She wanted to be someone else. Anyone else.
It was Derek Constantine who suggested she cut and dye her hair. Something timeless, classic.
But I cant afford it.
You cant afford not to be blonde, he corrected her. And, he sighed, his upper lip curling slightly as he looked down at her ankle-length skirt, we need to do something about all those black clothes. Youre not an Italian widow. This is a city of very fine social distinctions. Everyone nowadays has money, whats important is pedigree, exclusivity. Youre like a debutante, before the ball. With proper grooming and introductions to the right people, who knows how far you could go?
She didnt understand; it all sounded so conservative and staid. You mean in art?
His slate-grey eyes were remote, unreadable. In life, he answered, pressing the tips of his long fingers together under his chin.
In life.
She blinked back at herself now, two sizes smaller, head to toe in crisp white linen. Clean, controlled, refined. In the hazy afternoon light, she looked golden; angelic.
If only you could remove the darkness of your character with the ease with which you could change your clothes.
Hed sounded so sure, taken such an interest in her. The idea of being guided by this successful, sophisticated man was too compelling to resist. So she hadnt. Instead shed abdicated, bit by bit, her faltering, embryonic conception of herself, deferring to his clearer vision and experience.
But the debutante he had in mind wasnt staid. And the society he introduced her to even less so.
Digging through her bag, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and, lighting one, crossed to the open window. Shed given up. Shed given up a lot of things that hadnt stuck. And she had the feeling, all too familiar nowadays, of trying to stem the tide with a teacup.
I just want peace, she prayed silently, taking a deep drag. Here I am, thousands of miles away from New York, with some strange man, doing a job I know nothing about
Im meant to be getting my head together. Im meant to be figuring out what I want to do with my life.
She pushed her hair back from her face. It was so hot. And everything was baffling.
Suddenly she had an overwhelming desire to get high, to be out of her head, to seduce someone. Pornographic visions filled her brain a tangle of naked limbs; someone licking her flesh, her mouth travelling across the contours of another bodyHer heart seized.
Was it just a fantasy or a flashback?
Naked, she was on her knees in front of him. He was holding her head in his hands, pressing his hips forward
She bit her lower lip, hard. So hard, it bled. And the desire built, to escape the present moment.
Stop.
She couldnt stop.
What did Jack look like without his clothes on? They were alone. He was attracted to her, she could feel it. And he was a stranger. Why was it easier to fuck a man you didnt know?
She exhaled.
Dont go there.
But a languid sensuality already coursed through her limbs, her imagination spinning like a mirrored top, casting images she couldnt control. The one thing she shouldnt think of was the only thing on her mind.
She turned. The bedclothes were torn away, two naked bodies, strangers, reached for one anotherIf only she could be obliterated, fucked, destroyed.
She closed her eyes. The fantasy dissolved. Taking a last drag, she stubbed out the cigarette and threw it away, into the drive below.
Wandering into the bathroom, she splashed her face with cool water and sat down on the toilet seat. She thought again of the telephone message waiting, with all the others.
It was only a matter of time before she answered one of them.
I am insane, she thought. Im broken and bad and cannot be fixed.
Covering her face with her hands, she cried.
Jack finished his cup of tea and walked round to the front of the house, unpacking his bag and his equipment, the digital camera and notebooks, from the boot of the car. He caught the faint smell of cigarette smoke and looked up at the open window on the first floor. He smiled. Shed been sneaking a crafty fag!
So, she wasnt quite as well behaved as she appeared.
It amused him to think of her, only feet away, doing forbidden, clandestine things.
He walked into the house, his footsteps echoing across the cool marble floor, and up the stairs. As he reached the top, a door closed to the right of the landing. So he turned left, heading down the opposite end of the hall. In the master bedroom, he threw his things down on the bed and took off his jacket. Crossing to the open window, he looked out over the lawn.
