Page 16 of Oz
“My brother.” He smiles, tracing the carving with one long finger.
“Does he live here too?”
He shakes his head. “No. He lives in London.”
“You must miss him.”
He nods. “I do. Every day, but he’s very happy. He visits a lot and he’s only on the end of the phone.” He shoots me a look. “How about you? Any siblings?”
“God no,” I laugh. “My father would have had to come out of hiding and risk his life to impregnate my mother again.”
He laughs but I feel a flush on my cheeks. I hate feeling embarrassed about my background because I love my mum fiercely and totally, but it’s a fact that my childhood was nothing like his. I feel a divide open up between us that previously I hadn’t seen, but I embrace it wholeheartedly because I’m very attracted to him and I really think that being sacked after shagging another boss would make me an idiot.
I dutifully step back and paste a distant look on my face. He seems to sense it immediately and for a second, a disappointed look crosses his face, but then he straightens and moves off. I follow, wondering whether he’s glad I did it.
We walk down a long corridor lined with more grumpy-looking ancestors until I stop. “Bloody hell, look at this one. He actually looks really cheerful. Who is he?”
He looks up at the rotund man with red cheeks. “Lionel. He was the earl during Charles the First’s reign. Legend says he was an alcoholic and broke his neck falling down the stairs.”
“Oh,” I say faintly. “Well, at least his smile muscles worked. That must have been a novelty. He looks quite nice.”
“You’ll have a chance to see,” he says casually. “He haunts the West Wing.”
“Oh lovely,” I say weakly and follow him into a room near the portrait. It’s a bedroom with a huge bay window looking down onto the main drive and a massive fireplace with ornate carved plasterwork above it.
“This was the original solar chamber. Apparently, the entrance to the house would have been up some stairs outside and through this tall bay window. I think my ancestor blocked it up when Henry the Eighth slept here.”
“Poor sod,” I say idly, wandering over to the window. “Bet he wanted to barricade the front door too. Having the king or queen to stay wasn’t exactly a blessing. With them came the courtiers, their horses, and the servants, all of whom had to be housed and fed and entertained. It could bankrupt a person.” I run my finger down the stone mullion. “I imagine it must have been a bit like having five hundred Brian Blesseds come to stay.”
He breaks into peals of laughter. “That would be the best.” He shoots me a look and leans against the window, the sunlight playing over the dark waves of his hair. “You’ve got a degree, haven’t you?”
I nod. “In Fine Art and History of Art.”
I wander over to the huge four poster bed which is swathed in red velvet. I sit down and bounce slightly and a spring practically impales my thigh. “This must be the original mattress Henry the Eighth slept on,” I say, eyeing him. “Do you think he’s hidden some Hobnobs under it?”
He grins. “Probably too busy deciding which wife he was going to decapitate next. It was hardlyThe Bachelor.”
He startles a laugh out of me again. “I don’t know. Looking at some of those contestants I’d have decapitated myself instead of going on a date.”
He laughs and flicks a look at me. It’s almost shy and kindles something in my stomach.It’s probably that breakfast repeating on me,I reassure myself.
“I’m surprised you’re not working in Sotheby’s or something. Niall said you got a first,” he says curiously.
I bristle slightly. “I applied for loads of jobs, but the problem seemed to lie in the fact that an Irish boy from a council estate never went to Eton.”
“Count your blessings. You didn’t miss much,” he says calmly. “Lots of waiting on the older boys, getting them food and doing their homework. Still, it equipped me for a life of dealing with the general public.”
I stare at him. He’s the first person I’ve ever met who doesn’t make excuses, doesn’t protest that I’m wrong and inform me that our society has free movement. I can tell you right now that those people didn’t grow up where I did. I shoot him a look because he’s not conforming to any of my stereotypes. It’s almost like I’m going to have to get to know him.Bastard.
“I liked it though,” I say, surprising myself. “I’ve always loved history. I think because I have a very colourful imagination. You need that.”
“And the art?”
“Well, I love that,” I say softly. “I love beauty and how the more you look at something, the more the small details jump out at you.” I trail off when I see him staring at me. “Where next?” I say abruptly.
He shakes his head but goes along with me. “We’ll go and have a look at the stables that are going to be lovely tea rooms.”
“Don’t tell me,” I say sourly. “There aren’t any walls.”
