing New York laugh), crisps, cakes and cold American beer.
Ellen had her shoes off, and the grass between her toes soothed her. Such a beautiful day. Tomorrow, she swore to herself, she would sit in Hyde Park, in the grass, and read Bryan’s manuscript straight through, stopping only for ice cream. She could do it, she knew; her focus was back. The madness of the past weeks had fallen away like a bad dream. This is where she turned her life around.
Bryan brushed some crisp-crumbs from his knees and looked at his watch. “It’s nearly one. Mr. Griggs will be waiting for us.”
When they rose, Ellen went to Bryan and hugged him. He seemed a bit startled, then patted her back. “Thank you for this, you guys.” Ellen turned to Cynthia, who held out her arms. “I don’t know how I would make it without you. I treated you so awful—” (Cynthia made a shushing sound) “—I was, I don’t know, headed for a breakdown or something, but this—“ she gestured around her “—this is just putting it all in perspective. It’s so nice.”
Bryan was blushing, Ellen saw. It was attractive on him. “Come on, we—ah—don’t want to keep Mr. Griggs waiting.”
...
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