The Apprentice Read online

  ‘He must have been a bloody good lover,’ she says, lighting another cigarette, eyes small and shrewd, half-closed against the smoke.

  I shrug again. ‘I have nothing to compare it with.’

  ‘And that is precisely my point,’ says Anne, highly animated now, wagging her finger at me over and over. ‘You can’t know what you were missing. Weren’t you ever … tempted?’

  ‘Tempted?’

  ‘To stray. To find out what lay beyond this … this …’

  ‘Nate, his name was.’

  ‘This Nate.’

  I try to think back. ‘No, I don’t think I was. I was in love. It didn’t occur to me to even look at other men.’

  She chuckles, but there’s also what looks like a sneer on her face. ‘How very touching,’ she says. ‘But now?’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Do you regret that you wasted some of the best years of your life on one person, when it turned out not to be for ever? You’ll never have the energy you had then, believe me.’

  I take a sip of my tea, though it’s lukewarm by now. ‘There’s no point in regret,’ I say.

  ‘That’s a good policy,’ she says. ‘A good theory. One that’s not too easy to put into practice, but … I digress. I suppose my point is that maybe, just maybe, you’d have something to write about if you hadn’t spent – what? – five years with the same guy.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Anyway, as you say, the important thing,’ she says, grinding her cigarette butt into the saucer, ‘is not looking back. Which brings me to the main question I ask of all my interviewees.’ She pauses, for dramatic effect it seems to me.

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘How do you see your future?’

  ‘I … I don’t think too much about it. I just … I just want to write.’

  ‘And what about men?’

  ‘What about men?’

  ‘Are you looking for someone to fill the gap, the hole left by this … this …’

  ‘Nate.’

  ‘Nate.’

  I don’t want to tell her that yes, that’s what I feel I’m lacking: another Nate, someone to snuggle up to under the duvet, someone to walk through the autumn leaves with, someone whose hand I can hold in the cinema. She’ll laugh at me, I know she will, or wither me with those calculating ice-blue eyes.

  ‘I’m too young,’ I say, ‘to settle down. I need to discover myself before I even think about getting serious with another bloke, find out who I really am.’

  She’s staring at me, and her gaze seems approving now. ‘You owe it to yourself,’ she says. ‘It’s essential, it really is. A sentimental education, as we French call it, rather euphemistically. Now –’ She looks back down at my CV. ‘Could you start immediately?’ she asks. ‘I see you’re not working at the moment.’

  I nod, suddenly excited. Perhaps this has gone better than I thought. Suddenly it’s imperative that I don’t let this chance get away from me. I lean forwards over the table, wave one hand at my CV.

  ‘I’m not working, and I’m keen to learn, and I’ll do any courses I need to do to bring myself up to speed, at my own expense, of course.’ I pause for breath. ‘And I know you mentioned an hourly rate in your ad, but I’d be prepared to work for less if it means being able to work with one of my favourite writers.’

  I’m sucking up, but I’m desperate. Anne’s eyebrows are raised.

  ‘Indeed?’ she says, and again there’s something calculating to her smile, and something appraising.

  ‘I’m not just saying that,’ I tell her. ‘I really am a huge fan of yours. Ever since –’

  ‘Well, then, I’m very flattered, and very happy that you chanced upon my ad. It seems that fate has conspired to bring us together.’

  I grin. ‘Does that mean I’ve got the job?’

  She nods. ‘You can start tomorrow if that suits you,’ she says. ‘And did I mention that I’m offering lodging as part of the deal? I have an attic room at the top of –’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ I say, and I feel giddy at the thought that life, my real life, is starting at last.

  2: First Day

  VRON IS ALL too delighted to drop me off in Bayswater in her little black Porsche, on her way to Vogue House. She can barely conceal her pleasure at getting shot of me. I don’t mind: it’s all I can do not to skip up the path towards Anne’s front door. But I force myself to take my time, to savour the moment, glancing up at the window of the attic room that I haven’t even seen yet and that is to be my new home.

  Five minutes later I’m standing on the threshold to that room, as Anne gestures around it with broad sweeps of one arm.

