The Debutante (27 page)

Her heart swelled with an almost unbearable tenderness, more painful even than her grief.

He’d stayed not out of convention or pity or shame. He’d chosen deliberately to love her.

Jack licked his fingers. ‘He also said that in forgiving the other person, you were left with the most difficult bit of all: forgiving yourself. He said, ‘You’re angry at yourself for being vulnerable. For not being able to protect yourself.’ That used to really cut me. I knew he was right about that bit. I didn’t always agree with everything but I knew
he’d got that right.’ He took another drink, draining his bottle. ‘He had a lot to say on the subject. Not all of which I understood at the time. I don’t know where he got it all from.’

Rachel sat back in her chair. ‘I do.’

Jack said nothing. He realised they were having a conversation that had greater implications and meanings, not all of which he was privy to. But it didn’t bother him.

He hadn’t thought of those conversations in a long time. Paul’s words had fresh meaning for him now. He’d tried not to absorb his wife’s betrayal; to distance himself from it through anger and control. But the effort was unsustainable. Life seeped in anyway. He thought of Cate, standing naked by the window; of the longing and desire that tugged at him to reach out and touch her; to dive into the dangerous, unpredictable waters once more.

‘And you think he did?’

‘What?’ Jack looked up, shaking himself from his thoughts. ‘I’m sorry … did what?’

Rachel seemed removed, oddly tentative. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the view. ‘Forgive this person he was speaking of?’

‘Yeah,’ he nodded slowly, half guessing at the reason she was asking. ‘In fact, I have no doubt he did. The last thing he said to me about it was, “And then you’ll know what freedom really is. You will have chosen your own life, even in the most difficult of circumstances.” And he said it with a smile, like he really knew what he was talking
about.’

The tension inside Rachel released, like a fist unclenching. Relaxing back in her chair again, her shoulders softened and the distracted, vacant look in her eyes, deepened, gaining substance and depth. It was as if something in her that had been furiously spinning, day in and day out, was finally grounded. Again, she watched the children playing on the beach, but this time the weighty frown was gone.

‘Of course, I didn’t believe him,’ Jack continued, speaking more for his own benefit than hers. ‘I didn’t want to know what that kind of love was. I wanted something without flaws. The kind of love that never went wrong because it was perfect in the first place.’

‘Do you think that exists?’

‘No. I don’t. Actually,’ he considered, ‘I’m sure that isn’t love at all. It’s more like narcissism.’

‘Wow. You don’t say?’

He smiled.

Somehow he felt lighter, freer too. Being with her was easy. And he’d needed to talk. He’d forgotten that he could be with people that way. He signalled to the waiter. ‘Do you want another beer?’

‘Why not?’

The air around them softened; the searing heat of the day was gone. The families were packing up their buckets and spades, beach towels and picnic baskets, sandy and exhausted, heading back home for their tea.

Again, Jack thought of Cate. Was he capable of letting go of his disappointment, of accepting that she too could make mistakes and still be worth inviting into his life?

They sat, drinking, gazing out at the limitless horizon.

‘Do you really think she likes me?’ he asked, after a while.

Rachel picked around her plate, looking for a leg that hadn’t been already ravaged. ‘Why don’t you ask and find out?’ There was a teasing flash in her eyes. ‘But first, dear heart, I’d have a shave.’

12
Birdcage Walk
London

3
March
1937

Darling Wren,
Oh … thank you, my darling! It will be the last time, I promise, and I’m so terribly, terribly grateful! The thing is, I went out with Anne and the next thing I knew she was off and I was left alone at 106 with Donny, Jock and Pinky. I dread to tell you exactly how much money I lost but Jock said he’d cover me and well… Oh, my darling! Of course, Jock never gave me a penny. And without you I would’ve been destitute.

We went for a drink in Donny’s room when really I ought’ve gone home but we were all too far gone.

You see, I blame it entirely on Pinky. He has the most unnatural tastes.

I made it clear to all of them it will never happen again. And now I’m so full of self-loathing and feel so wretched I can hardly move.

Why do I do so many things I can’t bear even to remember? Why?

D

The security guard of Tiffany’s held the door open as Cate walked into its cool, art deco-designed show room.

‘I have an appointment with Cyril Longmore,’ she said.

He directed her up to the third floor where another assistant rang through and eventually Mr Longmore came down a narrow flight of steps. He was a slight man with glasses and thinning grey hair.

‘Miss Albion.’ He shook her hand. ‘Would you like to follow me?’

She followed him back to the upper floor, which housed a warren of small offices. He directed her into one, taking his place behind the desk while she sat in the chair opposite.

‘Thank you very much for your enquiry,’ he began. ‘I’ve gone into the archives and was able to find some information I think may be of interest to you.’

‘Would you like to see the bracelet?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes! Very much so!’

She took the distinctive velvet Tiffany box out of her handbag and passed it to him.

‘May I?’ he asked.

She nodded and he opened it up.

‘Oh yes! This really is something special, isn’t it?’ He held it up to the light. ‘A very delicate piece. And in excellent condition. All it really needs is a clean, which—’ he looked at her over the top of his glasses—‘can of course be scheduled at any time with our repairs department.’

