Before and After by Laura Lockington Read Free Book Online

Paris in the 60’s, St Petersburg during the revolution, New York in the decade of greed, and London? Well, I suppose cavorting with Pepys would have been the decade, or maybe dancing a deadly gavotte with Sir Percy, but then London, for those in the know, has always been a city of delight and wealth. For those not in the know, of course, life is a very different affair.
    There was a tentative scratching at my bedroom door and I crossed the room to unlock and open it. Maria was standing with a tray of breakfast for me. I thanked her and took the tray from her, noting as I did so the needle marks on the tips of her fingers. I guessed that many rosaries were threaded last night. She stared at me quite rudely, till I smiled my thanks at her and then she scuttled away. Just before she left the room she caught sight of the jar of marbles, and stood quite still for a moment, her hand on her heart.
    “Pretty, aren’t they?” I remarked pleasantly.
    She nodded fearfully and left the room.
    Catholics are such nervous creatures, aren’t they? I put it down to the rigours and guilt of the confession box from an early age.
    As I sipped my tea I dialled the number of a certain firm of painters and decorators who I always patronise. The silky voiced gentleman who answered my call, positively sprang to attention as he realised that he was talking to moi .
    “So, Miss Tate! Absolutely our favourite and most loyal customer. How extremely enjoyable to talk to you again,” he smoothly and quickly said, already watching the profit meter whiz round in his mind.
    “What look, what ambiance, what treats are in store this time?” he asked.
    I considered the Ambles.
    I took a deep breath. And waited.
    Inspiration usually comes quickly, but sometimes the little darling hides shyly behind false mistresses.
    So many possibilities flew across my mind. French grandeur, country chic, Moroccan market tat, huge chintzy florals, but no… Perhaps it was thinking about the Chinese foot binder yesterday – someone that I am not in the habit of thinking about often – or perhaps it was the annoying hook of Heart Break Hotel warbled by Elvis from Shanghai, but I suddenly knew what the Ambles needed.
    “The Orient,” I said firmly. “But I mean the orient, not some sort of sham Hong Kong nonsense. Silk walls of smoked jade and lacquered coral screens, priceless rugs, fringed dripping lampshades, pearls coiled on the corner of a teak polished cabinet, Chinese scarlet and ebony furniture, embroidery with gold thread, perhaps a rare singing bird in a bamboo cage, ornate dark carved wooden doors leading to other doors that we know not where they lead. Are you following me?”
    “Most sincerely Miss Tate,” came the gratifying reply.
    There was a pause, whilst I delicately awaited the next, always tricky, conversation.
    “And, um, your usual percentage?”
    There. It was out in the open.
    “Oh, I think so. Let’s say twelve and a half, shall we? And I expect a team here within the hour.”
    I lay back in bed with a sigh of a job well done. There’s nothing nicer, is there? Well of course there probably is, but I love the feeling of accomplishment. It could be over anything, the perfect ice on a cake (which by the way, I do so adore having and eating) or mastering a new language, opening a new bank account or finding the perfect shoes. It’s all the same. A job well done . A massive outpouring of cash was just what the Ambles needed, and by god they were going to get it. This was no namby pamby outlay of a new floor, or a fake Victorian conservatory, this was the going the whole hog. Even Archie, used to dealing with large sums of money was going to have to sit up and take notice. Especially as, and this is the best bit, when none of it was absolutely necessary. I hugged myself with delight.
    I roused myself to go and inform Sylvia that she was to expect the decorators in an hour. I found her sitting in the breakfast room, drooping over a cold cup of