  ‘I’ve never had much use for it,’ she says, ‘so I’m all too happy to have someone up here. It’s warm and cosy, and there are extra blankets in the armoire. If you don’t like the walls, you can always paint them.’

  But I’m not even looking at the walls – I’m rushing for the front window, having suddenly realised that I can see a patch of Hyde Park and some of its treetops from it.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I say, and I have to hold back from embracing her. The instinct is there, but Anne, for all her talk of lovers and of uptight Brits, seems to be such a cold fish, physically, that I’m not sure she won’t just stand there as stiff as a board, not returning my embrace and making me feel a fool. I wonder what she’s like in the bedroom, whether the sex she has isn’t all in the head.

  ‘Then I’ll leave you to it,’ she says. ‘Help yourself to lunch. Hettie always makes sure that the fridge is full of good things.’

  ‘Hettie?’

  ‘My housekeeper. She’s around every day, does the shopping on the way, takes care of the Hoovering and the laundry, prepares lunch and an evening meal that I can reheat. She’s a godsend.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing really to do today. You might as well just spend some time settling in, getting to know the area, perhaps? I need to work on a synopsis for the new novel.’

  My ears prick up: I’d love to hear more about that. But I assume that I’ll find out about it soon enough, in my guise as assistant.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She nods. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘You won’t be bored here. I have plenty to keep you occupied.’ And with that she is gone, and I’m left alone in my new room, on the threshold of my new life.

  I unpack, but it doesn’t take long and, at a loose end, I go for a walk in Hyde Park, buying a sandwich and a bottle of water en route. As I sit munching under the trees, I can’t believe my good luck at having found this job. Anne, though a strange mixture of aloof and overly personal, seems to be a lenient, undemanding employer: the ‘home-help’ aspect of things, mentioned in the ad, is clearly not going to amount to much, given the presence of Hettie, and it will be interesting helping out administratively during the conception of a new novel. Who knows, perhaps I will even have some input, in a small way? That would be amazing. I can already see my name on Anne’s acknowledgements page. And the relief at being out from under Vronnie’s feet and away from the sharp end of her tongue is immense.

  * * *

  As I open my bedroom door, I see a note on the floor that must have been pushed underneath it. I unfold it and read that Anne has a dinner guest tonight and would be delighted if I would join them for a meal and a celebratory glass of champagne to mark my first day. I grin. How could I refuse?

  I kick off my shoes and lie down on the bed, wondering who might be coming to dinner. Anne, though no longer at the literary vanguard, has some famous friends – I know that from the books pages. I feel quite starry-eyed at the thought of them trooping through this house, at the thought of the parties that I might attend. I feel on the brink of something wonderful, as if life is a luscious basket of fruit that someone is tending towards me. I only have to reach out my hand and something delicious is there for the taking.

  I must have dozed off, for when I wake the sky has darkened outside. Checking my watch
, I see that it’s almost seven – the appointed time for dinner, according to Anne’s note. I jump up, rifle through my wardrobe. I want to look good but not overdressed: after all, this is just a simple weekday supper in a bohemian household. I fall back on an old favourite: a simple black shift dress that emphasises my curves. With a silver bangle or two and some teardrop earrings, it looks chic but not show-offy.

  I’m nervous as I walk downstairs in my kitten heels: not only at the prospect of the mystery dinner guest, but because it’s just struck me that I barely even know Anne – my interview was brief, and since then I’ve only seen her when she showed me to my room. All my anxieties about my boring, uneventful life come flooding back and I imagine myself sitting silently at the table, unable to think of a thing to say in such illustrious, intellectual company. Part of me wants to make an excuse and run upstairs and hide under the duvet.

  As I approach the kitchen, I hear voices, one female, one male. For a moment I stay back, deferring the moment. Then I take a deep breath, push open the door and walk in.

  I’m relieved not to recognise him, although he’s so distinguished I think that I probably ought to. As he sees me, he turns, glass in his hand, and smiles.

