The Debutante (31 page)

Everything about it was a slap in the face—the title, the fact that he was selling it, that it was part of an official collection he shared with his wife. She’d been devalued in every way possible, and yet instead of feeling angry, she was crushed—as if it were the culmination of a prevailing
emotional truth in her life. She would never truly matter to anyone. She was disposable and always had been.

Could you even betray a mistress? she wondered, reaching into her pocket for a tissue. Not really. No more than they already betrayed themselves.

He wasn’t searching for her on the streets of London. She was alone, with a life that didn’t work. It was as if she’d been asleep, reeling from event to event in an extended nightmare. Now it was over. And all she longed for was to slip back into that dreamy half-world again and stay there, this time forever.

There was the little bag from the pharmacy, jammed into her pocket. The pills the doctor had given her. Some were antibiotics, others painkillers.

She stared at them. Rachel wasn’t back for days.

Reaching over, she took the bottle out and tilting it on its side, counted the little white pills.

Her heartbeat slowed, she felt calmer, almost serene.

How many would it take? Maybe there were some more upstairs.

It took her a while to hear the phone ringing. She waited for the answering machine to pick it up.

But still it rang. Again, and again and again … She stumbled in the half-light of the living room, feeling for the receiver. ‘Hello?’

The line was fuzzy, far away. ‘Hello? Hello, Katie? Is that you?’

‘Mum?’

‘What’s going on? Why are you in London?’

Cate sank down into the chair next to Rachel’s desk. ‘Mum…’

‘Katie?’

She began to cry. ‘Mum … why are you calling?’

‘Calm down, Katie.’

‘Why? Why are you calling?’

‘Katie…’

‘Why, Mum?’ Jagged sobs tore at her chest; pulling her apart. ‘Why?’

Her mother’s voice was firm, solid; terra firma in a world spinning wildly out of control. ‘I just am. Stay with me. I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here.’

Part Three

It was a very different journey to Endsleigh the second

Endsleigh
Devon

7
September
1940

My darling,
What news? You cannot pretend that London is dull; dangerous yes but never dull! And please don’t say that you’ve been drafted on some top-secret mission and are forbidden all correspondence. You know that I’m languishing here and therefore it’s your civic duty, on behalf of the war effort, to send me as much gossip as possible. The titbits I’ve heard won’t last long. For example, apparently Wooton Lodge has been taken over as some sort of hospital for dotty servicemen, which makes us laugh, as that sums up the place perfectly, especially the weekends I was there—people who couldn’t remember their names walking into walls, falling down stairs and babbling like idiots. Irene said Baba Metcalf wrote to tell her. Too funny! And Irene is studying nursing and is being very grand and humble at the same time, which is quite a trick. Crisis seems to suit her. We live now in only a handful of rooms. The rest are blacked out. We’ve been sent a couple of evacuees from Shoreditch of all places—a boy and a girl, though the girl is really only a baby, just coming up to three, or so the boy tells us. His name is John and she, dear thing, is Jess. They are terribly sweet, though Irene hates to have them in the house as she says they have nits and has confined them to the cottage with Alice until she can get them properly deloused. And little John has some chesty cough she thinks may be contagious so she keeps me far from him, which is too bad as he has the most killing accent and says things like, ‘Cor! That ain’t ‘alf a ‘igh roof!’ when going into the hall with the great dome. I long to keep him with me just to hear him speak! But Irene is quite odd with them really. I suppose I expected she’d be thrilled to have children around and yet it’s as if she can’t bear them anywhere near her. She does stare at the little girl, whom Alice has adopted quite as her own. But it’s more like a dread than a fascination. She says Malcolm shouldn’t like them in the main house anyway and I suppose she’s right. She is forever deferring to him, even when he’s not around. Still, she is so kind to me … in her own way. Do write, darling. Do write soon.

Baby xxxx

It was a very different journey to Endsleigh the second time. Cate travelled down with Rachel for the auction in her battered blue Volkswagen; the sky clouding over, dull and grey, heat rising from the road.

The conversation she’d had with her mother ran round in her brain. She’d told her pretty much everything, which was strange, because she was normally quite distant with her mother. Part of her, an unfair, cruel childish part, had always blamed her mother for leaving her father; never quite believing that things had been as bad as they were. Perhaps if she’d tried harder or been more loving, he would’ve changed; things would’ve been different. And when he’d died the wedge between them had grown into a yawning gap. Cate knew that most of her resentment came from the fact that her mother had always been there, doing all the things parents should do, like making her finish her homework or go to bed on time. In her childish mind, she couldn’t be angry with her father; couldn’t risk him moving even further away from her. So she had punished her mother instead—the person who had shown up for her. Keeping her at arm’s length, she’d determined only to share fragments of her life with her, especially her New York existence.

But when she’d confided in her, there was none of the judgement Cate was expecting. Her mother wanted to know if she would like to visit her in Spain; she’d gladly buy her a ticket. But Cate explained that she was doing
some work for Rachel, promising to come when it was all over.

