The Debutante (15 page)

5 St James’s Square
London

30th July
1932

My darling Wren,
You will never guess who I ran into, quite literally, at the Black and White Ball — Nick Warburton — looking every bit as handsome as I remembered him — beautifully dressed and with those same smiley eyes. I was flinging myself quite wildly around on the dance floor, wearing the most divine silver gown and shoes (after all, silver is black and white mixed together and one doesn’t want to simply fade into the crowd), when suddenly I heard a familiar voice say, ‘Those feet of clay don’t seem to weigh you down at all.’

I turned and there he was, sipping champagne and smiling at me. ‘Here.’ He put his glass down and took my hand. ‘Let me show you how the grown-ups do it. ‘

Oh, what heaven!

We danced. Of course, Pinky behaved very badly about it all, lurking around the edge of the dance floor and STARING. I just ignored him in the end. And Nick howled when I told him about life in St James’s Square with the Holy and his father. I told him all about how she wants to have me thrown in a convent to save my wicked soul while he wants me married to one of the chinless set — anything with a title. He says I want spanking. I told him he was welcome to try. And things did go quiet — only deliciously so.

Then I told him I had quite a full dance card and couldn’t be detained any more by men without prospects or decided intentions. To which he laughed and told me he had very decided intentions, then took the liberty of pulling the strap off my right shoe! ‘Now, Baby, you’ll twist your ankle dancing in that. Time to come with me and sit down, like a good girl. You know how fond I am of those feet of yours.’ And we spent the rest of the night sitting in lounge chairs outside, overlooking the park, eating strawberries and talking. He put my foot up on a little cushion and every time someone came to get me, we’d point to it and make noises about its fragile condition. But, my love, I could’ve spent all night there with him. Have you ever found someone who perfectly understood every little thought in your head, every twist and turn, every sentiment, so that half of what you wanted to say is said by them before you can even voice it? And there is an ease about him that’s so attractive; a firmness of character that young men don’t have.

He didn’t take me home. But this morning a bouquet of long white calla lilies arrived with a card that said, ‘With Deepest Sympathy For Your Shoe.’ And of course it was addressed to ‘Baby Blythe’, which drove Muv mad. ‘I will not have you wandering around town with some ridiculous nickname!’

And then the Old Guard started as well, ‘What if the papers should get hold of it? Who is this man? Who are his family?’ (Too funny!)

I simply waltzed away on a cloud.

Oh, my angel! Is this what love feels like? Like having no stomach and no desire to sleep and a constant buzzing in your head? I only want the conversation to continue and never end.

Sending you every inch of love,

Baby xxx

Rachel had found the piece of paper with her sister’s number on it. It had been in front of her the entire time, dangling on a Post-it from the computer monitor. She held it, turning it over in her fingers thoughtfully.

It was early; she was alone in the office. She liked travelling in to Holborn before the morning rush, especially in the summer months. These were hours, precious and golden, which would disappear come autumn. But they were gifts now. As she got older, she learned to appreciate and use them. In a little while the area would be swarming with people, but right now it was quiet; the day unfolding.

She took another sip of her coffee. The room was filled with pieces, trophies from the jobs she and Paul had done and their adventures together. The ebony pug dog from the Queen Anne house in Cheshire. The oak reading table from the old public library in Aylesbury. The fake Canaletto from Bath. This business had been their lives. Today, especially, it seemed impossible, as it always did, that these things should remain but that he was gone. He was more real than any of it and yet here she was, staring at paintings and planters; empty chairs.

She forced herself round, picked up the phone and began to dial.

Then she stopped, putting it down.

What would she say? That Katie was in trouble? That she was worried about her? Or just that she was visiting?
Perhaps if she left a message, Anna would ring back and speak to Katie herself.

She sighed, running her fingers through her hair.

Why was it so complicated — the basic facts slipping through her fingers like water?

This is what happened around Katie; what used to happen around her father too. The simplest things became elusive, complex. Two minutes in their company and you didn’t know where you were or what you were doing.

Feeling around in her handbag, she searched for her cigarettes but the pack she found was empty. Scrunching it up into a ball, she aimed for the bin but missed. It landed on top of a box of old catalogues she’d intended to file months ago.

She missed Paul. It was an aching emptiness across her chest; physical and real, as if her heart were straining, like a dumb animal, reaching out for a touch that it couldn’t understand was no longer there. Despite the years they’d had together, the good years, it hadn’t been enough.

And now, she realised with a stab of irritation, she missed her sister Anna too. But this was different. It wasn’t a comfortable sentimental longing, but rather an older feeling; childish and petulant; a feeling she should’ve out grown long ago. She was jealous, as simple as that. She envied her sister her new life. And suddenly the objects around her ceased to feel like precious mementoes but instead like burdens; weights binding her to a past she couldn’t escape.

Why was it that she always wanted what Anna had?

She should be happy for her. She owed her that.

And without wishing to, she thought of Ryan, Katie’s father.

Getting up, she opened the door, clearing her lungs and her mind with fresh air.

But once summoned, the memory lingered, haunting her still.

That awful, disgusting summer. The house they’d rented by the shore.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a car horn, tooting. Across the street she saw Jack pulling up in that funny little Triumph of his, which so belonged to another age. It wasn’t like him to come in so often or so early. She waved back at him.