  ‘So this must be your lovely new assistant,’ he says, voice deep, imposing. ‘Genevieve, is it not? Delighted to meet you.’

  He holds out a hand, shakes my hand firmly, authoritatively, and I note a roguish twinkle to his eyes as they sweep over my face, take in my low neckline. He must be in his late fifties, perhaps even his early sixties, but he is close-shaven and looks fit and spritely in his charcoal-grey suit, which reeks of Savile Row. His silvery hair has an expensive cut to it, and he’s clearly someone who has taken care of himself, refusing to yield to the ravages of time.

  ‘Genevieve, meet Jim Carnaby,’ says Anne, stepping up behind him, and I smile and say, ‘Lovely to meet you too.’ I’ve heard of a James Carnaby, an art historian, and I guess that this must be he.

  He sits down at the kitchen table, which I notice has been cleared – presumably by Hettie. I wonder again what exactly my duties will consist of, given that Hettie seems to take care of all the domestic tasks. A candle burns brightly in the centre, and – as Anne promised – a bottle of champagne keeps chill in an ice bucket beside it. Seeing me look at it, James Carnaby reaches over and pops the cork.

  ‘To new adventures,’ he says, filling the glasses that Anne has brought over. ‘To fresh blood.’

  ‘To fresh blood,’ Anne and I repeat, although it strikes me as somewhat of a strange toast – like some strange rite involving menstruation and the phases of the moon. As we drink, Anne sets three bowls of soup on our place mats.

  ‘Tomato and fresh basil,’ she says. ‘And no, of course I can’t take credit for it. It’s all Hettie’s doing, as is the rest of the meal. Although I did plant the basil, way back.’

  James smiles indulgently as he tastes it. ‘There are talents more worthy of praise than those of the kitchen,’ he says, and the pair exchange an affectionate smile. I wonder if they might be lovers, or might have been lovers in the past. Anne may seem icy, but her novels tell of a vast sexual experience. There’s an erotic thread to all of them that rings true, that must be drawn from real life.

  ‘And what about Genevieve?’ he says, turning to me. ‘What are your talents, my dear?’

  I shrug, embarrassed. As Anne knows, I don’t really have any and, whereas, if James and I were alone, I would be tempted to invent something to impress him or even just to have something to talk about, in her presence I feel stifled, circumscribed by the banal truth.

  But Anne comes to my rescue. ‘Genevieve is hoping to be a writer,’ she says.

  ‘Aaaah,’ says James, taking another spoonful.

  ‘A cliché, I know,’ I say apologetically.

  He reaches over the table – he’s seated opposite me – and pats my hand. ‘Sadly true,’ he says. ‘But if you have real talent, and something to say, then you mustn’t be put off. Now, what do you write about, young lady?’

  I look down at my hand. He hasn’t removed his. He pushes his empty bowl away with his free hand. I glance up at Anne to see if she’s noticed what’s happening, but she’s turned away to remove some warm plates from the oven, then ladle on to them what looks to be some kind of rich beef stew. When she returns to the table with two of the plates, she can’t fail to see it, but she doesn’t react at all.

  The arrival of the main course seems to let me off the hook as far as James’s last question is concerned and, when Anne sits down with the third plate, we all tuck in. James, whose hand has let go of mine so that he can eat, serves the last of the champagne, and when that’s finished he pours us all generous glasses of red wine from an expensive-looking bottle. Unused to drinking much, I’m already feeling more than a little tipsy.

  For a few minutes – perhaps Anne and James sense my discomfort and also my imminent drunkenness and decide to give me some space – I enjoy a reprieve while Anne questions James about a forthcoming tour of universities to promote his new book, which is called, I learn, Roués in Nineteenth-century French Art. I smirk when I hear that. Is James, despite his age, just another of the womanisers of whom he writes? Not that there’s anything wrong with that – part of me admires someone who has looked after himself so well, who has retained his appetites rather than retreating into a world of pipes and slippers. But it’s just funny to hear that he’s devoted a whole book to the study of rakes in a given place and time, and given it an artistic spin.

  ‘I’d be interested in reading that,’ I say, before I can think better, and James smiles at me across the table.

