Chapter 18 – In the Mews
It was a mews flat – small and tucked away above a car barn.
“You can’t seem to get away from the auto motif,” was Scarlet’s comment as she climbed the steep stairs.
“I do keep my vehicle downstairs,” said Pom, “So it’s right handy.”
It was a cute little space elegantly furnished with modern Scandinavian fittings. Tiny bedroom, tiny bath, a kitchen separated from the lounge by a polished wooden pub top.
“Looks like the only wine available is burgundy,” he said as he uncorked it. “I was cooking boeuf bourguignon last night. Or trying to.”
Scarlet readily accepted a glass. “You cook?”
“I’m taking a cookery class. Let’s say I wish I cooked. I hate interrupting my work to travel out for forage. Ideally, I’d like a big pot au feu I can dip into, but it needs to taste like something other than burned. I see you’ve got the roses back in your cheeks. Ready for the studio?”
She averred that she was ready. The studio was a big empty room on the other side of the stairs – well lit by skylights. Canvases were stacked against the walls and a big unfinished one hung from the ceiling. Pom slung a tarp over it.
“I can’t bear comments before I’m ready,” he said. “I’m sadly impressionable. I always end up seeing it their way, get completely derailed and end up with a buggered mess.”
He tossed some drawings aside and spread the portfolio open on a paint stained table.
She studied the picture before her. The paintings she had previously seen were all about color – these were different. Black and white with a slash of red.
“It’s like… an eye.”
“Yes. Reflections.”
He leafed through the collection slowly. She wasn’t sure she liked them so she didn’t know what to say.
“I know,” he said. “My abstracts are a lot more popular. I suppose your husband’s money – your money – has given me the courage to risk rank unpopularity. I’ve always been rather ashamed of my brushwork so I’m attempting to evolve. Using my palette knife more. I’m playing with – not needing beauty. With … whatever’s the opposite of beauty.”
“They’re scary,” she said finally. Who would have guessed! So unlike his social presentation.
He zipped up the portfolio. “I’ll accept that,” he agreed. “Life has a decidedly dark side.”
“Doesn’t it,” she agreed. “When did you…evolve?”
“Truthfully, you had something to do with it.”
Was he blushing? He seemed to be studying her face, looking at her hungrily, as a portraitist looks. Suddenly she regretted the good lighting.
“Lady Scarlet to the Dark Tower Came,” he said softly. “You’ve instigated a good many of my sleepless nights.”
She quivered. She couldn’t face it – turned to flee.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said when he grabbed her shoulders.
“I find it’s best to wait storms out,” he suggested. They stood quietly for a moment. “Then assess the damage. If you’re staying in town, there’s a Hitchcock movie I’d like to see again.”
“Really? Which one?”
“Rear Window.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“Then you should. What’s your favorite meal?”
“Shrimp scampi. Are you going to try to cook it?”
“I most certainly am not. But I do know the perfect Soho restaurant with exactly that specialty. Now you will experience the pleasures of running a car in town.”
“As long,” she said, “As the car doesn’t run you.”
“Touché.” They smiled at each other, relaxed into complete understanding. Somehow the dreadful moment had been averted. She wants…she doesn’t want… how could Scarlet explain herself to herself, let alone anyone else?
“Now let’s see – where’s this estate agent?” He studied the card. “That’s almost Kensal Green. Let’s check you into the hotel and then I’ll run you over.”
She didn’t argue. When the English said, they would run you over they offered a favor, not a traffic accident. She trusted him more each minute. His company felt like a benison.
Why was she so completely certain “everything would work out?” The confidence Pom lent her must surely be misplaced. Squarely faced, the facts were bad. Ian had a girlfriend – that was terrible enough. Worse, he had met her in a London hotel. And when he came home, he was not interested in sex with his wife. Could she ever get the old Ian back? Did she want him?
She stepped thoughtfully into Pom’s 1950 Austin Dorset two-seater. The bucket seats were so low it was as if they sat directly on the road.
“Do I get goggles with this thing?” she queried.
Pom laughed as she tied up her hair.
The Cumberland was huge, impersonal. They seemed unconcerned about single ladies. No one cared that she had only a dressing case, and no one watched Pom carry it to her room.
“I’m not tipping you,” she said.
“Yes, you are,” he insisted. “By coming to dinner with me. It will have to be early because of the film. Six o’clock?”
Could she choose a flat in four hours? How could she still contemplate a London flat? Yet one seemed preferable to The Dark Tower she realized. It functioned as some kind of promise that she wouldn’t be abandoned in the country with a baby while her husband swanned about ordering room service.
She was ten minutes late to the estate agent’s, but as Pom had insisted, estate agents don’t care. After all, it was only young Jane Lumley and her very elderly father who seemed more like her grandfather. Jane was fresh, pretty, a real English rose. Scarlet looked at her sadly with Ian’s eyes.
Was there any girl left in the universe whom she could trust her husband not to desire?
Alysse Aallyn 
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