Then Federica took her first tentative step at independence. It was small, but highly significant. She took the car to Sloane Street and bought herself new clothes to replace the ones that were now too big for her. They were still the grey and navy trouser suits that Torquil always chose for her, but the fact that she had gone out and bought them herself gave her a satisfying sense of defiance. She had staged her first rebellion.
To her surprise Torquil didn’t notice. To her greater surprise she didn’t care.
He applauded her on her slimmer shape, embracing her in his overpowering arms and kissing her with adulterous lips. ‘Aren’t you clever, little one, I’m so proud of you,’ he said. ‘You’re almost back to the Federica I married.’
She should have been thrilled; after all she had slimmed for him. Or had she? Little by little Torquil shifted from the centre of her world.
Now Sam followed Federica to St James’s where she stepped out of the car and walked up the street. He waited for her to get half way up the pavement and then leapt out to follow her. She was dressed in a long black coat with black suede boots under a pale grey trouser suit and cream silk shirt. She looked elegant and sophisticated, with her long white hair tied into a neat ponytail that fell down the back of her coat. She wasn’t the skinny teenager he had known in Polperro, full of uncertainty and doubt. She was fuller and more womanly, reflecting her growing confidence. His emotions caught in his throat because he loved her better like that. He was consumed with the longing to tell her.
She stopped once or twice to look into shop windows or to glance at her own reflection which still succeeded in surprising her. He walked a hundred
yards behind her, his head hidden under his father’s felt hat, hands buried in the pockets of his coat covered in dog hair, with a hole gnawed into the elbow by an overzealous mouse, no doubt. He hunched his shoulders and watched her through his glasses that kept steaming up due to the cold and drizzle. He felt like a stalker and blushed in shame, causing his glasses to mist up even more until he could barely see through them.
He followed her up Arlington Street towards the Ritz where he was sure she was meeting someone for lunch. But he was surprised when she walked on past the doormen, who all touched their caps with white-gloved hands, and continued on in the direction of Green Park. He walked faster, dodging the people who spilled out of the tube station, and watched her enter the park. He hid behind the gate as she strolled like a homing pigeon along the path to a bench that stood under the bare winter trees. She sat down, placed her handbag on her knees and stared out across the misty park.
Sam walked along the iron fencing until he stood behind her, about one hundred yards away, and gazed upon the solitary figure who was clearly not waiting for anyone, for she didn’t look around in anticipation, or glance at her watch, she just stared in front of her, without moving, lost in thought.
Sam took his hands out of his pockets and held on to the wet iron bars that separated him from the woman he loved. He longed to call out her name. The sound of it on his lips would be a luxury for he never spoke of her to anyone. But he didn’t dare. He just stood, with his hands frozen onto the railings, wondering what she was thinking about, content just to be near her. He recognized the lonely slope of her shoulders and the wistful tilt of her head because he knew what it was to be lonely and he understood. Once or twice she scratched her nose or curled a piece of stray hair behind her ear, while he waited for her to get up and move on. But after an hour, when she still hadn’t made a move to leave, he decided to return to her house to slip the note through the door.
Reluctantly he left her and walked up the street towards St James’s. He suddenly shivered with cold and pushed his hands deep into his pockets again. He strode past her car out of curiosity to find the chauffeur asleep with his head buried into the rolls in his chin. He was dribbling out of the side of his mouth and a long web of saliva extended from his jaw down to his lapel.
Sam seized his moment and pushed the note through the gap in the back window, where Federica had left it slightly open. He watched it fall onto the seat, face up, with the name Federica Campione typed onto the envelope with
Federica sat and savoured the fact that Torquil didn’t know where she was. She enjoyed these private moments alone with her memories. She thought about her inability to conceive and decided that it wouldn’t be fair to bring a child into such a troubled marriage. Perhaps it was God’s will because He could see the bigger picture. She thought about Christmas and whether Torquil might accompany her down to Polperro to spend it with her family. Every year he had promised, every year he had flown her off to somewhere exotic instead. She had called her mother each time and excused him with such fervour that in the end she had believed her own invented excuses. But inside she had felt desperately let down. She wanted more than anything to go home to Cornwall.
