The Debutante (7 page)

‘In what way?’

‘Pretending to be my dad, I suppose.’

‘You don’t like it?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘A job’s a job, right? And —’ he flashed her a smile — ‘at least it was sustainable. For a while, anyway. I was forced to sell a couple of years later.’

‘How is your father now?’

‘The truth is, it’s hard to tell. One day he’s quite bad and the next he seems like his old self. My mother is thinking of moving him to a nursing home. They live in Leicestershire now and I don’t see them as often as I’d like.’

‘And you never finished your training?’

He stabbed at a bit of salad. ‘I was married by then. To a girl who came into the shop to buy a mirror.’

‘I see. Did you sell her one?’

‘No, she couldn’t afford any. But I made her cups of tea and she used to stop in quite often on the pretext of finding one. In the end I gave her a really quite beautiful Edwardian overmantel.’ He smiled to himself, remembering. ‘I searched high and low for something decent I could afford to part with. I tried to act like I was going to give it away anyway. I don’t think she was fooled.’

‘But she married you. So it worked.’

‘Yes, it worked. I got the girl.’

‘But you sold the shop anyway.’

‘Turns out you need quite a lot of ambition to run your own business. After my wife’s death, I let it go.’ His eyes met hers. ‘She was killed in a car accident, two years ago.’

He said it simply; quickly. She wondered if he’d practised how to get it over with the least amount of emotion possible.

‘I’m so sorry.’

Cool air rushed around them.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

They ate in silence.

‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’ Jack put his fork down. ‘That’s what everyone says — “I’m so sorry.” And I say “Thank you”, like I was buying a pint of milk in a shop. It’s somehow … wrong, inadequate, that it should be reduced to that. And in the end, the whole thing gets reduced down to a single sentence. “That was the year my wife died.’”

She nodded. ‘The whole thing’s an absolute cunt.’

He looked at her in surprise. ‘Yes, well … that’s one way of putting it.’

‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

‘It makes a change from people apologising.’

‘When my father died, I dreaded speaking to anyone I hadn’t seen in a while; going through the whole dance of clichés. It made me angry. At them, which of course was stupid.’

‘Were you close?’

‘He wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. But I don’t think it makes a difference. Mostly what I missed was the idea that one day it might be different. When he died the relationship became written in stone. It was too late to change it, even if I wanted to. Or could. And I was left, wandering around saying “Thank you” to a bunch of people who didn’t really want to talk about it and had no idea of what to say anyway.’

‘Yes,’ Jack conceded, taking another drink of wine, ‘it is a cunt.’

They watched a flock of house martins swoop in and out of the high hedges on the south side of the garden.

‘And what about you?’ He leaned back. ‘Married? Divorced? Widowed?’

She looked up sharply.

‘Or shall we leave all that?’

She stared at him a long time. ‘I’m … I was involved with someone.’

‘You have a boyfriend?’

‘It wasn’t quite so clearly defined.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You seem a little vague, Miss Albion.’

‘That’s my intention, Mr Coates.’

‘Do you instinctively balk at being defined, or simply in matters of the heart?’

‘Who said this was a matter of the heart?’

‘Well,’ he laughed, ‘isn’t it?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She ran her fingers lightly along the rim
of her glass. ‘There are so many more territories in the heart than one expects.’

‘Like what?’

‘Possession, power.’ She spoke slowly, softly, lifting her eyes to meet his. ‘It’s confusing sometimes, isn’t it?’

He felt his pulse quickening, the surface of his skin alive with increased sensitivity. ‘In what way?’

‘To tell which is which. They are intimacies, not so polite as love, but compelling just the same. Not everyone longs for tenderness.’

‘And you?’

‘I long for all sorts of things. Some of which I understand and some which I don’t.’

‘Are you saying you don’t know your own mind?’

‘Do you?’

‘I like to think I do.’

‘You’re deceived.’

‘And you’re presumptuous.’

‘What does the mind have to do with it anyway?’

‘I’m not referring to intellect but to intention,’ he clarified, aware that he was overcompensating with a certain loftiness of tone. She was clever and provocative. But it was the speed of her that was most thrilling.

Her lips widened in a slow, teasing smile. ‘And are all your intentions transparent and worthy?’

‘Isn’t that possible?’

‘Possible, perhaps. But not natural.’

‘And why not?’ He shifted, recrossing his legs. ‘Why
can’t you be aware of your actions before you take them? Set your own course for your heart rather than blundering in blindly?’

‘My, you really are a rare breed!’

The wind tossed the thick boughs above them, elongated black shapes stretching towards them across the lawn.

‘That’s not fair. You make me sound like a prude!’

‘Well, let’s see. A man whose motivations and desires are completely known to him at all times and absolutely under his control, who never stumbles into the murkier depths of human relations, whose affections only follow his pre-sanctioned plans … No, you’re not a prude. You’re a statue. Something Olympian. Definitely marble.’

‘And what about you?’ he countered. ‘A woman who doesn’t know her own mind, can’t even tell if she’s having a relationship or not, but is only certain it doesn’t involve love. What does that make you?’

In the dimming light, a shadow fell across her, bathing her in darkness. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what it makes me.’

The air felt suddenly cooler.

He tried to think of a way to backtrack without losing face. ‘Cate …’

But before he could, she pushed her chair back and stood up.

‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long day. Do you mind if I…?’

‘Yes, go on.’ He said it a bit too quickly; his mind
racing to figure out exactly how he’d offended her; certain that he was likely to do it again if he pursued the matter. ‘I’ll look after this.’

‘Thank you.’

She crossed the lawn, retreating from him, into the house, through the open French windows where the wind gathered and released the gauzy white sheers with invisible fingers.

The old house changed with the encroaching darkness. Rooms that were open and inviting in the daylight took on an unfamiliar coldness; shadows loomed and uneven floorboards sent her stumbling along the hallway. Although they were too far away from the shoreline, she thought she could hear the sea; surf crashing into cliffs.

Suddenly, her body felt leaden with exhaustion; her mind numb. The stairs groaned as she climbed up to her room. Without turning on the lights, she slumped on the edge of the bed. The last pink embers of sunset faded into the west. A minute later they were gone.

She picked up her mobile phone, lying on the bedside table. Two more missed calls. She was unable not to check it. Unable to return the calls yet unable to delete his number; unable to move forward in any way, trapped in an invisible cage of contradiction and obsession. She switched it off, tossing it across the room where it landed in a
corner. Far away enough so that she couldn’t reach across and grab it in the night; close enough to be retrievable. Self-loathing swelled and saturated, bleeding silently through her, like ink across a clean sheet of paper.

She could see Jack’s blue eyes, narrowed, triumphant; hear the superiority of his voice.

What did that make her?

She knew all too well what that made her.

It still thrilled her. That was the most disgusting part. She dreaded the missed calls yet feared the day when there were no calls at all. Her motives were clouded, filthy. Nothing about her was clear or good or pure any more.

‘We’re bound, you and I.’ The memory of his voice, low, just above a whisper, his breath hot against her cheek played again and again in her mind. Without thinking she rubbed her forearm; she could still feel the pressure of his fingers, digging into her flesh when she tried to move away.

Twilight reigned. A pale sliver of moon began to rise.

It was an unknown house; veiled yet alive in the darkness. It sighed and trembled. Things shifted, shapes, half seen, darted across the floor.

And without even bothering to wash her face, brush her teeth or take her clothes off, Cate curled up on the bed and closed her eyes.

17, Rue de Monceau
Paris

20 July 1926

My darling Wren,
Well! Finally something interesting has happened here! Eleanor’s cousin has arrived in town — Frederick Ogilvy — Smith or Pinky, as he’s known, on account of his permanently flushed cheeks (they really do look like a freshly spanked bottom) — and he is the most fun, which is surprising, considering how congenitally dull Eleanor is. He’s on his way to Nice to join the Hartingtons at their villa near Eze but decided to stop a bit longer to take us all out to supper and a show. Of course Eleanor was mortified but he and Anne and I all got on brilliantly. Perhaps a little too brilliantly — tell me what you think. We are strolling out across the Place de la Concorde after leaving the Ritz and he takes my arm.

‘You’re the bread girl, aren’t you?’

‘I beg your pardon?!’ (I was trying to be serious and aloof but really there’s no point with Pinky — he just carries on regardless.)

‘Now don’t be coy. Everyone knows your mother married Lord Warburton of Warburton’s Wholesome Wholegrain. And a fine loaf it is.’ He looks at me sideways. ‘I expect I best woo you, now that you’re a famous heiress.’

‘I’m not famous.’

‘You will be.’

‘And I’m not an heiress!’

‘Yes, well, insanely well off then. Shall I do it now?’

I sigh. ‘If you must.’

‘Best get it over with.’ He takes his hands out of his pockets and puts on a wobbly sort of voice. ‘Your eyes are like two perfect blue —’

‘Please stop.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘What about Anne?’

‘What about her?’

‘Well, oughtn’t you woo her too?’

‘It’s not really how it’s done. Not strictly speaking. You’re meant to wait for one girl to go before you have a bash at another.’

‘We’re friends.’

‘I see. ’ He turns to Anne. ‘Your eyes are like two perfect blue —’

‘Brown.’

‘Ah.’ He stops. ‘This is too complicated! Shall we all have a cocktail? A cigarette?’ He turns to me. ‘A kiss?’

And I did, darling — that is, let him kiss me. And before you become too livid let me explain that the thing about Pinky is he’s good fun and quite harmless. He’s more like a brother than a man and we were aching to find out what it was like. Besides, he kissed Anne too. There’s really no point in him kissing just one of us as we won’t have anyone to discuss it with later. We both agreed it was a bit wetter than we thought it would be and probably would’ve been nicer if it hadn’t been Pinky. He asked if he could write to me and I said yes. Already I’ve had a postcard of a goat and a rather suspect-looking peasant girl. And instead of the bread girl he’s taken to calling me Toast. Do you think we’re engaged?

Please don’t tell the Holy or I shall be forced to elope with a man I’ve only met once.

Piles of kisses from,

The Wayward (Libertine)

Jack took the plates into the kitchen, piling them into the sink. Mrs Williams would probably do them in the morning. He should leave them. Still, he turned on the water and squirted some sharply scented lemon washing-up liquid into the bowl, dunking his hands into the hot soapy water. Here at least he could make progress; change something. Doing the dishes was proof of a civilised world and a surefire remedy for existentialist angst.

Besides, he wanted to buy some time, put some space between them.