‘The Barber of Seville,’ said Lucy.
Rory laughed as Lucy told him how Annie had insisted on accompanying the opera singers by reciting the translation displayed high overhead on the subtitle screens at the top of her voice, much to the chagrin of the opera enthusiasts surrounding them in the first few rows. Despite Lucy’s best efforts to shush her, she refused to stop until some poor usher was sent over to ask her to be quiet. She then continued sotto voce throughout the remainder of the performance, somewhat hampering Lucy’s own enjoyment of the music.
Just as they rounded the path that ran behind the Kyoto gardens, the heavens opened. It was the kind of downpour that is hard to believe is possible. The air was dry, if a little damp, moments before; seconds later huge bulbous raindrops were pelting down from the sky like bullets of glass. Rufus was darting frantically from puddle to puddle as they formed, chasing the rivulets of water that were gushing down the sides of the path. Lucy shrieked and ran to the measly shelter of the nearest oak tree, still clutching her cup. Rory, similarly badly dressed for rain in a thick Guernsey jumper, chased after Rufus before clipping on his lead and shouting to Lucy, ‘Follow me!’ setting off at a run. Lucy braced herself and then ran after him, through the park, out of the gate and down a few criss-crossed streets before arriving at what was presumably Rory’s house. Despite the utter drenching she was currently experiencing she couldn’t help but notice the size of the place. It was almost a mansion; architecture was obviously not a bad line of work.
As Rory scrabbled with the lock and flung open the door, he called, ‘Come in!’ and ushered her through the front door. Slamming the door shut behind him and sending Rufus to his bed to lie down and dry off, Rory and Lucy looked at each other in amusement, both panting and soaked to the bone. She was sure that her face must now resemble a smudged panda, the rain having coursed down her hair was still dripping off her chin and her fringe was plastered to her eyes. Rory looked even more handsome than before; his hair was swept off his face and his eyes were shining with mirth. They took off their shoes and left them on the entrance mat. Her suede boots would never be quite the same again.
Suddenly overcome with a fit of hysteria, they both collapsed in laughter.
‘What the bloody hell was that monsoon all about?’ Rory hooted, clutching his sides as he tried to catch his breath.
‘I haveneverseen a rainstorm quite like that!’ giggled Lucy, taking a few steps over to the huge gilded mirror that hung in the entrance hall, trying not to fall over on the slippery tiles. As she walked, she left a watery trail in her wake. She looked in the mirror and cringed; as she had suspected her make-up had smeared in a comic fashion across her cheeks. She looked like she was wearing a sad clown mask. ‘Look at my face!’ she exclaimed.
‘There’s a bathroom just across the hall if you want to go and get some tissue?’ he suggested.
‘Thanks,’ said Lucy. ‘Not a bad idea.’ She went into the bathroom and wiped her cheeks with a wad of tissue. She couldn’t believe it! Of all the days for a torrential downpour, did it really have to be today?
It felt a bit odd finding herself inside a stranger’s house, though, on second thoughts, at least she could have a look around. She was glad that she had done some snooping online to make sure that he was who he said he was. Remembering what he had told her a short while ago about his poor wife, her mind began to wander. Had he bought this place with her? She couldn’t imagine the unfairness of having finally found someone only to lose them to illness; it was something that she had never even considered. Being wrenched from your partner in the prime of life must be one of nature’s cruellest fates. She flushed the loo and stepped out into the hall.
Hearing Rory call her name from a room that opened up at the end of the corridor, she followed his voice, ending up in a huge kitchen with a large cast-iron wood-burning stove as its focal point. Rufus was lying on his bed in front of the fire, looking sorry for himself. His large shaggy head rested on his long copper paws. Rory had fetched a couple of towels and was rubbing his hair roughly with one. He handed the other to Lucy, who accepted it gratefully, without being entirely sure how dry it was going to make her.
‘I know this is the first time you have been to my house, but, given the circumstances, would you like a shower? I can lend you a T-shirt and a jumper, and if you want, I can put your clothes in the tumble dryer?’ Rory offered.
