‘That might look a little rude.’
‘To whom?’
‘To Gilly, to Athina. And to me.’
‘Cornelius, Athina never minds if I am present at a function or not. To Miss Gould I am the hired help. I don’t think she has ever uttered more than two consecutive words to me. And I think I have earned the right, just occasionally, to be rude to you.’
He understood at once. ‘I’m sorry, my darling, I’ve been tactless. May I come round later? Athina is dining with Caro and Martin and I’ve pleaded overwork.’
‘I . . . suppose so.’
‘Not very enthusiastic. Miss Hamilton, do be kind enough to allow me to call.’
‘All right.’
He arrived with a vast bouquet of white roses, and said he was sorry.
‘I’m just an old man, besotted with a young beauty. Pathetic. But it happens, my darling. We can’t help it, we old chaps.’
‘Of course.’ And she smiled at him, drank two glasses of champagne, said that of course she understood and then made it very plain she had no desire to go upstairs.
‘I’m tired, Cornelius, it’s been a long day. And we old ladies, we need a little more rest than we used to.’
Normally she would not have dreamed of saying such a thing, of implying that she was no longer as passionately attracted to him as she had been in the heady early days, but today she felt she had a right to. That was all the difference, she thought: he could claim attraction to a young beauty and a need to boost his flagging sexual prowess and she must accept that as his right. Which was all right if a man was your husband, but a long-term lover . . .
She decided, sitting there, contemplating Cornelius with more irritation than she had ever experienced, that she would accept Timothy’s proposal. Cornelius would rage and rant and quite possibly cry, but then, at the end, he would have to accept it. It was finally time for her to be selfish.
‘Right,’ he said, easing himself up from the sofa, ‘I must go. Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m taking the Trentham with me.’
‘You’re what?’
‘Only borrowing it,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind and Leonard needs it.’
‘Well, he can’t have it!’ she said, panic rising. Cornelius had never spotted the fake, but Leonard would.
‘Sweetheart, it’s only for a few weeks.’
‘Even so. And what for?’
‘Well, he’s a bit on his uppers, poor old boy, and he’s going to hold an exhibition and needs as much of his work as possible to hang. It won’t be sold, you’ll get it back. Well, I suppose someone might make an offer he can’t refuse . . .’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, fear making her irritable. ‘That painting’s priceless to me, you know it is!’
‘Well, that’s nice to hear. But like I say, you’ll get it back.’
‘Cornelius, I really don’t want to let him have it.’
‘Now you’re being silly,’ he said, taking the picture down. It wasn’t very big: only about eighteen inches by twelve in its frame. She looked at him in horror.
‘Cornelius . . .’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘No. Well – yes. You’re being rather high-handed.’
‘And you’re being a bit dog in the manger, if you don’t mind my saying so. He’s an old friend, Florence, he needs my help.’
‘It seems to be me that’s giving the help,’ she said, but she didn’t argue any more. There was no point. She would just have to sit it out.
Timothy phoned later; would she like to spend Saturday with him? They could go for a walk on the Downs, he said, and then he would cook dinner for them and introduce her to a new rather sophisticated hi-fi system he had just bought. ‘And then, of course, you must stay the night, and we can savour the joys of the village pub next morning. I have to go to church, I am, for my sins, churchwarden, but after that I am a free man.’
It all sounded wonderfully pleasant and undemanding and she accepted with pleasure. But as she packed on Saturday morning, lots of soft jersey casual separates and her stout brogues for their walk, she felt the opposite of relaxed, fearing every moment for a call from Cornelius about the picture.
It did not come, and she left for Waterloo and the Guildford train feeling calmer and more optimistic. Perhaps if he didn’t want to sell it, Leonard Trentham would simply hang the picture – in its original frame – without paying it too much attention.
The weekend passed happily and easily. Timothy was so – so uncomplicated. He spoke fondly, smiling even, about his wife, Barbara.
