A Gift for Henry
The blanched parsnips are lined up head-to-tail in the roasting tin. Brushing them with a honey glaze, Kate pops them back in the oven and sets a timer for forty minutes. The stuffed saddle of lamb and roast potatoes, her husband Henry's favourites, are browning nicely. Sweet scallops from the local fish monger, a nod to this evening's guest, are dressed and in the fridge. Kate will sear them at the last minute in a hot pan and finish with a simple lemon vinaigrette.
The night before the school play, little Katy couldn't sleep.
Take care of all the little things
, her mother had said, sitting at the end of the bed.
Take it one step at a time and you'll be alright
. These words had helped Kate through her school and college exams, her first job interview at the local florists, and even to overcome the last minute nerves on her wedding day.
Nearly forty years later, Kate Winterton still heeded that good and sensible advice. It seems the preparations are under control. Don't think too far ahead, she repeats, stay calm, keep busy.
Kate washes up some cooking utensils and a glass bowl in the sink. Looking out the kitchen window, the flower beds are a riot of summer colours, the manicured lawn is a lush green, despite a lack of rain. Beyond the white picket fence at the bottom of the garden, golden fields of barley ripen in the August heatwave, swaying gently in the early evening breeze.
Kate relaxes, letting her guard down. In a momentary lapse in concentration, the memories of springtime in Provence quickly return to haunt her.
* * *
It was a warm day, the sun shone brightly in a deep blue sky. While it was too early for blooms of lavender and sunflowers to be seen in the fields, the garrigue was rich with the scent of rosemary, thyme, and Mediterranean pine. There were blankets of red poppies in the long grass along the hedgerows, flourishing in early May to avoid the fierce midsummer heat. Kate and Henry sauntered back to the farmhouse after a long, boozy lunch. The holiday had been a last minute decision, a much needed chance for the couple to reconnect after a busy period. Henry often spent long hours away from home, presiding in court or tutoring at Gray's Inn. It would put an inevitable strain on any marriage. Kate was his third wife.
As they walked down a country lane, Kate steered the conversation around to Henry's birthday. He would turn sixty in August.
"It is an important milestone, darling," she insisted earnestly. He could be touchy about his age in ways that his much younger wife sometimes struggled to relate to. "We should celebrate it. Maybe we could host a garden party on the village green or book a reception room in London? I should like to give you a special gift too, something truly memorable to mark the occasion."
He had stopped in the road and peered at her shrewdly from underneath his straw fedora, evaluating the possible options the way her husband often pondered over difficult legal matters at his walnut desk. "I think a gathering in London would be best - perhaps at Compton House by the river? As to my present, what were you thinking of?"
Kate really had no idea. Emboldened by the red wine at lunch, she rather foolishly announced. "You can have anything you want, anything at all."
Walking on another hundred yards, they had stopped at a farm gate. While they watched a parliament of rooks scavenging worms from the bare soil, he said. "I can ask for anything?"
"Yes, my darling. What do you truly want for your birthday? Don't be shy."
"Very well," he began, after due consideration. "I would very much like to share our bed with another woman. All three of us together, just for one night. This is what I want for my birthday."
Had she heard him correctly? Kate was stunned. "Are you being serious?"
"Quite serious, my dear. You said anything I wanted."
"I never expected you to say something like that."
They walked the rest of the way to the farmhouse in stony silence. Kate had already rejected the beastly idea outright, the thought of sharing her husband with another woman horrified her. However, she knew deep down that she had sowed the seed of an idea with her husband that would persist long after they had returned to England. Henry looked pleased with himself, the wheels already turning in his legal mind, setting out the facts of the case and his persuasive supporting arguments.
And so it had proved.
* * *
Henry calls out that the taxi has arrived. It is the moment of reckoning. Hanging her apron by the door, Kate checks her recently dyed honey blonde hair in the mirror and smooths out the creases from her crepe cocktail dress. Taking a deep breath, she walks into the hall. Henry is talking to their guest, helping her out of a summer coat. Although her husband is quite handsome in his dinner jacket, he is totally eclipsed by the younger woman. Sylvie is about 5' 7", the same height as Kate, slim with long brown hair that looks effortlessly wild and tamed at the same time. The trainee barrister is wearing a wonderful little black dress, which perfectly complements her hourglass figure, undoubtedly an exclusive Parisienne design from one of the many stylish boutiques near Montmartre.
