At Home With The Templetons (49 page)

‘Yes or no, Hope? Is Henry going to be there as well?’

‘If it’s what fate has planned for us, yes. Beyond that, I can’t say. Goodbye for now.’

As Eleanor stood at the front window and watched Hope drive away in her quiet, gleaming car, it was all she could do not to pick up a vase and throw it across the room.

How in God’s name had it come to this? How had the tables been so completely turned? If she could time-travel backwards to when Hope was at her worst, drinking a bottle of wine or more a day, swallowing tablets by the handful, could there have been a moment she could imagine her sister’s transformation into this … this what? This smug, self-satisfied, preaching, infuriating …

It didn’t even help that Eleanor had seen this new version of her sister evolve, from the time Hope finally dragged herself to an AA meeting, then to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. (‘Is there a Pain-in-the-Arse Anonymous group she can join as well?’ Charlotte had wanted to know.) She’d seen Hope miraculously become sober, move in with Victor, watched in further amazement as they opened a trio of very successful, equally expensive treatment clinics around London. She’d been by Hope’s side at Victor’s funeral, seen her play the role of the bereft widow so convincingly. But not once had Eleanor trusted her sister. She’d never been able to, not as children, not as young women, and not now. The current Hope may have changed her behaviour, but she hadn’t changed her personality.

‘She’s just melodramatic,’ Henry had said once.

‘She’s malicious,’ Eleanor said. ‘Dangerous.’ She truly believed it. After all her years as a teacher, she’d realised dangerous people did exist. It was obvious even in the classroom. It sometimes started with casual, physical cruelty: a little boy killing a frog or burning ants with a magnifying glass, a group of children ganging up on the class weakling. But Eleanor had seen other methods of cruelty too. Belittling. Mocking. Finding pleasure in manipulating other people. That’s where Hope’s skill and interest lay.

Eleanor had grown up believing that if she was kind and truthful, good things would happen to her and the people she loved. As a nineteen-year-old, twenty-nine-yearold Henry’s arrival in her life had been unexpected but in perfect symmetry with her thinking. She’d been the one to volunteer to undertake the painstaking, time-consuming work of finalising her grandparents’ estate. As a reward Henry had come into her life.

She’d once made the mistake of expressing her beliefs to Hope. Her sister had laughed loudly. ‘If it hadn’t been Henry who pinpointed you as a little rich heiress worth chasing, it would have been some other vulture of an antiques expert, Eleanor. Don’t be so naive.’

All their lives, Hope had been ready with the putdowns and the insults. Yet Eleanor had never been able to cut herself off from her only sister. The family bonds, the sisterly bonds, were too deep. Especially once their parents had died, within two years of her marriage to Henry. The best of times, the worst of times. Never had a quotation been so apt.

A part of Eleanor wished she felt able to accept Hope’s offer, as much to protect Gracie as witness Hope’s alleged cleansing ritual. But she’d realised eight years ago she could never go back there again. Any good times she’d remembered had been wiped away in an instant by Nina that day in the hospital in Rome. No, she wouldn’t think about that day, about Nina, about Henry. She wouldn’t.

It was too late. Thoughts of him, of the two of them, were already spilling into her mind, sparked by Hope’s casual mention of Henry, her refusal to confirm or deny if she’d invited him. It was at moments like those that Eleanor knew the malicious Hope was still there, under all the compassionate talk. Hope had always known Eleanor’s weak spots. She’d always known Henry was Eleanor’s weakest spot of all.

Eleanor had always strived to be a woman of intelligence, education, discernment. But if that was so, how could she still love Henry after all he’d done over the years? Still want to know where he was, what he was doing. Who he was sleeping with. Why hadn’t she ended it between them years ago, when she first realised he wasn’t faithful to her?

It had been just a few years into their marriage. Charlotte and Audrey were small. Her growing suspicions about Henry’s interest in a work colleague had been confirmed by something as cliched as a receipt in his suit pocket for a necklace she hadn’t been given. Had that been her first, her biggest, mistake? Should she have confronted Henry that night? Told him what she’d guessed, told him it was unacceptable, rather than just push the receipt back in his jacket pocket and run to her sister?

On the surface, Hope had been so supportive, so outraged on her behalf. ‘I don’t want to say I told you so, but I told you so.’ ‘I loved him, Hope. I still love him.’

‘You want to stay with him?’