‘She was such a lovely person, you would have liked her. So kind and so generous. And so brave. We were very happy. And for a long time I didn’t think I could bear life without her. It seemed so utterly pointless. But – things have proved otherwise. And you know, Florence, they say people who have known one happy, stable relationship are able more easily to form another. Do you agree with that?’
‘I – don’t know,’ she said carefully. Could her relationship with Cornelius, with all its attendant complications and deceits, its wild highs and its sorry, lonely lows, be described as either happy or stable?
‘I suppose not. Your marriage was so very short you could never really have known real fulfilment. I feel so sad for you, over that.’
She wondered what on earth he would say if he knew about Cornelius; he would be shocked, undoubtedly, but would he be able to accept it, understand? She would never tell him anyway, so it wouldn’t matter. Only . . . it would. So large a part of her, that second, hidden life of hers, there for the discovering. It was a big risk, on more than one level. Could she, should she do this, yield to this sweet, uncomplicated temptation?
The walk on the Downs, dusted with winter sunshine, slowly awakening to spring, was wonderful. He took her hand at one point, helping her up a steep slope, then continued to hold it. ‘You don’t mind do you?’ he asked, half serious, and she leaned up and kissed his cheek and said, ‘No, of course not, it’s lovely.’
Dinner was delicious, eaten at his kitchen table: an excellent cottage pie followed by rhubarb crumble. ‘Nursery food,’ he said, ‘so good after a long walk.’
And then they sat by the fire listening to Handel on the hi-fi and she started worrying again, wondering what might be happening in London, what furious, or indignant messages might be left on her answering machine, whether Cornelius or Lawrence Trentham or both might be looking for her, outraged and avenging, or speculating on where she was.
The concert ended. ‘Nightcap?’ Timothy said.
‘I’d love a cocoa,’ she said.
‘I meant something more exotic. But cocoa you shall have.’
He brought two mugs back, set them on the low table between them.
Then he looked at her.
‘I am so very fond of you, Florence,’ he said, ‘I am so hoping you will give me the answer I want.’
‘Timothy—’
‘But I am not going to press you. I understand you need time. There are many things for you to come to terms with, not least sharing your life full-time. Something you have never done.’
She smiled at him.
‘I appreciate your understanding so much, Timothy,’ she said.
‘I just think – know indeed – that we can be very happy together. And I know my children feel the same. They like you enormously.’
‘As I do them.’
‘Laura told me a secret today. She is going to have a baby.’
‘Oh, Timothy, that’s so lovely.’
‘I know. I am very excited. Sad, of course, that was something Barbara most grieved over, never having a grandchild. But very wonderful for me.’
Goodness, Florence thought, I would be a step-grandmother. How amazing, after a lifetime of spinsterhood. Would that ease the pain of her own, never-forgotten baby? Or make it worse?
‘Things like that, you see,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘are best shared. And I think you would be
a very delightful grandmother by marriage. But – wrong of me to put even that pressure on you, dear Florence. I am resolved not to do it. Now – bed. Goodnight, my dear. I’ll see you in the morning.’
She got up, kissed his cheek; as she reached the door, he said, ‘I don’t want you to think I am not longing to take you to bed, Florence, but again, it would be wrong before you have made up your mind. It’s not the blessing of the church I am looking for, but your own.’
‘Of course,’ she said quietly.
‘And besides,’ he said, with an odd, slightly embarrassed smile, ‘I feel rather nervous, just contemplating the whole thing. I have no idea, of course, whether you have had relationships, I’m sure you have. And I don’t want you to tell me unless you choose to. But it will be a challenge, in any case. I have only ever made love to one woman and I might prove very unsatisfactory to you; I really have no idea.’
‘Oh, Timothy,’ said Florence, walking back to him, kissing him again, ‘I’m sure you will prove extremely satisfactory. But I think you are right; we should wait a little longer. Although, like you, I like the idea of it very much.’