She didn’t tell her about the shoebox or her obsessive interest in solving the mystery of Baby Blythe. She knew there was something compulsive about it; it had blossomed from a diversion into a real need to untangle the knotted web of personalities that went beyond mere curiosity or interest.

They checked into a small hotel in Lyme Regis, near the offices of the solicitors. Cate and Rachel shared a double room. Jack had made arrangements elsewhere. Cate tried not to think of it as significant, and yet it seemed so. She couldn’t help but compare this second journey with the first. And part of her missed the hours she’d spent alone with him, in the old house.

When she and Rachel arrived at Endsleigh the day before the auction, the drive was backed up with cars and the house was full of people wandering around viewing the sale objects, catalogues in hand. The event was being overseen by Mr Syms, just as grim as ever in the same dark suit and humourless temper. Security guards patrolled up and down the hallways while removal men hauled various pieces from the floors above; all the furniture in the library had been taken out in order to create a makeshift auction room. But Jack was nowhere to be seen.

While Rachel discussed the details of the proceedings with Mr Syms and issued instructions, Cate wandered
through the house once more on her own. But it was a very different place now; gutted and bare. There were marks on the walls, sun-bleached patches on the floor, indicating where things had been. The rooms themselves looked naked, and oddly vulnerable by comparison.

Cate walked up the wide staircase, to the landing, heading to Irene’s room. It was as lifeless and impersonal as a hotel suite now. The bed was stripped bare; the carpet was rolled up in the centre of the floor. She turned, checking the bedside table. The stack of books was gone.

She’d hoped she’d be able to look at everything with a fresh eye; maybe discover something that would fit the pieces of the puzzle in place. But nothing was left.

Walking past the main landing, she went down the long corridor to the west side of the house. There was one more room she was longing to see. The door was closed, she turned the handle and, just as before, the golden light hit her, almost blinding after the darkness of the hallway.

Only she wasn’t alone. Jack was there, piling books into boxes. He turned.

‘Close the door,’ he commanded.

She pushed it shut.

‘And hello,’ he added, shoving another stack of books in. ‘Don’t even ask what I’m doing unless you want to be party to a crime.’

‘OK.’ She leaned against the frame. ‘So, what are you doing?’

‘Do you remember Mrs Williams? How upset she was about this room, these books? Well—’ he stood up, brushing the dust from his hands—‘I thought it might be a nice gesture if we gave them to her. And I’m afraid, as this room wasn’t formally even acknowledged before, that I took the liberty of not including its contents in the catalogue. So now I’m reduced to sneaking these boxes down the back stairway.’

He smiled, a lopsided, sardonic sort of grin. He seemed different; more relaxed and easy-going than she remembered.

‘Let me help you,’ she said, bending down to fill up an empty box with the final row of books.

She concentrated on stacking; he on sealing the other two boxes.

‘Did you have a good trip down?’ he asked, tearing off a strip of packing tape.

‘Yes, and you?’

‘Fine.’ He folded the flaps inside one another. ‘And, you’re well?’

‘Yes. Fine.’ She slotted the last books in place. ‘And you?’

‘Yes. Yes …’ His voice trailed off.

He took a step back, watching her. Her hair was longer, softer, less rigidly cut, her face more open. There was something unstructured about her, or rather, deconstructed, though he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what had changed.

She looked up at him. Her eyes the same disarming clear green, translucent in the morning light. ‘All done, boss.’

Together they took the boxes down the back staircase that led into the kitchen and piled them on the table, gasping from the effort.

‘Can you drive? ‘Jack asked.

‘Yes.’

He pulled a set of car keys out of his pocket. ‘Listen, I’ve got to see Rachel about a few things. Would you mind taking these over to Jo? She moved out of the cottage a few weeks ago and is staying with her mother. I’ve got an address here. If you don’t want to, we can just put them in the boot of the car and I’ll take them down later.’

‘No, that’s fine. That is, of course, if you trust me with your car,’ she smiled.

‘Actually, I don’t trust you.’ He took out a slip of paper from his breast pocket. ‘But I’ve always wanted to see it driven by a beautiful blonde, so I’m willing to trade my peace of mind for a glimpse of the fantasy.’

‘Perv.’

‘Yup.’

They put the boxes on the back seat and Cate climbed in. ‘Have you got a map?’

‘Here.’ He stretched across her, popped open the glove compartment and took out an atlas. ‘This is the page,’ he said, flicking the book open, resting it against the steering wheel. He leaned in close, tracing his finger along the
page. ‘You need to turn right, go all the way down past the dairy and then left at this junction. Wait, let me see that address again.’

She handed it back to him. He lingered, drawing out the chance to be close to her. And she let him.

‘Yeah, just follow along here and it should be somewhere along this road.’ He turned, his face close to hers. ‘Does that make sense?’

‘Sure.’ She put the book onto the seat next to her; turned on the ignition. ‘Take one last look at your pride and joy, pal.’

‘Don’t make me hunt you down!’

She revved the engine. ‘I’ll leave a trail of breadcrumbs, shall I?’ And she pulled away, speeding down the long winding drive and into the distance.

Jack shoved his hands in his pockets.

He’d wondered what it would be like to see her again. But his imaginings never prepared him for the reality of her.