A Girl’s Guide to Kissing Frogs. Victoria Clayton

pointed to the next valley where a row of caravans straggled beside a thin belt of trees – not the round-topped, brightly painted wagons of children’s picture books, but modern trailers. Instead of piebald horses there were cars, untidily parked. A woman came out to peg washing on a line. It blew into her face and she stepped back to wipe her cheek on her sleeve, then crossed her arms to hug her shoulders against the cold.

      ‘In the old days,’ said Rafe, ‘they were known as “muggers”.’

      ‘Because of the stealing?’

      ‘Because they sold pottery mugs to make a living.’

      We rounded a bend and the valley dropped out of sight. I saw a delightful little thatched and whitewashed inn nestling in the fold of a hill.

      ‘That’s the pub.’

      ‘It looks lovely!’

      It was lovely. Inside everything was made of wood, even the ceiling, but it was a marvellous silvery colour and not gloomy. Rafe said it was oak and part of the original sixteenth-century building. There was no one there but us so we had the table nearest the fire. On either side of it were high-backed settles which were awkward to get into because of my leg, but once inside I felt as though I was in the cabin of a man-o’-war – not that I’d ever been in one, of course, but I had seen the Hornblower film with Gregory Peck – because the slightest movement was accompanied by the creaking of ancient timbers. When I said this to Rafe he seemed amused.

      ‘I hoped you’d like it. When I was away I often thought of this place. I used to come here with Isobel when we were both at a loose end. The menu’s a bit limited. White wine all right to drink?’

      ‘Wonderful.’

      Drinking in the middle of the day was a hitherto unknown indulgence. We ordered steak and chips. The steak was the kind you needed your teeth sharpened into points to deal with, but the chips were excellent, really thin and dripping with fat. The tomato was pale pink and hard but I ate Rafe’s as well. Buster, who had been lying across our feet with his head resting on my cast, made short work of the bits of steak that were too tough to cut.

      ‘I thought because of your size – your extreme slenderness – you wouldn’t eat anything,’ he said, transferring a lettuce leaf and the last few chips from his plate on to mine.

      I was so moved by the idea that he had actually thought about me enough to wonder what I might eat that I felt a rush of affection, perhaps alcohol-induced, that made me say, ‘This is such heaven being in this lovely place on such a beautiful day with …’ I almost said ‘you’ but pulled myself back from the brink in time to say ‘… with an old friend.’

      Rafe appeared not to notice this effusion of feeling. ‘Sit, Buster. Quiet, sir!’ He looked sternly in the dog’s melting eyes. ‘I’m having a bit of trouble training him. He doesn’t seem as biddable as a labrador or a spaniel. The people I got him from assured me the breed was intelligent and quick to learn. Anyway, it’s too late to think of taking him back.’

      ‘Oh, no! He’s such a darling! I wish I could have a dog. But it wouldn’t be fair. I’m out all day.’

      ‘Mm. I suppose there’re several men in London, pining for your return? Not that I’ve any right to ask. But as you say,’ he smiled charmingly, ‘I’m an old friend.’

      ‘Oh,’ I tried to sound casual, ‘there isn’t anyone particular.’ Was he just making conversation or did the question betoken a special interest? ‘Dancers are notoriously …’ I had been going to say promiscuous, but then it occurred to me that our careless sexual manners might not find favour outside artistic circles ‘… they don’t have much time for passionate emotional involvements.’

      Then I remembered that I was – possibly – engaged to Sebastian. Since arriving in Northumberland I hardly thought about him at all, and when I did I was unable to persuade myself to take him at all seriously. He had become a creature of fantasy, a von Rothbart or a Kashchei: sinister, malign, but contained within a world of fantasy, as insubstantial as the plywood of Giselle’s cottage.

      I asked Rafe how he was enjoying running the Shottestone estate. Apparently there was a problem with the agent, who had fallen into slipshod ways. Two farms were running at a loss and some of the houses and cottages were in a poor state of repair. Rafe didn’t mention Kingsley, but the omission was like a jagged hole cut out of the picture. He outlined his plans for putting things right. The logs burned themselves into heaps of glowing ash. We had another glass of wine. There was no afternoon rehearsal looming, no impending performance, no criticism to fear, no Sebastian to dread. I had told Rafe that I was eager to return to London, but for the time being I was perfectly content.

      ‘Do you want a pudding?’

      I did but I shook my head. I could feel that my waistband was tighter.

      ‘Isobel was hoping you’d come up to the house for tea. She’s been shopping in Newcastle all day but she’ll be back by four. I expect she wants to show you what she’s bought.’

      ‘That’d be lovely.’

      ‘What shall we do meanwhile? I’d like to show you the old pele tower at Waterbury. I’ve always been fond of the place, though it’s almost a ruin now. But it’s a little way back from the road. I don’t know if you could get there on crutches.’

      ‘If you don’t mind me being slow, I’d like to see it.’ As we walked to the car, Rafe hovered solicitously at my side in case I should slip on the ice. It was a new experience to be taken care of. ‘Lucky Isobel,’ I said. ‘I suppose money’s no object now she’s marrying a bloated capitalist.’

      The remark was intended to be flippant but Rafe’s tone was serious when he said, ‘Is it important to you to marry money? Couldn’t you be happy on a moderate income?’

      ‘Of course I could. I’ve never had even an adequate one. Actually, I enjoy making something out of nothing and finding-things in junk shops. I don’t suppose I’d like being rich at all. I only said that because … because …’ I paused, not wanting to finish what I’d been going to say.

      ‘Because it seems to mean so much to Isobel,’ he finished for me. He helped me into the car and stowed the crutches.

      ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t marry him if she didn’t like him.’

      Rafe started up the car. ‘I hope you’re right.’

      ‘Well, she doesn’t seem to mind at all that he’s rather ugly. That’s a good sign. Most people – I must admit, including me – put far too much emphasis on looks, which is every bit as superficial as liking money.’

      ‘Is Conrad Lerner ugly?’ Rafe sounded surprised.

      ‘She didn’t say quite that. I just assumed that if he was short, fat, bald and with a big nose and enormous feet that he wasn’t exactly Cary Grant. But then Cary Grant’s appeal wasn’t only looks, was it? Conrad’s probably extremely charming. And Isobel says he’s very clever. That’s attractive.’