  ‘Oh good,’ he breathes. ‘At least someone is. I’ll drop you in a copy sometime.’

  As he speaks his hand comes down on mine again, and I feel the slightly leathery flesh of his palm on the back of my hand. It’s not an unpleasant sensation, but I shoot another glance at Anne, who can’t possibly have missed it this time. To my surprise she’s smiling, albeit a rather faraway, distant smile, and her eyes are assenting. To reinforce her expression, she nods at me. She seems to be giving me permission to submit to James’s advances.

  I feel a sudden flood of panic in my veins. Do I want him? I’ve never even contemplated sleeping with an older man, with a man this old, but then the opportunity has never presented itself. I’ve certainly never looked at a much older man in the street and wanted him. But not all older men are like James Carnaby. There’s a definite lure. Or is it just the wine, or the thrill of being shown attention by a well-known writer? Am I mistaking gratitude for lust?

  We have a little cheese in place of dessert and then James takes my hand and leads me through into the front living room, where a candle burns in a scarlet glass on the dark-wood coffee table. As he guides me to the low-slung sofa, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the hearth: my cheeks are glowing. I’m full of red wine and red meat, but my own blood is pumping forcefully through my veins in anticipation of what is to come. There’s no denying that I’m sexually aroused beyond my wildest imaginings.

  Anne appears as we sit back on the sofa and settles into an armchair opposite us. She’s holding a half-full glass of wine and smiling indulgently, as if we are two slightly naughty but beloved children whose whims amuse her. James has one arm draped around my shoulders, and his wrist and hand hang down towards my cleavage. I stiffen as I feel him lower it further, play with the low neckline of my dress and then creep inside. Slipping into my lacy black bra, his fingers close around one of my nipples, brush the tip of it. I let out a sigh that comes out more like a moan. Opening my eyes, I look over at Anne, a little shamefaced, but her gaze is now directed at my breasts and at what James is doing to them. Her lips are parted slightly. She takes a sip of wine, and I see her muscles open and close beneath the slightly loose skin of her throat. Her expression itself is blank.

  I lean woozily back against James’s chest, bring my hand to my crotch. Again, it’s something I can
’t help but do. I’ve never felt so out of control of my own actions and reactions in my life and, in some deep, dark part of myself that I hardly recognise, I’m loving it. I can’t even blame the alcohol: I’ve drunk more, much more, than this in the past, and I’m still reasonably compos mentis. But it’s as if I’ve been picked up by some kind of tide, and it’s carrying me along and there’s nothing I can do but submit.

  James pulls me up onto his lap, and I can feel the hard knot of his cock in his trousers nudging me between my arse cheeks. I’m very wet now, and desperate to fuck him. The thought brings me up short, and suddenly everything seems very surreal. The whole situation is mad, beyond mad. But there’s no stopping me now. I don’t want this to end until I’ve had James inside me. Only, perhaps we ought to go somewhere more private?

  James obviously doesn’t agree, for he pulls up the skirt of my dress until my thighs are uncovered. In response, unable to help myself, I part my legs. I daren’t look at Anne now – I feel humiliated by the rampancy of my desire, by the fact of how far I have shown myself willing to go in front of her very eyes.

  James reaches down between my legs. For a moment his fingers pluck at the wet gusset of my knickers; no doubt he can feel the hard little bud of my clit trying to poke through the flimsy fabric, desperate to be touched. Then he pulls the gusset aside, revealing my wet lips, my open pussy. Anne, opposite, must have a full-on view as he massages my clit. But I still can’t look at her. My head is thrown back against James’s shoulder as I gyrate my hips, pushing myself harder onto his fingers, until at last he slips three, four inside me. With his thumb still jiggling my clit from side to side, I come so hard I see stars.

  For a while all is silent. I lie back against him, eyes closed, panting, legs still splayed while my contractions die away. James is clutching me to him, one hand closed around a breast, his mouth nuzzling my nape, taking playful little pecks at me. His cock is still hard against my arse, beating a kind of pulse, and I know that I don’t want this to be over.