‘Really?’ he said and his smile was brilliant suddenly. ‘How very good that is to hear. Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well.’
Oh, he was so incredibly nice. What had she done to deserve him? What? Nothing, she told herself, as she lay wide awake, far in to the small hours, you don’t deserve him in the very least.
In the morning she accompanied him to church. Raised to attend morning service, she found herself jerked back into childhood and the singular pleasure of singing hymns, the words of all of which she remembered. They then went to the pub and had a drink in the bar, and were inveigled into eating a rather bad lunch. And after a short walk, she finally, and reluctantly, returned to London.
Sitting on the train, she felt bathed in ease and happiness, wondering that such things were hers for the taking. She compared it with what she knew: disorder, unease and much emotional discomfort. Where was the problem, why did she even hesitate? Was she quite mad?
Deciding that she was, she took a taxi from Waterloo. And immediately tumbled back into discord.
There were eight calls on her answering machine: three from Lawrence Trentham, sounding distressed, asking her to call him, then five from Cornelius, making the same request.
She phoned neither of them. She called Timothy to say she was safely home, as he had requested, and then settled down to watch TV, some foolish Sunday serial.
She slept badly, dreamed feverishly. The morning dragged next day and shortly after two Cornelius arrived at The Shop.
‘Anyone here?’
She shook her head.
‘Good.’ His voice was cold, his face hostile. He locked the door, put the notice on it.
‘What’s going on, Florence?’
‘I – don’t know what you mean.’
‘Of course you do. Leonard says that picture’s a fake.’
She didn’t tell him, of course, the real reason. She couldn’t. But she did tell him she had needed some money urgently.
‘But why? And why didn’t you ask me for it?’
‘Cornelius, there’s a limit even to my lack of pride. It’s humiliating, to be dependent on you. I – had some financial problems and I really needed money.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t think that is any of your business.’
‘Of course it is. Since you decided on this major deception, using a gift of mine.’
She was amazed at the way the lies flowed.
‘Well, I’d taken on Duncan’s mother’s nursing home fees – oh, not all of them, just filling in a gap for the family.’
‘Florence! When you have so little? Kind, generous, but – rash.’
‘I know. Anyway, I did it. So I had to honour it. She’s very old and frail. So I – I decided to – to sell the picture.’
‘Our picture.’
‘No, Cornelius, the picture. Mine, if we are to be precise. You gave it to me.’
‘And only the other day you had the gall to tell me it was priceless to you.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. But – well, I thought I might get it back one day.’
‘Who bought it?’
‘The Stuart gallery.’
‘That little shit! Do you know where it went?’
‘Overseas, I’m afraid. Cornelius, it’s no use. We’ll never get it back. I’m so, so sorry.’
‘Well, what’s done’s done. I’m very disappointed in you, Florence. But I suppose I understand your motives. Do you want that other painting back?’
‘Of course I do! It’s very precious to me. Real or fake.’
‘I do find that hard to understand.’ His expression was close to dislike.
‘Cornelius,’ she said, hurt making her desperate, ‘please, please try to understand what it’s like to be me. Always, always, I’m the underdog. Playing second fiddle to Athina—’
‘That’s absurd!’
‘It’s true. She is your wife, has the status, the security, I have nothing . . .’
‘You have me. And my love.’
‘No, Cornelius, I don’t have you. I’ve been hidden away now, notionally at least, for nearly thirty years. It’s been lovely and I entered into it with my eyes completely open but sometimes, just sometimes, I long for security, normality. I have to manage on my own, most of the time.’ She was pale now, not tearful, but desperately sincere. ‘And I have to be alone, most of the time. It isn’t easy, while enduring Athina’s high-handed attitude. I have no security—’
‘Yes you do,’ he said. ‘You have great security, as you know. When you need to claim it.’
‘Yes, of course. And I’m grateful for that. Although I find it hard to imagine I’ll ever use it.’
‘Florence, you must. If you need to. That’s why I did it.’