Kate tries to say something, anything, but she is lost for words. There is an awkward silence before Sylvie comes to her rescue, greeting the dumbstruck hostess with a warm hug and a Gallic peck on each cheek.
"You look wonderful in red," their guest whispers. Sylvie stays close to Kate, arms cradled around her hostess's waist, steadying the older woman's jitters. "And I
love
your new hair colour."
"Thanks," Kate replies, finding her voice at last. "Your dress is amazing, did you bring it from France?"
"Oui, d'accord."
Henry clears his throat. "Shall we through to the sitting room?"
Sylvie takes Kate's hand and leads the way. Henry smiles, watching them from the doorway. Kate notices and pulls away from the young woman, scuttling to the drinks cabinet. Sylvie has a gin and tonic with ice and a slice of lemon, while Henry has his usual large glass of vintage brandy. Her husband seems a little more boisterous than usual, if that is even possible, relishing his role as the ringmaster for this evening's circus act. He asks Sylvie about her latest case, an accountant cooking the books, which all sounds rather dull and complicated. After passing around the drinks, Kate hovers at the edge of the conversation for a minute or two and then slips quietly away unnoticed.
Back in the kitchen, Kate immerses herself once again in the detailed dinner preparations. Opening the fridge to retrieve the scallops, she notices an uncorked bottle of Chablis in the door and pours herself a large glass. She gulps it down, a little shaken, finishing it before adding the scallops to a generous knob of butter that is already sizzling in the frying pan.
* * *
Kate had tried in vain to make alternative suggestions, but the old dog had stubbornly refused her. Instead, Henry had set about making the necessary arrangements with undue eagerness. At least his wife had managed to establish a few ground rules for the person sharing her bed. Rejecting forcefully his proposal that she asked her friends, Kate had insisted on a stranger. It wasn't to be an escort or anyone he paid, she found the idea of that quite demeaning, but someone that her husband knew either through his work or his many social connections. Finally, and above all else, Kate requested the chance to meet any of his recommendations, before they eventually made a decision. Surprisingly, Henry had accepted her demands without any further argument or attempt at re-negotiation, but afterwards he took control. He always did. As a result, Kate found herself rarely consulted about any developments as June rolled into July.
Having heard nothing for several weeks, Kate had started to speculate as to whether her husband had found the search for someone agreeable more difficult than he had perhaps expected. She even secretly hoped that he had dropped the idea entirely. Therefore, her heart sank when he made an announcement over dinner one evening. As she returned with his coffee, Kate saw a small photo placed in front of her on the table. Henry was beside himself with glee. It was a young woman, late twenties or early thirties, with an oval face and high cheek bones, her long tousled hair parted messily either side of her head. Kate listened as Henry introduced her. Sylvie was a legal student from Chartres in the Loire Valley, who was in pupillage at Gray's Inn. Henry had met her in chambers, taking her under his wing. Kate stared at the picture, her reaction strangely muted. Sylvie was pretty and not so young that the woman could be her daughter. Kate began to wonder if Henry was already sleeping with Sylvie, she certainly was his type. Okay, she told him, agreeing to meet her. Kate would meet the enemy, this existential threat to her marriage, face to face on the battlefield. When Henry added that Sylvie was returning to France at the end of September, Kate was thankful that that would be the end of it. Feeling tired, she went to bed early that night, but couldn't sleep. Mulling it over at three in the morning, it dawned on her that she was not only sharing her bed and her husband with another woman, but inevitably sharing herself too. Kate was shaken by her immediate curiosity. What would it be like to sleep with another woman?
* * *
Kate dresses the small plates and carries them through to the dining room on a tray. Sylvie and Henry are still colluding on work matters when she brings the starters to the table. They sit down at one end with the two women facing each other. Her husband lights the candles and pours the chilled white wine from a fresh bottle. Sylvie and Kate dutifully toast his good health and wish him a happy birthday. While Henry tucks in, oblivious to the tension, neither woman seems to have much appetite.
