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Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
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divided from the dining area only by a counter, like a little bar, and an open staircase leading to the upper floor. At the far end of the room, French windows led out into the garden, and these gave a strangely rural view, for beyond the garden fence was a church with its own half acre or so of land, where Sunday-school picnics were held in the summer-time, and a huge oak tree spread its branches.
Because of this it would have seemed natural had Olivia decorated her house in country style, with sprigged cottons and pine furniture, but the impact she had contrived was cool and modern as a penthouse flat. The basic colour was white. Olivia loved white. The colour of luxury, the colour of light. White tiled floor, white walls, white curtains. Knobbly white cotton on the deep, sinfully comfortable sofas and chairs, white lamps and shades. And the result was not cold, for this pristine canvas she had splashed with touches of primary brightness. Cushions of scarlet and Indian pink, Spanish rugs, startling abstracts framed in silver. The dining-room table was glass, the chairs black, and one wall of her dining room she had painted cobalt blue and hung with a gallery of photographs of family and friends.
It was, as well, warm, immaculate, and shiningly clean. This was because Olivia's neighbour, with whom she had had a long-standing arrangement, came in each day to wash and polish. Now, she could smell the polish, mingled with the scent from a bowl of blue hyacinths, bulbs she had planted last autumn and which had finally reached their peak of scented perfection.
Unhurried, consciously unwinding, she set about her preparations for the coming evening. Drew the curtains, lit the fire (which was gas with sham logs, but as comforting and genuine as a proper fire), put a tape on the stereo, poured herself a Scotch. In the kitchen, she concocted a salad, made a dressing for this, laid the table, put the wine to cool.
It was now nearly seven-thirty, and she went upstairs. Her bedroom was at the back of the house, looking out over the garden and the oak tree, and this too was white, with a thick fitted carpet and an enormous double divan bed. She looked at the bed, and thought about Hank Spotswood, deliberated for a moment or two, and then stripped and remade it, replacing the sheets with clean ones of shining, icy, freshly ironed linen. When she had done this, and only then, she undressed and ran herself a bath.
For Olivia, the ritual of her evening bath was her one indul-gence in total relaxation. Here, soaking in scented steam, she allowed her mind to drift, her thoughts to wander. It was an interlude conducive to pleasant reflections—holidays to be considered, clothes for the coming months, vague fantasies concerning her current man. But somehow this evening, she found herself back with Nancy, wondering if she was home by now in that dreadful house with her graceless family. True, she had problems, but they all seemed to be self-induced. She and George, with all their pretensions, lived far beyond their means, and yet managed to convince themselves that they had the right to so much more. It was hard not to smile at the recollection of Nancy's face, jaw sagging and eyes goggling, when Olivia had told her the probable worth of the Lawrence Stern paintings. Nancy had never been any good at hiding her thoughts, especially if you caught her unawares, and the blank astonishment had been, almost at once, replaced with an expression of calculating avarice, as Nancy doubtless envisaged school bills paid, the old Vicarage double-glazed, and security ensured for the entire Chamberlain clan.
This did not worry Olivia. She had no fears for The Shell Seekers. Lawrence Stern had given the painting to his daughter as a wedding present and it was more precious to her than all the money in the world. She would never sell it. Nancy—and for that matter Noel—would simply have to bide their time until nature took its course
Because of this it would have seemed natural had Olivia decorated her house in country style, with sprigged cottons and pine furniture, but the impact she had contrived was cool and modern as a penthouse flat. The basic colour was white. Olivia loved white. The colour of luxury, the colour of light. White tiled floor, white walls, white curtains. Knobbly white cotton on the deep, sinfully comfortable sofas and chairs, white lamps and shades. And the result was not cold, for this pristine canvas she had splashed with touches of primary brightness. Cushions of scarlet and Indian pink, Spanish rugs, startling abstracts framed in silver. The dining-room table was glass, the chairs black, and one wall of her dining room she had painted cobalt blue and hung with a gallery of photographs of family and friends.
It was, as well, warm, immaculate, and shiningly clean. This was because Olivia's neighbour, with whom she had had a long-standing arrangement, came in each day to wash and polish. Now, she could smell the polish, mingled with the scent from a bowl of blue hyacinths, bulbs she had planted last autumn and which had finally reached their peak of scented perfection.
Unhurried, consciously unwinding, she set about her preparations for the coming evening. Drew the curtains, lit the fire (which was gas with sham logs, but as comforting and genuine as a proper fire), put a tape on the stereo, poured herself a Scotch. In the kitchen, she concocted a salad, made a dressing for this, laid the table, put the wine to cool.
It was now nearly seven-thirty, and she went upstairs. Her bedroom was at the back of the house, looking out over the garden and the oak tree, and this too was white, with a thick fitted carpet and an enormous double divan bed. She looked at the bed, and thought about Hank Spotswood, deliberated for a moment or two, and then stripped and remade it, replacing the sheets with clean ones of shining, icy, freshly ironed linen. When she had done this, and only then, she undressed and ran herself a bath.
For Olivia, the ritual of her evening bath was her one indul-gence in total relaxation. Here, soaking in scented steam, she allowed her mind to drift, her thoughts to wander. It was an interlude conducive to pleasant reflections—holidays to be considered, clothes for the coming months, vague fantasies concerning her current man. But somehow this evening, she found herself back with Nancy, wondering if she was home by now in that dreadful house with her graceless family. True, she had problems, but they all seemed to be self-induced. She and George, with all their pretensions, lived far beyond their means, and yet managed to convince themselves that they had the right to so much more. It was hard not to smile at the recollection of Nancy's face, jaw sagging and eyes goggling, when Olivia had told her the probable worth of the Lawrence Stern paintings. Nancy had never been any good at hiding her thoughts, especially if you caught her unawares, and the blank astonishment had been, almost at once, replaced with an expression of calculating avarice, as Nancy doubtless envisaged school bills paid, the old Vicarage double-glazed, and security ensured for the entire Chamberlain clan.
This did not worry Olivia. She had no fears for The Shell Seekers. Lawrence Stern had given the painting to his daughter as a wedding present and it was more precious to her than all the money in the world. She would never sell it. Nancy—and for that matter Noel—would simply have to bide their time until nature took its course
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