New Directions (9)

Dev called and asked me to drive to his home. He dictated an address in West Wycombe which I was able to dial into my navigation app while he spoke. Me and about two hundred other drivers were going nowhere at that moment. He sounded relaxed, I kept the chat brief making no mention of the visit. I wanted him calm when I arrived. It’s hard to explain a complex situation to someone who’s been stewing their guts out for the last forty minutes.

The navigation system struggled to find Dev’s address. Eventually it dumped me outside a surprisingly compact red brick Georgian cottage in a lane just about wide enough for two cars to pass. I drove a few yards further and squeezed my motor as close to a hedge as I dared. When I walked back I could see Dev’s place was actually a house and a cottage knocked together with a matching garage tagged on one end. ‘So this is what renting out fifty-odd properties buys you,’ I thought.

Dev answered my knock dressed in a loose collared jumper over flannel shirt and blue jeans. Woolly mules cuddled up to his sockless feet. The blue-black suit, white shirt and paisley tie I wore for the visit to Celia made me feel self-conscious. After greeting me with a wide grin and a handshake, Dev ushered me inside. The décor could not have been more different to the cottage I’d left an hour previously. Cool slate and pastel greenish-grey walls hung with surreal sculptured paintings in various monochrome shades surrounded me.

Noticing me looking about Dev said, almost apologetically, ‘My wife, Irina chose it, she’s an interior designer.’ Instead of an invitation to sit on a grey block covered with about fifty cushions, he said, ‘Let’s go through to my study.’

I followed him through a door which led into the cottage part. I removed my tie and stuffed it in a pocket as I went. His study was more traditionally furnished, but still in a modern theme. I saw no reference to India. A battered African carving sat on a small table in one corner, a nod to his grandfather’s homeland. ‘Have a seat, Irina is making coffee for us.’

A minute later the aroma of expensive coffee entered the room followed by a slim, and beautiful, dark eyed woman carrying a tray. She looked much younger than the age I guessed her to be. ‘Good afternoon Mr. James,’ she sang in a beguiling Latin American accent, ‘I brought some cookies. You must be hungry after your drive.’

I thanked her as she set the tray on the table between me and Dev. The sight this lovely person reminded me Karen was coming down from Manchester for the weekend. I realised I missed her.

‘Irina is from Uruguay, we met in New York. We’ve been together nearly twenty years now. Let us have coffee first, then you can tell me how it went with Miss Celia.’