Read Online I'll Be Seeing You by Margaret Mayhew - Free Book Online

the years of my life.
Incidentally, you get your artistic talent from him
. For some reason, this was harder to dismiss. I think I might have succeeded in following Drew’s advice, if it hadn’t been for that particular nugget of information which linked me inescapably to this man, like a chain. I could draw and paint and earn my living doing so, because of him – a man I had never met and was never likely to meet.
You’re a part of him, Juliet
. I resented this almost more than anything else: to be a part of a complete stranger – bound to somebody I had never met, knew nothing about and certainly cared nothing about.
    The telephone rang and I went to answer it. Flavia, home from work, wanted to know if I had got back safely and whether I would like to have supper with them downstairs.
    â€˜It’s only pasta but I thought you might like a bit of company.’
    It was typically thoughtful of her and I blessed her for it, but I knew she would be tired after work, and that the company would, inevitably, include Callum and I didn’t feel up to him. I invented another invitation as an excuse and because company did seem like a good idea, I rang someone who I knew would provide it unhesitatingly, as well as wise counsel.
    I had known Adrian Legget since my Ruskin days when I had taken part in university theatricals, painting scenery for several stage productions. Adrian, up at Magdalen and a leading light of the Oxford University Dramatic Society, had already begun what was to be a stellar career as a set designer. He was a homosexual, but discreetly so. Not for him the protest marches, the lobbying for rights, the hanging round the bars and the clubs. He had lived quietly and devotedly with his equally discreet partner, Eric, for more than twenty years until Eric’s miserable and lingering death from cancer. He knew all about the indiscriminate cruelty of the disease, and all about bereavement.
    â€˜Come round at once, darling. I can offer some excellent scallops I bought today from Harrods, if you’d care to share them.’
    I changed out of my jeans and shirt into something more respectable and went round to the flat in Chelsea – a place of understated elegance, all muted colours and spare lines and very expensive fabrics and, always, large vases of beautifully arranged, fresh white flowers. Always white. Vivaldi was playing softly in the background. Adrian greeted me fondly, kissing my hand and then putting an arm lightly round my shoulders. Silver-haired, Armani-clad, faultlessly groomed.
    â€˜A drink, darling. I’ve opened a rather nice bottle of wine in your honour – but would you prefer something a little stronger to start with?’
    â€˜Wine would be lovely, thank you.’
    He handed me a glass and showed me sketches he was working on for a play in the West End. ‘A drawing-room comedy revival, complete with French windows. Nothing I can really get my teeth into, unfortunately, but the money boys are too scared to do anything other than play safe with the tourists and coachloads these days. Still, I’m fairly pleased with it.’
    He had won awards for his work and deservedly so; as with his living space and his lifestyle, it was deceptively simple, brilliantly effective and inimitable.
    In the kitchen – another model of streamlining that made so many other kitchens look a complicated shambles – he busied himself with the plump and glistening scallops. A fish-eating vegetarian, he haunted the fish counter at Harrods. I watched him heating butter in a pan until it foamed and subsided, searing the scallops on each side, then adding crushed garlic to more melted butter with chopped parsley, and pouring the sauce over the scallops. The green salad was ready on the table, a dressing prepared, a loaf of granary bread waiting to be sliced.
    We sat down and Adrian entertained me with theatre gossip and general chit-chat. He was thinking of selling