Eleanor had nodded, miserable. She did. It didn’t make sense, but she did.

Hope was there for her again, two years later, when Eleanor suspected a second affair. There were phone calls late at night, hang-ups if Eleanor answered. Henry suddenly had a lot of dinner engagements. A year later, a third affair that lasted only a few weeks. Eleanor knew all the signs by then. Henry’s distracted air, overly busy workload …

‘Leave him,’ Hope urged each time. ‘How can you put up with this?’

‘I love him. I can’t help it. And I can’t leave. I couldn’t do it to the girls.’

‘Then confront him.’

Eleanor couldn’t. She was too scared of what she might hear. She waited, instead. And soon enough, each time, something told her that Henry was all hers again.

It became the pattern of their lives. When Henry wasn’t occupied elsewhere, she couldn’t have been happier. She learnt to compartmentalise her life. Whenever he became distracted, she forced herself to blame his work. And perhaps it was his work sometimes. By the time Charlotte was five and Audrey four, he was becoming one of the best-known antiques experts in the country, his client list long and prestigious.

At the

same time, Hope’s own career as a garden designer was taking off. She’d started calling around several nights a week. Her drinking was heavy but controlled. In front of Eleanor one evening, Henry and Hope discussed one of his clients, owners of a large estate in Kent needing a garden redesign. Perhaps Hope could travel with him, meet them, see what might come of it?

When they came back, something was different between them. Eleanor accused them both, one night after dinner. She’d just put the girls to bed, was tired. She was always tired. In the dining room Henry and Hope were laughing, telling stories, smoking, drinking, while she fetched drinks, made dinner, cleaned up. Hope’s latest boyfriend was supposed to have been there, but she’d arrived on her own. ‘He’s a fool,’ was all Hope would say, not apologising for not letting her know, or for the waste of food.

A loud burst of laughter from Hope while Eleanor was in the kitchen at the sink was the last straw. She came in and threw the glass she’d been washing onto the floor. It shattered noisily. ‘What happened? What happened when you were away together?’

Henry just raised an eyebrow. ‘Good Lord, darling. That glass was valuable.’

Hope laughed. They both laughed again, looking at each other, not at her.

Eleanor knew in that moment that something had happened. ‘I want to know or I’ll break every glass, every plate and every piece of furniture in this house.’

Henry stood up. ‘Eleanor, nothing happened! Darling, what’s got into you?’

Hope slowly stood up then too, confidently, elegantly. Eleanor was reminded of a cobra.

‘Henry, tell her. Or if you won’t, I will.’ At Henry’s hesitation, Hope continued. ‘Eleanor, you’re right. Something did happen. But it wasn’t important. Just something silly. One drunken kiss. That’s all, I promise.’

Eleanor saw from the look on Henry’s face that it was true. She turned to her sister. ‘Get out of my house.’

‘Henry started it. Don’t blame me.’ ‘Get out. Henry is my business.’

‘You might want to remind him of that.’

Hope took a long time to gather her coat, pick up her bag, walk out to the hall. They waited for the sound of the front door closing. It slammed.

Only then did Eleanor turn to her husband. ‘I won’t put up with this, Henry. I turned a blind eye to all the others, but not this time. Not Hope. I want you to leave.’

His reaction shocked her. He started to cry. Not just tears. Sobs. He started talking, the words pouring out of him, explanations, apologies. ‘Please, Eleanor, don’t do this to us. We need each other.

I love you so much. I love the girls. It was madness. I was worried about the business, about money. They were just distractions.’

‘It was Hope, Henry. My sister.’

‘She was playing with me. It was a game. It was one kiss, Eleanor, one kiss and she only did it to try and make trouble between us. She’s always been jealous of you, of you and me. Can’t you see that? Eleanor, don’t let her win. Don’t let this be the finish of everything between us. I’m begging you.’ Back and forth their conversation went. He was so passionate, so persuasive. And she still loved him.

It was past midnight before she started to waver. ‘I have to be able to trust you.’

‘How can I help you?’

‘I don’t know, Henry. But you have to try.’

For the next few years, they were the perfect couple. She only saw Hope rarely, and always separately from Henry, deliberately. If her sister asked, she told her everything was fine. She hinted that it was better than fine, smiled secretly, knowing it would infuriate Hope. She noticed, with a kind of pleasure, that Hope was drinking more, taking something else too, tablets of some kind, drugs of some description. There were times Eleanor could have stepped in, tried to stop her and each time she didn’t. It was a deliberate decision. Let her drown in her own sorrows, she thought.