There was a crackle of anticipation, a tension in the air that he hadnt felt in years. And it threw him off balance. It was wrong to be excited by this girl; to look forward to standing next to her, to seeing her. Already he was devising possible subjects for dinner conversation; questions and clever little observations that might impress her. He was wound up, he could feel it.
What an idiot!
But in truth, it was terrifying to feel anything again.
He was used to being on his own. It was safe. And he had a routine now. He sat at the same tables in the same cafes, ordered the same food. The waitress remembered how he took his coffee, the owner chatted about the book he was reading. (They knew how to treat a regular customer.) And there were things you could do, if not happily, at least peacefully, quietly wander around galleries, listen to concerts, sit in the cinema on your own, in the dark. This was his life.
But now, for a moment at least, the seat next to him had been taken. He could still smell her perfume.
Dont be seduced by the romance of the setting, he reminded himself. Its about sex, pure and simple. It always was, always would be. It came dressed up as love, passion and romantic obsession, but sooner or later the gilding wore off and the coin underneath was always plain old sex.
Suddenly a memory seeped through his defences. He winced inwardly but couldnt stop it. He was reaching across to touch his wife, when he saw her face, her large, dark eyes. They were full of sadness and, worse, resignation. He pushed it away but the feeling lingered.
Sex had been unsatisfactory. That was the truth. Reduced to a kind of shorthand, pornographic role play. The act itself wasnt faked but the connection was, which was worse.
And he hadnt wanted to discuss it or fix it. That was the awful thing. Thered been a part of him that had found it easier; that wanted to let go. It was as if hed wished her away.
He was guilty of the crime of withdrawing. Shed seen it and let him go.
That haunted him too.
Jack turned away from the bucolic view.
It was a massive bedroom, practically the size of his entire flat. Thats what you got when you moved out of London space, beauty, freedom.
He ought to move. He ought to start again somewhere new.
Sinking down on the bed, he yawned, rubbing his eyes.
He ought to do a lot of things.
It wasnt a long-distance car, his Triumph. His back was stiff from driving. Lying flat, he closed his eyes.
Still, those hours driving across the countryside with Cate by his side were the happiest hed had in a long time. The sun, the speed, the exuberance of Mozart contrasting with her calm, cool presence. It was exhilarating. Hed felt the hope of happiness; its possibility glimmering on the horizon, like a destination. He hadnt realised how long hed lived without the hope of anything, dragging himself mechanically through days, months, years. Now there was an aching in his chest, an animal desire to touch and be touched; to punch his way through the inertia of loss and grief.
It wasnt a long-distance car, his Triumph. His back was stiff from driving. Lying flat, he closed his eyes.
Still, those hours driving across the countryside with Cate by his side were the happiest hed had in a long time. The sun, the speed, the exuberance of Mozart contrasting with her calm, cool presence. It was exhilarating. Hed felt the hope of happiness; its possibility glimmering on the horizon, like a destination. He hadnt realised how long hed lived without the hope of anything, dragging himself mechanically through days, months, years. Now there was an aching in his chest, an animal desire to touch and be touched; to punch his way through the inertia of loss and grief.
He sat up, forced his fingers roughly through his hair.
It was insane to be so taken with this girl. He didnt even know her.
He was just tired, lonely. Bored.
Still, there were laws of physics, of nature; mysterious, inconvenient gravitational pulls which couldnt be denied.
At the opposite end of the house, a woman, a complete stranger, was drawing closer all the time.
17, Rue de MonceauParis
24 June 1926
My darling Bird,
You will be pleased to know that I have finally perfected the art of pressing myself up alluringly against a man while dancing and at the same time maintaining an expression of complete and utter indifference verging on contempt. Anne says it is essential and we have been practising it all week. Now all we need are some men.
How is that dashing Baronet of yours? Im certain his shyness only masks an ardour that will soon make itself known to you (again, details of all carnal encounters kindly requested).
