“So, how do you know Anna?”

I am standing, drink in hand, in the living room of my friends Anna and Charles. It’s their private preview evening for the West Bristol Arts Trail, a gallery walk event that tours people through the private homes and studios of artists throughout Bristol. Anna is a painter and Charles makes custom, hand-crafted furniture. I love staying in their house. Everywhere one turns there are little found objects and images, set out for a beauty that someone else may never have noticed. Polished stones, lovely baskets, a strip of cloth, a postcard, a split piece of wood with gorgeous texture and grain. Colors that I could never attempt. Flowers and fruit picking up colors in the wood floor, a door lintel, as well as paintings. Anna’s paintings and prints. Charles’ furniture and wood shop. I always find myself stopping to touch or contemplate.

At the moment, their high terraced 18^th century house looking over the city towards the river looks like a gallery. We have shifted furniture, stowed domestic items away, changed light bulbs, laid out canapés and wine glasses. Anna’s paintings are everywhere. Charles’ tables, stools, and chairs line the hall and kitchen. The weather cooperated and the house is full of friends for their opening.

The question “So-how-do-you-know-Anna?” is a casual, cocktail party opening, perhaps provoked by my American accent. My response surprises a bit: “Well, it’s a little bizarre.” For Anna is the step-daughter of John Fowles, the great 20^th century British novelist who died in 2005. I am his biographer. Twenty years ago, we two found ourselves tangled together with the man, the biography project, and the weaving of my story about Fowles, which was also the story of her life, her mother’s, even her children’s. All pretty complicated, if I think about it. Somewhere along the way, the friendship outgrew the situation. Was that at the kitchen table of John’s house in Lyme Regis? Or was it climbing the hill leading up to the Acropolis in Athens? Was it over children? We seem to have slipped into it.

My friendship with Charles I can pinpoint to July 4, 1996. There was a grand symposium of international scholars in Lyme Regis celebrating John Fowles. The house was full of scholarly guests and the dishwasher broke down. Charles and I appointed ourselves the dishwashing team for three days. We were champs. We still laugh about it.

For me, as I said, the friendship outgrew the Fowles connection long ago and our visits are much more about where we are now. This visit, however, Anna and I have agreed to return together to Lyme Regis and look over the restoration by the Landmark Trust of Belmont, Liz and John’s house. We anticipate an emotional visit and figure we can mutually support each other. We’ve viewed the Trust website with its videos of demolition and paint stripping and heavy machinery. And then we decided to ask for permission to come onto the construction site and look around.

I spend Thursday morning making phone calls and talking my way through the Trust offices until I’m granted the right phone number of the project supervisor on site at Belmont. I finally reach her and think, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” So, all brass and American accent, I introduce myself and Anna and ask to be allowed to come onto the site. Some wariness. I could tell she wondered if we were out to make trouble. There was some controversy about some decisions to bring the house back to its 18^th century original, thereby changing the room layout of the Fowles’ residency. I outdid myself with effusive persuasion. At last, Carol (who turned out to be exceedingly welcoming and generous) said, “Well, I just must stress that you have to wear sensible shoes.” I assured her that, on Lyme’s steep hills and streets, I always wore walking shoes. We were accepted.

I walk into the kitchen and announced that Anna and I were to wear sensible shoes and meet the project supervisor at Belmont at noon Friday, October 10^th. We hug in delighted disbelief.