She and Henry began trying for another baby. And tried. Nothing happened. There was sex, regularly, at the right times, at more than the right times. Still nothing. Was it that she didn’t completely trust him yet? Their regular moves began around the same time, to Brighton, to Yorkshire, back to London, back to Brighton. She blamed her problems getting pregnant on that instead. On her study load too, her decision to gain a teaching degree, to specialise in home education. The stress of two young children. Charlotte was a stubborn child even then; Audrey needy, often tearful. Until finally, she became pregnant with Gracie. Less than a year later, Spencer was conceived.

She was soon so busy with the four children and her own studies that her relationship with Henry was the least of her worries. He was travelling for work more than ever. She asked him once, ‘Can I still trust you?’ He’d kissed her, smiled the smile - his real one, which made her feel so good - and told her, his gaze direct, that he loved her, he loved his family, that yes, she could trust him. But did she? She was honestly too tired to care some nights.

At the same time, Hope was spiralling rapidly downwards. Eleanor would hear the front door bell at two a.m., even later sometimes, and go downstairs to find her sister slumped on the front step. Never a sign of how she had got there, no taxi idling, no car driving away. Eleanor would bite back the anger, help her in, put her to bed in the spare room and let her sleep it off. Sometimes it took a day, sometimes more. At first she helped her, tried to shield the children from what was happening, made excuse after excuse. Hope was unwell, was under stress at work. The truth was Hope hadn’t worked in months. She’d been living off what was left of their parents’ inheritance. After getting advice from a local doctor, Eleanor tried what was called ‘tough love’. Not answering Hope’s calls. Not letting her stay if she arrived drunk

. Ignoring her rambling messages on the answering machine. Until the day some sixth sense made Eleanor call to Hope’s apartment, hammer repeatedly on the door, finally obtain a key from the landlord and get inside to find her sister unconscious on the floor, an empty wine bottle and scattered pills beside her. An hour later and Hope would have been dead, the ambulance man told her. Everything changed from that day on. Hope became Eleanor’s main responsibility.

They were back living in London, Gracie was eight, Spencer six and the two older girls in their early teens, when Henry arrived home one afternoon from his latest buying trip. She knew immediately that something big had happened. There was a mood off him, an excitement.

His expression, however, was calm. ‘Eleanor, I had a phone call while I was in Yorkshire from a solicitor in London, working on behalf of a legal firm in Melbourne. They’ve been trying to track me down for some time. I’ve been at their offices in Chelsea today.’

She tensed, expecting it to be bad news. The reality was more unexpected.

He handed her a photograph. It was of a two-storey mansion, a beautiful, classic design. The setting was unusual, dry-looking grounds, a vivid blue sky. Perhaps it was in Spain or France. ‘What do you think?’ Henry asked.

‘It’s beautiful. The blue sky as much as the house. Is it a new ‘In a manner of speaking.’ He paused. ‘Eleanor, it’s mine. Ours.’

‘How lovely.’ She thought he was joking. She was used to him returning from jobs with gifts for her: a small piece of jewellery, an unusual vase, a delicate cup that he thought she’d like. But a house? She went along with it for the moment. ‘And where is it, Henry?’

‘Australia.’ ‘Australia?’

He explained, then repeated it. She couldn’t take it all in. ‘You’ve inherited this house? Is that what you mean? But how? From who? And why only now?’

He told her again all the solicitor had explained to him. The house had been built during the Victorian goldrush, by a long-distant relative, a businessman called Leonard Templeton, the youngest son of a family of London merchants. A cousin in England inherited it, but didn’t live in it. The land surrounding it was sold for grazing. A complicated lease arrangement was set up, managed by a local firm of solicitors, but the ownership had always remained with descendants of that original Leonard Templeton.

‘It was my father’s great-uncle who owned it last. I never met him. I don’t even think my father met him. It’s taken this long for the solicitors to untangle the lease arrangements, but what it comes down to is this, Eleanor. I’m next in line. It’s mine. Ours.’ It was incredible. Incredible. She looked at the photo, turned it over as if hoping to find more detail there. ‘But if no one’s been living in it for years, it must be in ruins inside.’