Over supper (pizza from Wiesens, bought as a present for just the two of them, to save Kathleen cooking), she looked at her with her father’s eyes and said, ‘Grandma, do you really know nothing about my mother?’
And Kathleen, recognizing that the time had come for Fleur to learn as much as she was able to tell her, took a deep breath, opened the bottle of Irish whiskey that she kept in the sideboard for occasions of great importance, and began to talk.
At much the same time, in her small, messy appartment, the walls of every room including the bathroom peppered with signed photographs of virtually every great name and famous face that had appeared on the cinema screen over the past twenty years, Yolande duGrath read and reread the letter from the charming young English journalist to whom she had rather rashly (she could now see) talked at such great length a year or so previously and wondered how much she should trust him, and whether she had any right to break the confidence of another young man who had placed his sad and extremely intricate history within her care.
‘Could I speak with Lady Hunterton please?’
‘One moment please. Who can I say is calling?’
‘This is Joe Payton.’
‘Please hold on, Mr Payton.’
‘There was a silence; Joe tried to imagine what the scene at the other end might be: what kind of a house and a set-up Caroline inhabited, who would be answering her phone in that prehistoric way. She was an interesting project, that was for sure.
‘Lady Hunterton is down at the stables with the children at the moment, sir. Can I ask her to call you?’
‘Yes, please. She has my number.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The phone rang quite soon; Caroline sounded nervy, impatient. ‘Joe? Yes? What news?’
‘Er – Caroline.’ He wasn’t liking this. ‘Caroline, I’m really sorry, but Yolande wrote back. She doesn’t have any idea where Fleur might be. She doesn’t really know anything about her. She said Byron – Brendan – never talked about her. I’m terribly sorry.’
‘Oh.’ It was a small, sad sound. ‘Oh well. I suppose it was hoping too much.’
‘Not really. I mean it wasn’t hoping too much. She just can’t help. She would if she could, I’m sure. She was terribly fond of Brendan. She ended up his only friend really.’
‘Yes. Well, maybe she was.’ The voice was chilly suddenly, hostile.
‘Caroline, believe me, she was. She really tried to help him through those last awful months.’
‘Joe, Brendan was a talker. He talked to everybody about everything. If this Yolande person had been his friend, he would have told her about Fleur and about me, and about – well, everything. I know he would. I don’t think she can have been a friend at all. Not a real friend.’
‘Well, I don’t know, Caroline. I can only tell you what she said to me. And I’m sorry. You’re obviously upset.’
‘Oh, I’m not upset,’ she said, the words heavy and harsh down the phone. ‘Just a daughter, lost, out there somewhere, a daughter who probably thinks I abandoned her at birth. Of course I’m upset. Goodbye, Joe.’
She put the phone down. It rang again at once.
‘Caroline, listen. I don’t know what I can say to make you feel better, obviously nothing at all really. But I’m terribly sorry you feel so bad. And I want to help. What can I do? I don’t know.’ He paused. Then, ‘I could buy you another lunch. I’d like that.’
‘No,’ she said and he could hear her smiling, relaxing into the phone, ‘no, you have better things to do than buy expensive lunches for neurotic women.’
‘I can’t think,’ he said, ‘of anything better in the world than buying expensive lunches for women, neurotic or otherwise. I love eating and I love women. Go on, let me. Maybe we can come up with something.’
‘You’re very sweet,’ said Caroline, ‘and I’m sorry I got cross with you. It’s not your fault. Any of it. And you’ve been terribly kind. But honestly, I don’t think it would serve any purpose.’
‘Yes, it would. It would give me pleasure. That’s a very worthy purpose.’
‘No, Joe. But thank you anyway. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ he said and put the phone down, feeling bleak.
‘Is that Joe?’
‘It is.’
‘Joe, it’s Caroline.’
‘I knew you’d come round to the idea in the end. It’s a bit short notice for today, but I could manage tomorrow.’
‘No, you fool. I’m not ringing about lunch.’
‘Pity. What then?’
‘I’ve been thinking. Putting what I know of Brendan with what you know of Yolande. It doesn’t add up. I bet she does know about Fleur. I bet she even knows exactly where she is. I think she just didn’t want to tell you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she doesn’t trust you. I wouldn’t.’
‘That’s a very offensive thing to say. All forthcoming invitations to lunch hereby cancelled.’
‘Joe, you’re a journalist. It was a journalist who killed her friend.’
‘No, it wasn’t. You haven’t read my book. It was the Hollywood system.’
‘I have read your book, and I loved it –’
‘You did? Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Invitation to lunch reinstated. Immediately. If there’s one thing no author can resist it’s someone loving what they write. It’s a real turn-on.’
‘Well I’m glad I just turned you on. But –’
‘Are you really? Did you mean that?’
‘Joe, please listen to me.’
‘I am listening to you. It’s wonderful.’