She liked to recall her youth. Her memories comforted her and carried her out of herself and her unhappiness. She remembered the picnics on the beaches when the sand blew into the sandwiches and it was so cold they sat in their Guernsey sweaters shivering in a huddle before Toby would gather them up to hunt for sea urchins and crabs. Julian would collect shells and help them build castles while Helena would sit on the rug talking to her mother, every now and
then applauding their efforts absentmindedly. Those had been idyllic days.
She spoke to Toby and Julian, her mother and occasionally Hester, but not as often as in the early days when she had sneaked into Harrods to the payphones. Time and circumstances had come between them like an insurmountable mountain. She made excuses for that too - but if she was honest with herself she knew that it was because Torquil didn’t like her family. He thought they were provincial, and he did his best to distance her from them. With determination she could overcome that mountain, but she didn’t know whether she had the courage to defy her husband.
Federica was so used to loving Torquil that it had become a habit. At first she had needed him and he had cultivated that need until she had no longer been able to do without him. Then she had lost the ability to think for herself. In the four years of their marriage he had slowly pummelled her into the ground - but from there the only way was up. How auspicious that it had been at the point of utter despair that her father had sent her his secret message, encouraging her to build herself back up again and regain her lost confidence and her lost control. She had been ready to clutch at anything. She couldn’t do it alone.
She thought about her father and wondered how she was going to track him down from London. If he had been in the city he would probably have left by now. Ramon never stayed very long in one place. His shadow always caught up with him and urged him on. At one point she felt the heat of someone’s eyes burn into the back of her neck. She curled a piece of hair behind her ear selfconsciously but didn’t dare turn around. She shuffled uneasily on the bench. But there was something familiar about the weight of the stare. Comfortably familiar. She suddenly imagined it might be her father, watching her from the street, not wanting to be seen. With a sudden burst of courage she turned around. With hopeful eyes she searched the crowd of unfamiliar faces through the winter mists, but she didn't recognize a single one. She sighed in disappointment, looked at her watch and decided it was time to make her way back to the car.
She walked down the street, her eyes fixed on the pavement, wondering how she was going to broach the subject of Christmas. When she got back to the car she saw the chauffeur asleep in his own snot and knocked on the window. He jerked back to life, fumbled for the lock and rolled out of his seat to open the door for her. But Federica had already spotted the letter and had opened
the door herself. She told him to take her home and with a trembling hand she read the name on the envelope, Federica Campione. It was almost certainly from her father, for he wouldn’t know her married name and no one whom she knew would have used Campione. She tore it open and with hungry eyes devoured the words as if they were the word of God.
He had been watching her after all.
‘For how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud, but for a tyranny in their own freedom and a shame in their own pride? And if it is a care you would cast off, that care has been chosen by you rather than imposed upon you. And if it is a fear you would dispel, the seat of that fear is in your heart and not in the hand of the feared.’
She felt the colour rise in her cheeks until it throbbed with shame. ‘Stop the car, I need to get out,’ she said suddenly.
‘What, now?’ exclaimed the chauffeur, glancing at her in the mirror.
‘Now,’ she repeated.
‘Yes, Madam,’ he replied in bewilderment. Reluctantly he drew into a quiet
street and pulled up at the kerb. Federica threw open the door and staggered out onto the wet pavement. She walked hastily up the road until she found a small cafe. Dashing inside she took the table in the corner, ordered a cup of tea and stared down at the note in horror. Had she really no pride at all? Was her misery really due to her own weakness and lack of character? Was Torquil, the man she believed she loved, really a tyrant, controlling her every move?