‘I know. And I’m grateful. But – anyway, I do have to manage everything, deal with the world, on my own. And I need you to understand how difficult that is.’
There was a long silence; then he said, ‘Come here, Little Flo.’ He drew her towards him and said, ‘I love you. I love you so much. I am so very lucky to have you in my life. I don’t deserve you.’
‘No,’ she said, smiling suddenly, ‘you really don’t. But—’
‘I know. I cannot imagine life without you. How I would bear it all. And I do realise that it could happen, that someone, some decent chap, will come along and ask you to marry him. And you would have every right to leave me for him. Every right.’
And suddenly she knew that Timothy Benning was not for her. He was far too good for her. She had not lived the life of a good person. She had been an adulteress, had deceived the woman to whom she owed everything, deceived her ruthlessly and without remorse. Would remorse have made it better? Perhaps a little; but she had not felt it. Had even found succour in the thought, as Athina snubbed and belittled her, that she had her husband’s heart. And his body, quite frequently.
A person such as that had no business moving into the life of a person such as Timothy Benning. Moreover, there were new deceptions now, layered one upon another. She had lied, with hideous ease, to her lover, had concealed from him that she had aborted his child, had found a spurious reason for doing what she had done. And that alone, Timothy would have found unforgivable. That she could have aborted a baby without considering other, more virtuous options – and while concealing its very existence from its father.
And she could not have kept it all from him: not always. Marriage, certainly to someone as good and transparent as Timothy, was about truth, about trust; it could not be built upon lies and suspicion. And, gradually, she would have wrecked what Timothy Benning was about; besmirching his goodness. He would have looked at her with those smiling, affectionate eyes, and gradually, inevitably, they would have seen what was really there: a capacity for, and indeed a history of, infinite deceit. She could not do that to him, could not destroy him and his happy, easeful lif
e. It would be the final act of wickedness, worse, far worse than deceiving Athina. Who, after all, was fairly wicked herself.
And so, with many tears, she wrote to Timothy. She knew that no emotional reason would persuade him; she said simply that she felt that their lives were too different, too difficult to blend, that she was unable to fit into his life, charming and pleasant as she found it, and that she feared they would make each other unhappy, being the inherently different creatures they were.
Indeed, I think we should not meet again, for I have made up my mind and seeing you might make it waver. Thank you for the happiest three months of my life and, most recently, the happiest two days of those very months. I long to accept, long to join you. You are very special, very good and very, very dear to me; I am so fond of you. For that very reason, I know I cannot hurt you as I know I would.
Thank you for everything and please forgive me. And try in due course, to remember me lovingly as I do you.
Florence
She addressed the envelope, read the letter three more times, weeping as she did so, then walked to the postbox and pushed the letter in by sheer force of will, holding on to it with the tips of her fingers and then finally letting go and, crying quite openly now, walked back through the dark, cold streets to her little house, and to her lonely, difficult, sometimes dark life that she had thought briefly she could escape from, into warmth and light and happiness, and now knew she never could.
Chapter 40
This was so terrible. It took the whole thing and her unhappiness up to a new level. She’d walked into the classroom after lunch one day – she’d taken to hiding in the loos during lunch – and there on her desk had been an envelope. Fearing the worst, she’d not picked it up or opened it for a while. Milly it said, and a little kiss underneath. Probably someone feeling sorry for her, wanting to let her know. One of the less popular people, perhaps – no, they’d be too afraid of reprisals themselves. It wasn’t in handwriting so she couldn’t begin to guess, but in rather elaborate capitals, with decorations on each one, flowers on the ‘M’, twining up it a little figure forming the ‘I’, then the two ‘L’s turned into swans’ necks, and finally the ‘Y’ forming a kite, with a long tail trailing down. Surely no one would do that if they were being mean? Feeling a bit as if she was jumping into an ice-cold pool she suddenly ripped it open; and it wasn’t mean, it was a note from Carey:
A Perfect Heritage Page 45