‘Joe, please! Listen, I’m quite sure that if this Yolande person had been Brendan’s friend, she would have known about Fleur. But I also think she’d want to protect her. So I think she does know and she won’t tell you.’
‘So?’
‘So I thought I’d write to her. And explain. Ask her to help me. That is, if you give me her address. What do you think?’
‘I don’t know, Caroline. I really don’t know.’ He sounded guarded.
‘But, Joe, why? What harm can it do?’
There was a silence. Then, ‘It could harm you. Hurt you.’
‘So?’
‘So I wouldn’t like that.’
‘Oh.’
‘Because I like you.’
‘Oh.’ Caroline was silent for a moment, trying to analyse the emotion that was surfacing in her, over her frustration and pain. She realized with a pang of recognition that it was sexual in origin and an odd combination of delight and desire. She crushed it hastily.
‘Well, that’s really kind of you and I do appreciate it, but honestly, Joe, I’ll risk it. If you’ll only let me. Give me the address, please.’
‘Well, I’ll think about it.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Caroline. ‘Joe, this is my daughter we’re talking about. Not some silly story. Now will you or will you not give me Yolande duGrath’s address?’
‘On one condition.’
‘All right,’ she said, smiling into the telephone, trying to ignore the delicious warmth melting into her body, focused primarily somewhere in the region of her belly, ‘all right, I’ll have lunch with you.’
‘Good. Tomorrow at one.’
‘Same place?’
‘No. Not the same place. Come to the Guinea. It’s in Bruton Lane, just off Berkeley Square. Best wine list in London. See you there at one.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Fleur. ‘Oh, my God.’
‘Fleur, whatever is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘What? Oh, sorry, Grandma. No, I’m just fine. I – just remembered I had an exam this morning, and I didn’t revise the righ
t stuff. I – just have to go up to my room and find the books. Excuse me.’
Back in her room, she sat on her bed; she felt sick and shaken, her body somehow bereft of substance. She took the letter out of the envelope and began to read it again.
My dear Fleur,
It was really good to get your very nice letter, and I’m glad you liked the card. I envy you seeing Luther; we don’t get enough serious drama over here.
I was so pleased to have news from you; it sounds as if you are going to make a real stir in New York in the next few years. Scriptwriting sounds a wonderful idea, although maybe a little difficult to get a foothold in initially. Certainly majoring in literature is the right first step. When the time comes, then, yes, of course you must get in touch with me and I will do what I can.
Fleur, I have some news for you. I have thought very carefully about telling you this, and I have decided you are old enough to make your own decision about pursuing it. When I was your age I was married, and I would have thought ill of anyone who ventured to entrust the major decisions of my life to an adult. Also, your grandmother must be getting on now and I dare say still regards you as a small girl. I did not think we should trouble her.
I have had a letter from your mother. She sounds a very nice person. She lives in England as of course you know, and is married and has a daughter only a little younger than you, and two little boys. Her husband is called Sir William Hunterton. I don’t understand all those English titles, but I guess that makes her Lady something or other. Anyway, she had no idea your father had died until she heard a programme on what she calls the wireless the other day. She imagined until then that the two of you were still safely together. I expect this might explain her silence all these years. She tells me that she and your father agreed that she must never see either of you, certainly until you were quite grown up. Now she is anxious about your welfare, has no idea where you are, and wants to see you and make sure you are all right.
Anyway, I didn’t want to do anything that you felt you would not welcome. You may want to see her very badly and you may not. I am therefore giving you her address, and you can make your own mind up, and get in touch with her or not as you wish. I think it would be courteous at the very least to reassure her that you are well and not living on the streets of New York as she seems to imagine.
Please write to me if you want to or have any queries that I might be able to answer, and in any case let me know what you decide to do. I have written to her and told her you have her address and that you may or may not be in touch.
I know you will do the right thing.
Your friend,
Yolande duGrath
Fleur wished she could be as certain that she would do the right thing. She felt fairly confident of doing the wrong. She felt confused, frightened, exhilarated, lost, all at once. Pleasure and happiness that her mother was concerned for her mingled with outrage that she should have dared to agree with her father that she would never see her. What kind of a mother could form such an agreement? How could anyone just hand over her child with so cool a detachment? Or be able to hold herself to it? How could she, all these years, have remained so distant? OK, so it was nice she was bothered in case her father had left her alone in the world; but if she had really loved her, really cared, she would have made sure she had some way of checking anyway, all along the way. Why hadn’t she known about Kathleen, been sure to know where she and her father lived, just in case of some problem or other? It all seemed quite horribly casual: as if she, Fleur, were some package, to be handed over and got rid of with as little bother as possible.