‘Want a coffee?’ he called, climbing out.

She shook her head and he walked off towards the cafe.

Rachel closed the door, went back to her desk.

She would make the call later. When she was alone. There was work to do. And today was the day she would sort things out, get things done.

Cate was sitting at one of the computers in the cool marble interior of the Marylebone Library. She’d been there most of the morning. The librarian had helped her locate several glossy picture books about the Blythe
sisters, which she’d skimmed through eagerly. It seemed Baby in particular had inspired a great many people with her starlet looks and mysterious disappearance. But there was very little evidence about what actually became of her — only romantic speculation. Now searches under ‘Baby Blythe’ or ‘Diana Blythe’ yielded plenty of the same photographs but no significant new material.

She was stuck.

‘Lady Irene Avondale’ she typed in.

The screen flashed to life, bringing up a page of fresh links, most of them obituaries from her recent death. She clicked on one.

‘Lady Irene Avondale was born on 13 September in 1907, married Malcolm Avondale in 1927, died in Devon, England, 19 March 1999.

Irene and her sister Diana (1910-?) were born to an Irish writer and historian, Benedict Blythe, and his young wife, Gwenevere in Dublin. Their circumstances were extremely modest; however, that changed dramatically following their father’s death in 1918 when their mother married Lord Alexander Warburton, the wealthy heir to the Warburton fortune, in 1921. Both sisters were launched into society and were widely regarded as the two most beautiful debutantes of their years. They were extremely popular, devising elaborate party games and masquerades to amuse their friends. One was the famous St Valentine’s Day treasure hunt when the girls persuaded Lord Beaverbrook of the
Evening Standard
to publish a series of clues in the paper, leading to secret locations all over London. The winner was guaranteed a kiss from his favourite sister, though the proceedings were declared to be rigged when the lucky winner was revealed to be one of their own close set, claiming his prize as a kiss from both.

Irene, the more conservative and quieter of the two, went on to marry Sir Malcolm Avondale in 1927, a popular member of the Conservative Party who rose to prominence as an effective public speaker in opposition to Chamberlain’s appeasement policies and an early supporter of Churchill. He later distinguished himself serving in Burma as a commanding officer with the Army. Irene also worked during the war as a nurse at the Devonport Naval Base in Plymouth. After her sister’s mysterious disappearance in 1941, she retreated from social life, finding solace in the Catholic Church and her faith. She and her husband had no children, although she worked extensively in later life with UNICEF and was awarded an OBE for her services in this field in 1976. After her husband’s death in 1985, she lived almost exclusively at their Devon home, Endsleigh, until her death in March earlier this year.

Cate leaned back in her chair, considering.

She hadn’t realised the Blythe sisters’ background was quite so modest. What a shock, as young girls, to come
into so much wealth and position — to be transported from the outskirts of Dublin into the very centre of glamorous London society between the wars. They must’ve been extraordinary personalities to rise to the top of that set so quickly, distinguishing themselves among a class of people punch-drunk from endless rounds of parties, balls and events.

And they were outsiders. She’d always known that and yet somehow it hadn’t sunk in. They weren’t born into this class yet they managed to conquer it. Had they referred to their upbringing; made jokes about it? Or had they simply sidestepped it, as she’d done hers, allowing it to be recreated in the fertile imaginations of others, fed by rumour and deliberate, subtle misinformation?

She thought about how Derek had introduced her in New York, at gallery openings, restaurants and gala events. Her name became shortened to Cate and her personal history suddenly became vague and amorphous, gaining a great deal by omission. He’d send her to the bar for drinks and then he’d lean in, his voice dropping seductively. ‘She’s a Londoner, of course. But now her mother spends most of her time on the Continent. Her training is extensive — from all the best schools. Her father is sadly deceased but he had a home in Mayfair; part of the music industry. I’m trying to convince her to stay in New York but it’s difficult because she’s had so many other offers.’

The first time she heard him do it, she hadn’t realised who he was talking about. When she finally made the
connection, she took him aside. ‘My mother vaccations in Malaga and my father never owned anything. He lived in a Peabody flat behind Bond Street Station.’

‘Spain is the Continent, my dear. And anything behind Oxford Street and before St James’s Park is Mayfair, regardless if it’s a penthouse or a park bench.’

His sureness disarmed her. She stared back at him, unable to combat his logic. Had she really had such a glamorous upbringing and just not noticed it?

‘It’s called refraining,’ he explained. ‘If you emphasise the negative that’s what you’ll get back. You’re in America now. They like success; positively adore social climbers. In fact, they celebrate it. None of this misplaced English modesty. Believe me, it won’t get you anywhere. Fast.’

She hadn’t realised it then, but a crack had formed under her feet. Initially it felt thrilling, full of hope and possibility. For the first time in her life her history didn’t dominate her experience of herself. But unchecked, it widened into an abyss; a gaping hole between who she really was and who she pretended to be. She no longer knew what was real any more and found she couldn’t trust her own perception.

Now it occurred to her that there was nothing particularly negative about her background at all, certainly nothing worth hiding. It was just sad. And perhaps most damning of all, common. It was of the one-size-fits-all variety of dysfunctional family drama that’s so frequent as to make the ‘normal’ families the rarity.