She had wallowed so blindly in misery, feeling sorry for herself, she had never dared believe that her salvation was entirely in her own hands. Obedience had come more naturally to her than rebellion. Now she cringed at her own lack of strength. She was pathetic. She read the lines again and it all suddenly seemed so obvious. Staring into her tea she shone an unforgiving light onto the nature of her marriage. What she saw appalled her. She had allowed Torquil to control every aspect of her life, from the clothes she wore to the people she saw. She recalled with regret how he had cleverly prevented her from going home to Polperro. One by one she remembered each gradual move towards total dictatorship. He hadn’t been satisfied with her love; he had wanted her freedom too. Sam had been right. She wished she had had the courage to take his hand when he had reached out to her. Even Arthur had warned her, but
She finally returned to the house in the late afternoon. Torquil wasn’t home. She opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of grapefruit juice. Then she walked upstairs and ran a bath. Her body trembled with resolution. She was going to spend Christmas in Polperro whether Torquil liked it or not. In fact, she was going to start standing up for herself. She undressed and slipped into a dressing gown, rehearsing what she was going to say to him. It seemed simple, but she feared her throat would seize up when she confronted him face to face.
Then she panicked that he might have organized something else, recalling his threat to whisk her off to Mauritius and she cringed. There’s no reason he would have told her. She had always let him plan everything, she didn’t even keep a diary. She had to be prepared so that he couldn't manipulate her. She ran downstairs to his study and began to open all the drawers in his desk. Everything had its own place, even the pencils were neatly lined up, sharpened to the same length, barely used. Finding nothing in his desk drawers she continued the search in the cupboards but once again she found nothing. No
plane tickets, nothing. She rushed upstairs into his large walk-in wardrobe where polished shoes were displayed in regimental lines, each pair fitted with mahogany shoe-horns.
Suddenly the search ceased to be for a diary but for something else, as if at once she had grown up and was finally able to see the world outside the cocoon her husband had forged for her. Feverishly her hands searched the pockets of his jackets and the pockets of his trousers, all in perfect rows on wooden hangers. Her heart thumped with anxiety for she was aware that he could turn up at any moment. Her curiosity led her to the drawer in his bedside table where her fingers alighted upon a square pocket book. She picked it up and opened it. It was a leather-bound notebook, which contained handwritten lists of things to be done. Stuck onto the front was a Polaroid of a young woman sitting naked on a chair with her legs spread in shameless abandon, smiling with the knowledge of the power of her allure. Federica’s heart froze. She recognised the face and she recognized the occasion. How come it had taken her so long to figure it out?
Federica called Hester. Her friend detected the strange tone in her voice and
knew that something dramatic had happened. ‘What has he done to you?’ she asked.
‘I need you now,’ Federica pleaded and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Will you come and pick me up?’
Hester put down the telephone, grabbed her keys and slammed the door behind her, all without a word to Molly who poked her head out of the steaming bathroom and wondered what on earth was going on.
When Hester arrived at Federica’s house she was standing in the doorway in her dressing gown, clutching a plain wooden box. She ran down the steps, fearfully looking about her, and dived into the waiting car.
‘You’re coming like that?’ Hester gasped in amazement.
Federica collapsed into sobs. ‘Yes, because this is all I took into my marriage. My box and my trust.’
It was only once she was safely in the flat in Pimlico that Federica’s sobs turned into hysterical laughter. Molly and Hester looked at each other anxiously, both recalling Helena’s wedding when she had sobbed manically for Sam. When she had calmed down enough to speak she dried her eyes on her
dressing gown sleeve and sniffed.
‘Are you all right?’ Molly asked anxiously.
‘Oh, I’m much better,’ she replied, controlling herself with difficulty. ‘It’s just that I forgot to turn off the bath!’
Chapter 39
Torquil returned home to find water pouring down the stairs. Fearing that Federica might be in trouble, he raced up to the bedroom, his feet slipping on the slimy carpet, the blood flooding to his head with anxiety.