Carefully, he arranged it back in its box.

Then he referred to some papers in a folder in front of him. ‘I have to admit, it was something of a challenge tracking this particular piece down! When we got your enquiry through, at first I didn’t think we’d be able to do anything for you. But luck was on our side.’ He smiled, passing her a faded receipt. ‘As you can see, it was made to order, as many pieces were in those days. And it cost really quite a considerable amount. Three hundred pounds.’

Cate stared at the receipt. ‘Are you sure this is right?’

‘Yes, especially now that I’ve seen the piece in question. See—’ he pointed to the description—‘pearls, diamond and emerald bracelet. This is the one. There’s no doubt.’

Cate frowned. ‘Commissioned by Lady Avondale on 13 April 1941, paid by cash in full on the same day. Collected on 20 May 1941.’

‘Yes. That’s Irene Blythe, isn’t it?’ he said excitedly. ‘This is a very special piece; a bracelet of real historical significance. With a copy of this receipt it would be worth a considerable amount as a collector’s item.’

‘And what’s this?’ Cate pointed to a childish scrawl in the bottom right-hand corner.

Mr Longmore looked it over. ‘Oh, that’s the signature of the person who collected it. Let’s see.’

She handed it to him.

‘Yes. It looks like …’ He strained to see. ‘Waites. A. Waites. If the bracelet was being collected by someone other than Lady Avondale, they would’ve required a
signature and probably even a letter from Her Ladyship before releasing it.’

A. Waites. Who was that?

‘And what about this?’ She took out the small silver box with the diamond ‘B’ on the top. ‘Did this by any chance come from Tiffany’s too?’

Mr Longmore took his jeweller’s glass out of the top drawer of his desk and examined it closely.

‘Well, very interesting. But no.’ He handed it back to her. ‘This is paste.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘It’s paste. Good-quality paste, but paste, nonetheless. Those are not real diamonds.’

‘Paste,’ she repeated, looking at the box again.

‘But it’s an excellent reproduction. To an untrained eye, it would’ve been utterly convincing. Many women used to keep their real jewels locked in a safe and wore reproductions instead. It was quite common practice. And I would have thought,’ he added significantly, ‘that, with an item like this, it would’ve been unwise to invest in real jewels.’

‘What do you mean, unwise?’

He laughed uneasily. ‘Do you know what it’s for?’

She shook her head. ‘Pills?’ she guessed.

‘I’m afraid it was more likely to be cocaine. You don’t see many of them nowadays, but at the time, they were rather popular.’

‘Really?’ She stared at the silver box in her palm.

He nodded. ‘See the little hook on the top? That’s so that it could be worn on a chain round the neck. And—’ he leaned forward, pointing to the side—‘it has quite a clever little latch to keep it closed.’

‘I see.’

Cocaine. Of course it was rife during the twenties and thirties. Part of her felt stupid for being so surprised. It was yet another side to Baby Blythe she hadn’t counted on. The reality of her was more disturbing; all too familiar in its vulnerability and capacity for paradox.

Mr Longmore was looking at her. ‘I hope I haven’t shocked you, Miss Albion.’

‘No, you’ve been most helpful. I don’t know why I should assume that everything about the past would be tea dances and roses.’

He smiled indulgently.

‘Thank you. May I have a copy of that receipt?’ she asked.

‘I have taken the liberty of already photocopying one for you,’ he said, passing it across the desk to her. ‘Please let me know if there’s anything more I can do to be of service to you and, if you don’t mind, perhaps I could keep your contact details. Occasionally we launch various exhibits of our work. You might consider allowing us to display this piece.’

She stood up. ‘Certainly.’

Mr Longmore shook her hand.

‘Thank you for your time. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘My pleasure.’

Cate walked down the narrow staircase, through the centre of the show room and out onto the street.

Irene bought the bracelet.

Just when she thought she might be on the verge of getting some answers, more questions arose.

She took the receipt out of her bag and had another look at it. The finished bracelet was collected on 20 May 1941. Wasn’t Diana’s birthday at the end of May—around the 30th? Could it have been a birthday gift? And who was this mysterious A. Waites?

None of it made sense.

Then again, so little about the Blythe girls made sense.

She strolled slowly up Bond Street, half window-shopping, her mind tugging at the knotted threads of Baby Blythe’s story, trying to see it from a fresh angle. In the golden sunshine, everything and everyone looked polished, glamorous. When the sun shone on London, there was no more beautiful city in the world. She looked across the street to the window of the Richard Green Gallery.

Then stopped.

It couldn’t be …

Crossing over, she stood in front of the window, a strange sense of horror slowly descending.

It was a painting. A nude.

A work she knew intimately.

It was as if someone had removed all her internal bearings; she felt queasy; unbalanced.

There was a little card in the bottom right-hand corner of the window.
‘The Mistress
by C. Albion. On loan from the Private Collection of Mr and Mrs Alexander Munroe.’

They were lying in bed, he was stroking her back, very gently. ‘I want something original by you.’

‘Here I am,’ she smiled, stretching out lazily, like a cat.

‘No. I mean a painting. I told you when we first met I had a commission for you.’

‘Why?’ she laughed. ‘I’m already yours.’