The Debutante (12 page)

‘Hello? Hello?’ The line was crackly, muffled.

‘Yes, Hello?’ Cate answered. ‘Rachel? Is that you?’

‘Katie! Thank God! I’ve been leaving messages for you. Isn’t there any reception down there?’

She shifted, thinking of Jack’s fingers on her skin, the look in his eyes. ‘Ah, yes … well, sometimes,’ she lied, trying to concentrate. ‘Why? Is everything all right?’

‘Yes … well…’ She hesitated. ‘Sort of.’

A knot tightened in Cate’s stomach. ‘What do you mean, sort of?’

There was a silence.

‘I’ve had a visitor,’ Rachel said at last. ‘A man, wanting to see you. Someone from New York.’

Driving back to London, they were courteous, formal. Overly polite.

The inventory of Endsleigh was finished now. All that
remained was for the catalogue to be drawn up and the auction to take place.

Jack switched on the radio. The delicious tension he’d experienced on the way down, the hope, was dulled by frustration and disappointment.

Cate sat next to him, stomach tight, mind racing. A visitor from New York. A man. He had stopped in the office, made enquiries; left an envelope.

‘What did he look like?’ she had asked.

‘Well …’ Again Rachel had paused. ‘Not exactly good-looking but well dressed. Tall. With glasses.’

‘Glasses?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh. I see.’

He’d sent a messenger.

‘Do you want me to open it?’ Rachel had suggested last night. ‘I have it right here.’

‘No.’ Her answer was sharp, terrified.

‘Do you want me to throw it away?’

Silence.

‘Katie? Shall I throw it away?’

‘I don’t know.’

Cate sighed, twisting round in her seat. She was gone — starting again in another country. So why was Rachel’s question so baffling?

Jack looked across at her.

He’d blown it. The only thing he couldn’t work out was if he’d blown it because he hadn’t kissed her or because he
almost had. Whatever the answer, she was gone now, far away in the concerns of her own life.

So they drove home, through the rolling hills, the picturesque seaside villages and national landmarks of this green and pleasant land. They drove without speaking, the radio losing and gaining reception, each occupied with their own thoughts.

Halfway home, the sky darkened. Jack pulled over and cranked the top up. Almost immediately thick drops fell, lightning seared across the sky. Their progress was slow, windscreen wipers squeaking furiously across the window, sheets of grey rain obscuring the view.

Cate closed her eyes. Her life seemed as torrential and unfathomable as the storm rumbling around them, slipping through her fingers like water. Automatically, she thought of the shoebox, hidden inside her overnight bag. It drew her, pulling her away from her tangled thoughts; filling the void of her loneliness. She was a thief, stealing fragments of the past from the old house; peering into the private life of a dead woman. More than that, it was dangerous; illegal. She’d taken a Tiffany bracelet; personal belongings from a client of Rachel’s. Part of her dreaded what would happen if anyone found out. And yet to put it back had been unthinkable.

Was it her imagination, or was the connection she felt to the house, to the mysterious sisters, real?

The wheels hummed beneath her. In another hour they would be back in London.

Cate wondered what Irene looked like when she was younger. What perfume she wore; what her favourite song was.

They crept forward, lorries whizzing by them, buffeted by the wind.

Suddenly she could see her, sitting next to her new husband as he pulled up the long arched drive of Endsleigh for the first time. It was an early-autumn afternoon; bright and clear. He brought the Daimler to a stop, turned off the engine. Overwhelmed with excitement, Irene climbed out of the car, eyes wide, laughing in amazement.

She turned to face him, the sea breeze tossing her dark curls around her lovely face. ‘Is it really ours?’

‘Yes,’ he nodded, smiling. ‘It’s really ours.’

He took a set of keys from his coat pocket. And wrapping his arm around Irene’s shoulder, he led her to the front door. ‘We’re going to be happy here,’ he promised, pressing his lips to her forehead.

‘Yes. I know we will.’ Her eyes were gleaming.

Her husband turned the key in the lock. ‘Welcome to Endsleigh.’

Part Two

Cate walked up the steps of 1a Upper Wimpole Street, to

5 St James’s Square
London

13 July, 1932

My dearest Wren,
Oh how I miss you! Though I must say last weekend at Endsleigh was nothing short of divine. You are the most accomplished hostess — I don’t know how you managed to get Lord Rothermere to sing ‘Mademoiselle from Armentières’ without his teeth but it was too killing! It’s impossible to imagine him advising the PM after one has seen his gums. And Jock Witney, who shall be hereafter known as the Rover, cheated miserably during the midnight egg-and-spoon race. He tripped me mercilessly and those roving hands of his are most tiresome. I’ll bet he’s every bit as foul in business as he is on the field. Of course your cook is so good, which makes all the difference. Such a quantity of fresh oysters — the sheer extravagance! But I do wonder about your lady’s maid. I know she’s local and very young but there seems something amiss with her; as if she’s watching all the time. Do keep an eye on your jewellery.

And the most wonderful thing is you look so well, darling. Healthy and relaxed and — dare I say it? — rounded! They say the third time is the luckiest and I feel certain this will be true for you. I know the whole thing has been torture and you’ve been so endlessly brave about your disappointments. Not the least because Muv will go on and on about feeding the blood and making a sticking place for it. She is so ceaselessly foul about blood. I can’t wait until we can go properly shopping for furniture and new curtains — I shall be the most spoiling aunt ever!