Just the same, it would be – oh, wonderful, marvellous, to meet her mother. To see her, hear her, talk to her, know how she moved and walked and sat and ate; to feel, at last, that she had proper roots, like everybody else, was a balanced piece of creation instead of an odd hybrid born of a faceless, voiceless, impersonal creature. But then – would it? Suppose she was as detached, as cold, as unloving as Fleur had always imagined? Wouldn’t that be worse even than having no one, knowing nothing? Wouldn’t it make her feel as if she too must be lacking in the most basic, crucial emotions, like warmth and tenderness? And then suppose they hated one another? Or had nothing in common, nothing to say? And had to make some excuse to part, never to meet again, a baffling blank become an unpleasant fact? Nothing, surely, would be worse than that.
But then, again, they might really get along; they might enjoy the same things, laugh at the same jokes, share the same emotions. Who could help her, and how could she know? There was no one in the world, no one at all that she knew, could dredge up from anywhere, who had the faintest knowledge of her mother, who could say, well, OK, Fleur, yes she did give you away, but she was fun and warm and concerned for you. Or, no, Fleur, she might have written now, but believe me, she is one tough proposition, and if she wasn’t, she’d have got in touch with you before.
She had to make her own decision, based on no evidence of any kind, except Miss duGrath’s own opinion (based on one letter), whether or not to go and find her.
It all seemed too much for Fleur; she watched the view from her window blur before her tears; and then, as she had learnt to do so many times, ever since her father had first gone away from her to Hollywood, she took a deep breath, buried the hurt and the uncertainty deep inside her, and just got on with the rest of the day. She would decide what to do later. When she had had time to think.
‘Caroline, this is Joe. I was just wondering if you’d had any news?’
‘No, Joe, not yet I’m afraid. You know I’d let you know if I had. I suppose – well, she must be half scared of writing. I expect it’ll take her a while to get round to it.’
‘Do you want to have lunch?’
‘Joe, I’d love to, but I have to get Toby off to school this week. And Chloe is going back next week. There’s such a lot to do.’
‘Caroline, let me buy you a Christmas lunch. I’d really like that. Cheer you up, and it would certainly be fun for me.’
‘Um – well, yes, all right. Yes, I’d really love to. I must say I did think I would have heard by Christmas. At the very latest. I am very much afraid she just doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.’
‘I don’t suppose it’s that, Caroline. I expect she’s just scared. She is only a kid.’
‘I suppose so. Joe, do you think if I sent Fleur a Christmas card to Yolande duGrath that would be a good idea? Then she could forward it. And I thought maybe I could send her a birthday present too. She’ll be sixteen on New Year’s Day. What do you think?’
‘If you need to buy the card and the present in London, I think it would be a wonderful idea. No, seriously, why not?’
‘All right then, I will. Thank you.’
‘Caroline, this is Joe. I thought you might be feeling a bit blue. As it’s Fleur’s birthday. Happy New Year.’
‘Happy New Year, Joe. And yes, I was. Am. So thank you. You’re a good friend.’
‘I keep hoping to be a bit less of a friend.’
‘I know you do.’
‘Caroline, have you heard anything yet?’
‘Oh, no, Joe. I don’t suppose I ever will. I don’t think I even want to any more. I think she must be a rather horrid child. Not to write and thank me for the Christmas present. I mean real pearl earrings. I mean if she didn’t like them, she should have had the courtesy to send them back. I mean –’
‘Caroline, are you crying?’
‘No, of course I’m not crying.’
‘Caroline, my paper has asked me to do a series on what they call the old order. You know, class and all that. Could I come and interview you and Sir William?’
‘No, of course you couldn’t. You know you couldn’t. Anyway, I thought you were supposed to be a film reviewer.’
‘Just been promoted to features editor.’
<
br /> ‘Congratulations, Joe. That’s really good. I’m pleased for you.’
‘Well, could I let you take me out for a celebration lunch?’
‘Oh – I don’t know. Tell you what, someone has given me and William tickets for the Centre Court at Wimbledon next week. He hates tennis, and anyway, he isn’t terribly well. Why don’t I take you instead? Maria Bueno is playing. Would you like that? Or does tennis bore you to tears?’
‘Tennis suddenly is the thing that interests me more than anything in the world.’
‘Good. Wednesday. All right?’
‘All right. No news, I suppose?’
‘No, Joe, no news. I won’t get any news. Not now.’
It was August when the letter came. A hot, dry-as-dust day. Caroline was sitting in the garden. Chloe was playing tennis rather badly with a friend, and Jolyon and Toby were alternately mocking her and kicking a tin can round the lawn.
Dear Lady Hunterton,
You wrote to me last year. I got raped on the subway last month and now I think I might be pregnant. I don’t want to tell my grandmother. Please could you send me $500 for an abortion. I imagine you must have the money.
Yours sincerely,
Fleur FitzPatrick
1961–2
‘I’m going to come with you,’ said Joe.
‘No, Joe, really you can’t. What on earth would William say?’
AN Outrageous Affair Page 19