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"You were involved with a man," Miss Littlewood said, with a reserved, sympathetic horror. "That must have been a very difficult experience for you."
"Not as difficult as climbing down the fire escape in my nightie," Miss Brahms muttered.
She rearranged herself on the picnic blanket, wondering if she should show her legs a bit more. She wasn't sure whether women liked looking at other women in the same way that men did, never having done it herself. Perhaps Miss Littlewood was too genteel for that, although you know what they said about the nobs out in the sticks - randy as tomcats, the lot of them, if you gave them half the chance.
To tell you the truth, though, she still sort of fancied herself as a country lady. All the Range Rovers and the balls and a bit of how's your father with the Master of the Hunt on Boxing Day. She could get into that, Miss Brahms thought. With enough lolly, of course. You had to have lolly to live properly in a place like this, not just in a room in a hotel.
Money was something that she'd heard Miss Littlewood had plenty of. She'd never married - Miss Brahms could make a good guess why - and no kids meant nobody else to share all that money and that old house in the village with the ivy up the walls.
Miss Brahms had found that out from the girl in the post office, who Miss Littlewood had pursued for a couple of years. It seemed like she'd pursued a few girls around Great Tender. But always graciously, always charmingly. As charming as she'd been when she'd asked Miss Brahms to come for a drive and lunch with her. The last time a man had asked her out for a bite, she'd ended up with teeth marks.
She'd had it up to here with men, but not completely with romance. Shirley Brahms's guide to romance these days was, Do it for the dosh. And she'd asked herself how bad it could really be with Miss Littlewood, who might very well be her golden goose. She was about twenty years older than Miss Brahms, so Miss Brahms wasn't likely to have to spend much time fending her off. Not that you could guarantee anything; there had been that retired colonel. Dirty old goat.
She flashed Miss Littlewood her sweetest smile, the one she'd carefully rehearsed, as the lady magistrate poured the wine. Not too flirty - she didn't want to look that easy - but with more than a bit of encouragement. The smell of the open bottle was gorgeous. Miss Brahms had no idea what it was. She only knew bubbly and sangria for sure. It smelled like evening sunshine, and late blossoms wreathed between the first berries. She took a sip from the glass that she was passed with real relish.
"That lifestyle doesn't suit you," Miss Littlewood said, soothingly. "The sordid, transient affairs... the degradation. I knew when we met that you were meant to enjoy the finer things in life. You belong where you can be properly... appreciated."
Miss Brahms cleared her throat. She could definitely get her foot in the door here if she played her cards right and moved fast enough. "To be honest, I always felt like I was a bit special. A bit different."
"Oh, I do understand!"
"Like there was something inside just trying to get out."
"Quite!"
"And I've never met a man who knew how to find it."
"A very common complaint, I believe," Miss Littlewood replied.
Miss Brahms adjusted the dog rose that Miss Littlewood had plucked earlier and tucked into her hair. Not too obvious, but not too subtle, either. "Do you think I have it in me, Miss Littlewood?"
"Miss Brahms," Miss Littlewood said, very sincerely, "I would like to think that I see beautiful things in you that have always been hidden from others."
She sounded so sincere that Miss Brahms felt a sudden pang of guilt about her own mercenary plans. She couldn't remember the last time that anyone had looked at her the way Miss Littlewood was looking at her now, with their whole heart in their eyes. Years, it had to be. Had anybody ever looked at her that way, as if she was something precious, not something to be used?
She had nice eyes, Miss Littlewood. Soft grey eyes. Kind eyes. Like she'd be gentle with you. Take care of you and treasure you, like one of her crystal goblets. Miss Brahms couldn't remember anybody doing that for her before, either.
She realized that she wanted that very badly, just as much as she'd wanted the loot when she came out here today. More than the loot. More than anything. She opened her mouth.
"It's Shirley," she heard herself say.
Miss Littlewood smiled, and her smile was kind, too. "And it's Celia."
Miss Brahms bit her lip. "You're lovely," she suddenly burst out.
"Dear girl," Miss Littlewood said, softly. She lifted a slender hand with its sapphire ring and touched it to Miss Brahms's cheek, and Miss Brahms reached up and held it there.
For a long time, nobody said another word, except for the birds singing in the hedgerows, and the trees, and the warm May sky above them; farther and farther, all the birds of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.