Now, what news of London? Well, Pinky has taken to going round with Gloria Manning, who has hair like a poodle and the eyes of a frog. I cut him dead at Grosvenor House on Saturday, but really, there are only so many times a man should be allowed to propose — every time Pinky has a glass of champagne he goes down on one knee. It’s just tiresome. Harpers Bazaar have printed pictures of me dancing at Four Hundred, looking just this side of hysterical, which I cannot decide is good or not. And Cecil wants me to pose for him again — Venus. I can’t tell you how bored I am already by it. But he’s hounding me; says it will be novel and daring. I’m tired of people taking my photograph. I feel like a national monument. It is incredibly overrated to be a ‘beauty’. Especially as people feel as if they have the right to stare at you openly and say anything they like to your face. I was outside Wilton’s the other day when two fat American women walked right up to me, gave me the once-over and then declared loudly in those foghorn voices of theirs, ‘Well, I don’t see what all the fuss is about!’ I felt I should die from mortification and rage. If Anne hadn’t been there, I’m certain I would’ve run after them.

Anne is so lovely. And I admire her taking her own flat. She works in a bookshop just off Piccadilly doing accounts and posting out orders, which sounds too dull but she says is blissful. I fear she’s becoming a communist — she’s in a fever over the Spanish and their new Republic. Keeps calling it the dawn of a new age, though to be honest, it feels very much like the same old age to me. Her fiancé Paul is some sort of big cheese in the movement — that is if communists are allowed to be big cheeses. He wears nothing but black and brown, with a little red kerchief around his neck, which I suppose he needs when he’s out tilling the soil and must wipe the sweat from his noble brow. And he never speaks to me directly, but only refers to me in the third person as the ‘decadent bourgeoisie’, which is not as endearing as it sounds. Anne spends all her time apologising to me for him, and to him for me. I wouldn’t mind so much only I know he went to Eton and his father is a peer.

As for me, I wander lonely as a cloud! Mrs Digby Smith is having a masquerade ball for Esme’s twenty-first tonight and I’m going as Cleopatra. Donald Hargreves is going as my asp. Donny’s a terrible lush but a terrific dancer. And then on to the Kit-Cat Club, I suppose. Don’t allow the Holy to force-feed you like a goose, darling.

Masses of love from your own,
D xxx

Cate walked up the steps of 1a Upper Wimpole Street, to the first floor, where Rachel’s flat was situated above a dentist’s office. It was a sprawling collection of rooms, spread over two floors, every surface crowded with books, paintings, objects gleaned from various commissions. Last decorated in 1984, it was frozen in an age that had been the highlight of hers and Paul’s marriage. Bright red walls adorned the dining room, sunshine yellow in the kitchen. A mossy-green carpet buckled, faded and shapeless, throughout. Once they had entertained frequently, generously — open-house luncheons and parties that went on into the early hours of the morning. The dining table seated twelve with ease and there were extra chairs everywhere, lining the walls of the living room, tucked into corners, ready to accommodate the overflow. Nothing had been altered since Paul’s death. But it had been a long time since anyone had crashed in the upstairs guest rooms or sat down to enjoy one of Rachel’s famous roast beef suppers.

Cate put her bag down in the hallway.

It was waiting for her in the centre of the dining-room table; the thick white envelope. Rachel came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was making chicken soup in celebration of Cate’s return; the air was filled with the savoury aroma of fresh stock. ‘Hello!’ she smiled, giving Cate a hug. ‘How was it? I hope Jack wasn’t too difficult.’

‘No. He was fine.’

‘Good.’

Cate looked past her, into the dining room.

Rachel turned, following her eyeline. ‘Oh … yes,’ she said significantly.

Cate walked over and picked it up.

Her name was written across the front, ‘Cate Albion’. But it was not in his handwriting. She was surprised by how both relieved and disappointed she felt — how much she’d longed to see something of him and yet dreaded it at the same time.

Rachel sat down. ‘Do you want to tell me who it’s from?’

Cate shook her head.

‘Do you want me to sit with you while you read it?’

‘No.’

‘You know you don’t have to open it.’

Cate said nothing.

Frowning, Rachel ran her hand over the tablecloth in front of her, smoothing out the wrinkles. She was unused to playing the maternal role and was unsure how to proceed. ‘I only want to help you, darling.’

‘Yes. Yes, I know.’

‘But you’re still not going to tell me anything,’ she deduced.

‘Not yet. That is —’ Cate looked at her, her eyes anxious —‘if you don’t mind.’

Sighing, Rachel got up. ‘Fine. So, do you want rice in your soup or noodles?’

‘Noodles, please.’

‘OK.’ Resigned, she headed back to the kitchen, closing the dining-room door behind her.

Cate sank into a chair, turning the envelope over and over. If she opened it, she couldn’t quite be sure of what would happen next. It had happened before; she’d watched her good intentions and firm resolves melt away with a few simple words. And yet there was an excitement — a tangible energy. He wanted her. Why else would he contact her at all? Her ego swelled, inflating like an empty balloon. She was desirable, alluring and, as long as the envelope remained unopened, in complete control.