You are probably right that this business of coming out is more difficult and exhausting than I imagine and perhaps, as you say, I would benefit from taking a more serious view of the entire task. But as we both well know, seriousness is not my strong suit. I am, alas, not gifted with your natural good sense but rather destined to be somewhat ridiculous by comparison. I console myself that you have gone before me, made innumerable social contacts and charmed everyone so completely that when I arrive they will simply indulge me as an oddity before packing me off to a remote corner of the Empire with some ageing, palsy-ridden husband in tow.
And yes, I suppose my remarks about our mother are a little cruel. I should be more kind. Especially to Her Consort, the Benefactor of so much Good in our lives.
I know we are lucky, Irene. We certainly have a great deal more than we have ever had. And yet I miss Fa and, if truth be known, I hate Paris and all who sail in her. I am not like you, darling. I am not naturally good or calm or sensible. And I have the feeling of being a fake, everywhere I golike an actress wandering around onstage in a play she hasnt read, who cant recall any of her lines. You seem to understand everything perfectlywhy am I such a dolt?
Yours, as always,
The Idiot Child
She tried to nap, but still Cate was restless. She sat up on the bed. It was a vast room, as big as most flats in New York. An entire wall of windows looked out onto a vista of rolling hills, curving dramatically down to the sea.
Who had lived here? Who had chosen these primrose walls, this chintz curtain fabric with its design of blue wisteria and green ivy? This elegant walnut Empire bed? She ran her fingers lightly across the cool linen pillowcase. Its edges were monogrammed, I A, in pearly silken thread. Was it a wedding gift?
She opened the drawer of the bedside table; it shuddered slightly in protest. Two neatly folded cotton handkerchiefs, a tube of E45 eczema cream, half empty, a few stray buttons, a receipt from Peter Jones in Sloane Square for wool, dated 1989.
Cate closed it and picked up a well-worn volume from the top of a pile of books, The Poems of Thomas Moore, and opened it. On the flyleaf, in a bold flamboyant hand, was written Benedict Blythe, Tir Non Og, Ireland. It fell open to a page marked by a frayed crimson silk ribbon.
Sail On, Sail On
Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark
Whereer blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say,
Though death beneath our smile may be,
Less cold we are, less false than they,
Whose smiling wreckd thy hopes and thee.
Sail on, sail on through endless space
Through calm through tempest stop no more.
The stormiest seas a resting-place
To him who leaves such hearts on shore.
Or if some desert land we meet,
Where never yet false-hearted men
Profaned a world, that else were sweet
Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.
It was a strange, desolate poem an unsettling choice for an elderly woman, living out her final days, alone, by the sea.
Putting the book back with the others, Cate peered into the wardrobe. A clutch of naked wire hangers swung in the draught. Apart from a few extra blankets piled on the shelves, it was empty. The same was true of the chest of drawers. Faded flowered lining paper and a few yellowed sachets of potpourri were all that was left.
She turned to the dressing table. A silver brush and comb, a porcelain dish of wiry brown hairpins, a dusty box of Yardleys lily of the valley talcum powder. And an old black-and-white photograph, presumably of Irene with her husband. She picked it up. They were both in their seventies, standing bolt upright, close but not touching. Irene was thin to the point of physical frailty, wearing a trim straw hat and a dark, neatly tailored suit. Her husband was proudly wearing the full dress uniform of his regiment, a silver-headed walking stick in his right hand; hat tucked under his arm. She was smiling, chin slightly raised, her eyes a distinctive clear blue. It was a bright day, yet the photo was flawed. There was a dark patch, a shadow falling across the right-hand side of the Colonels head. It mustve been taken at a veterans event. Irene was holding a plaque of some kind, but the writing on it was too small for Cate to make out.
She wondered where the plaque was now; where all the accolades were that marked Irene Avondales lifetime of charitable service to the Empire.
It was a room of order, pleasant and curiously unrevealing, like a stage set. It had a numbing effect as if everything ambiguous had been smoothed over by a large, firm hand. Was Irenes existence really so tidy and presentable? Or had someone removed any intimate traces of its owner?