A Vintage Affair: A Novel by Isabel Wolff

Author:Isabel Wolff [Isabel Wolff]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Literature, Historical Fiction
ISBN: 9780553907704
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2010-06-29T06:00:00+00:00

We didn’t stay at the restaurant very much longer, not least because Roxy began phoning again. Miles told her he’d be back by ten. Then as our desserts arrived she called once more. I had to bite my tongue. Roxy had refused to come out with her father but seemed determined that he shouldn’t enjoy himself.

‘Couldn’t she read a book?’ I suggested. Or perhaps a few more copies of Heat I thought dismissively.

Miles fiddled with his wine glass. ‘Roxy’s an intelligent girl, but she’s not as … resourceful as I’d like,’ he added carefully. ‘No doubt because I’ve danced too much attendance on her over the years.’ He put up his hands as if to say, It’s a fair cop. ‘But when you’re a lone parent to an only child, it’s almost inevitable – plus I’m trying to compensate her for what happened, I’m aware of that.’

‘But ten years is a long time. You’re a very attractive man, Miles.’ He fiddled with his fork. ‘I’m amazed you’ve never found anyone to be a mother figure to Roxy, as well as to fulfil your own needs and emotions.’

Miles sighed. ‘Nothing would have made me happier – would make me happier. There was someone a few years ago who I was very fond of, but it didn’t work out. But maybe, now, things will come right …’ He smiled briefly and the delta of lines beneath his eyes deepened. ‘Anyway …’ He pushed back his chair. ‘We’d better get back.’

At the house Pascal told Miles that Roxy had just gone to bed. Having made her father come back from the restaurant early, I reflected. Miles explained that I needed to stay the night.

‘Mais bien sûr,’ said Pascal, clasping his hands together. He smiled at me. ‘Vous êtes bienvenue.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll make up the spare bed,’ said Miles. ‘Will you give me a hand, Phoebe?’

‘Sure.’ I followed him, a little unsteady from the wine, up the stairs. At the top he opened a huge airing cupboard that smelt deliciously of warm cotton, then he took some bedding off the slatted shelves.

‘My room’s at the end,’ he explained as I followed him down the long landing. ‘Roxy’s is opposite. You’ll be in here.’ He pushed on the door and we went into the large bedroom, the walls of which were hung with dark pink Toile de Jouy depicting a pastoral scene of boys and girls apple-picking.

It felt strange to be making up the bed with Miles; I found the intimacy of it both discomfiting and exciting as we wrestled with the plump duvet. As we smoothed the sheet our fingertips collided and I felt a sudden voltage go through me. Miles dragged the linen sleeve over the bolster. ‘There …’ He gave me a diffident smile. ‘Can I lend you a shirt to sleep in?’ I nodded. ‘Stripey or plain?’

‘Tee please.’

He headed for the door. ‘Tee for one, coming up.’

Miles quickly returned with a grey Calvin Klein tee-shirt and handed it to me. ‘Well … I suppose I ought to get to bed.

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