‘Federica!’ he shouted, ‘Federica! Are you all right?’ He stumbled into the bathroom where the water was cascading over the edges in a final act of defiance. He turned off the taps and thrust his hand to the bottom and pulled out the plug. It gurgled with satisfaction. ‘Shit!’ he swore, looking at the expensive carpets which would all have to be replaced.
He cast his eyes about for his wife, but all that remained were her clothes neatly folded on the bed. He noticed only one dressing gown hung on the back of the door. He called her name again and proceeded to check the rest of the house. There was no reply, only the empty echo of his own voice as it bounced off the walls. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his chin with his hand.
He was very worried. She had simply disappeared. But there was no indication of a struggle, or a break in, just the overflowing bath. Finally, he picked up the telephone and called the chauffeur.
‘Well, Mr Jensen,’ Paul replied thoughtfully, ‘she goes shopping in St James’s for about an hour, then when I’m driving her back, see, she asks me to stop, all of a sudden. Well, as you can imagine, Mr Jensen, I was a bit worried. She looked upset . . . No, I don’t know why, Mr Jensen, she just looked pale like. She runs up the pavement and disappears into a caff for about an hour. When I drop her off, see, she’s all right. So I go home, Mr Jensen. She said she didn’t need me any more.’ A short silence followed. ‘Mr Jensen?’ asked the chauffeur, afraid that he had perhaps made a mistake. ‘Mr Jensen? Mrs Jensen didn’t need me after that, did she?’
‘It’s fine, Paul,’ Torquil replied, but his voice cracked mid-sentence. He put down the telephone and scratched his bristled jaw line ponderously. Then something caught his eye. The drawer to the bedside table was open a crack where Federica had failed to close it properly. Torquil always noticed details. He opened it to find his pocket book lying upside down, not as he had left it at all. He picked it up and studied it. With a deep groan he eyed the photograph of Lucia, which he had stuck onto the inside cover. Then it all made sense. She had run off in such a state she had forgotten to turn the taps off.
He unstuck the picture and tore it into small pieces before throwing them in
the bin in fury. She had completely misunderstood, that photograph had been taken years before. He’d explain it all to her and she’d f
orgive him. He cast his eyes fretfully about the room to see if she had packed a bag. She hadn’t. She hadn’t taken anything, not even her underwear. She must have left in her dressing gown. He relaxed his shoulders. She was obviously planning on coming back. After all, how far could she go in a dressing gown?
Federica told Molly and Hester everything, omitting the part about the anonymous notes of poetry, which would remain her secret until she managed to track down her father.
The three friends sat in front of the gas fire with two bottles of cheap red wine, while Kenny Rogers sang ‘It’s a fine time to leave me, Lucille’.
Molly was fascinated by Federica’s unhappy world. She had failed to see past the designer clothes and crocodile handbags.
Hester listened with deep sympathy. ‘I knew you were miserable, Fede, I could tell. What are you going to do now?’
‘Go home to Polperro and start again,’ she said simply.
‘You mean, you’re going to leave Torquil?’ Molly exclaimed, lighting a
cigarette.
‘Of course she’s going to leave Torquil,’ Hester said. ‘He’s a monster. You deserve so much better,’ she added, squeezing Federica’s arm affectionately.
‘Oh, I don’t want to look at another man as long as I live,’ Federica sniffed. ‘I want to be on my own for a while, make my own decisions. I need to work out who I am. I don’t think I’m very sure of anything any more.’
When the telephone rang they all froze. Molly and Hester looked at Federica who stared back with fear. ‘You answer it, Molly,’ she said and her voice thinned with anxiety. She put her thumb to her mouth and bit the skin around her nail. ‘You haven’t seen me,’ she added gravely.
Molly got up from the floor and the wine flushed from her head to her toes, restoring her swiftly back to sobriety. She took a deep breath before picking up the receiver. The shrill tones ceased leaving the room in a silence that hung heavy with anticipation.
The Butterfly Box Page 50