Lucy wasn’t sure what to do. She was soaking wet and desperate to get out of her clothes. She thought about calling a taxi to take her straight home and rearranging the whole thing but there was something about him that made her want to stay. She didn’t want to risk missing out on getting to know him better. What if they postponed and then a second opportunity never materialized? She debated with herself for a moment or two before deciding that he was worth the risk.
‘That sounds like a great idea,’ Lucy said, following him back into the hall and up the stairs to the first floor. The staircase kept on going for at least one more flight beyond that, if not two. Lucy marvelled at the incredible house, the carpet was thick beneath her feet. Rory showed her to the bathroom where a phenomenal power shower awaited her. He stood for an awkward moment outside the door while she peeled off the sodden jeans that clung to her legs. Wrapping herself in her towel, she opened the door slightly and proffered the wet bundle apologetically.
Rory took them and said ‘Enjoy!’ before retreating down the corridor presumably to change his own clothes and find her something to put on.
Not wishing to take too long but reluctant to switch off the wondrously soothing hot jets of water that were propelling forth from the vast shower head, Lucy spent a good few minutes in the shower. She came out and proceeded to do what she could to resurrect her make-up, wiping the smudges from underneath her eyes with a corner of the towel and pinching her cheeks to add a dash of colour. Hoping Rory had found something for her to put on, she opened the door and peeped out into the corridor. Resting on the carpet was a neatly folded T-shirt, a thick, woolly jumper and a pair of tracksuit bottoms. She pulled them on, noting the fresh smell of laundry powder, and turned the waistband down several times to shorten them.
She padded downstairs looking admiringly at the beautiful paintings and drawings that were hanging on the walls. The house was painted a shade of cream with neutral carpets throughout. Soft lighting from lamps and ceiling lights glowed discreetly from every nook and cranny.
Lucy came into the kitchen and saw Rory stirring milk into two steaming cups of tea. The tumble dryer was whirring in the utility room off the kitchen and logs were crackling in the wood burner. Rory had changed into jeans and a dry grey jumper; his wet hair stuck up in spikes, the resulting dishevelled look made him look even more rugged. Lucy felt her stomach lurch at the sight of him. Her ankle boots were sitting in front of the crackling fire, drying out.
‘Better?’ asked Rory.
‘Much better, thanks,’ said Lucy. ‘I haven’t been caught out like that in years! Thanks so much for letting me come and dry off.’
‘My pleasure!’ said Rory, handing her a cup of tea. ‘Second time lucky perhaps? Not quite a chai but tea nonetheless!’ he said cheerily. There was a low and comfortable-looking sofa perched in front of the fireplace and Rory gestured for her to sit down. Rufus was still drying out in the flickering heat from the flames; he looked up at them and wagged his tail, then sighed contentedly as he rested his large head back on his paws.
Still chuckling about the ridiculous rainstorm, they chatted over their mugs of tea. Rory asked her all about her job, interested to know how the world of advertising worked. In return he told Lucy about his job as an architect. As she had previously discovered, he worked freelance for his own company, Rory McCullan Ltd, mostly designing commercial buildings for big corporate firms across the UK.
As they sank back into the sofa, gazing at the flickering flames and listening to the logs crackle and spit as they burned, Lucy asked him how long he had been living on Thurloe Crescent.
‘I bought the house five years ago from an American couple who were desperate to get rid of the place,’ explained Rory.
‘Why on earth would anyone be desperate to get rid of this house?’ asked Lucy, bewildered. ‘It’s incredible!’
‘They had inherited it from a distant relative and had no interest in owning property in the UK; they wanted the whole thing over and done with as quickly as possible. I was selling my house and looking for somewhere new to develop, and it all just sort of fell into my hands!’ said Rory. ‘I was in the right place at the right time, I suppose.’
‘Did you have to do much to it?’ asked Lucy.
‘Oh yes, it was completely decrepit. Apparently the actual owners hadn’t set foot in it for years… the building was so run-down. As soon as I was granted planning permission I gutted the whole place and redesigned it entirely.’
‘Were you the architect?’
‘I was indeed!’ confirmed Rory.
