Until Robert returned from climbing mountains and gallivanting around Africa, the children were with me most of the time. As every parent knows, your days are full of the judgments of Solomon: when to crack down on bad behaviour and when to turn a blind eye, when to set boundaries, when to be charmed and when to stand firm. I fell back on my own upbringing again and again, and realised that I’d often use exactly the same language as Mum had.
The children were stricter with themselves than I was. Rather than enforce a curfew, I would say, ‘What time do you think you should come back from playing with Freddie?’ They would inevitably set a reasonable hour and stick to it.
On one occasion, after some misunderstanding or another, I sat them in a row on the sofa and hesitated, not having a clue what to say. They nervously waited for a ticking off, their feet dangling and hands on laps. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘what would you do if you were a mummy in this situation?’ They worked it out between themselves there and then. When it felt like I was losing control, rather than start raising my voice if they didn’t do as I asked, I’d threaten to sing outside the gates when I came to pick them up from school. And there was one occasion when one of my sons had a friend to stay and things became rowdy after lights out. I stormed into their bedroom, wearing just a pair of knickers. I’ve never seen boys dive under the covers so quickly. Gold-standard parenting!
Pidge Freud invited me to dinner on one of my feeling-sorry-for-myself days. I’d been tempted to cry off. Pidge is a notoriously good cook who takes pleasure in putting people together, as well as feeding them. It was all very ‘Notting Hill’ – Harry and Lucy Enfield, Caroline and Paul Weiland and an unfamiliar face, a man called Howell James. Pidge had recently been left by her husband Matthew Freud and Howell’s partner had run off with Peter Mandelson; the three of us sat at one end of the table, licking our wounds.
I adored Howell from that day on – it was as if this extraordinary man had dropped into my life from heaven. I was dreading another summer holiday without the children, and when I told him about my plans to go to the Hamptons in the US and visit various high-maintenance acquaintances from the art world, he intervened. ‘Oh darling,’ he said, ‘You don’t want to do that! Come to Italy with me and my friends – we’ll look after you.’
So I did, spending two weeks with Howell, four other gay men and a lesbian couple. The group was a revelation, with their heightened sensitivity and respect of each other’s feelings, their grace in listening to stories right to the end and their appreciation of clothes, culture and style. In their company I was not a childless mother or a divorcee – I was just me. Their humour was glorious, too. On the beach one day I nudged one of the boys and pointed out a topless young goddess gracefully oiling her limbs while standing in a brightly painted fishing boat.
‘Look at that beauty,’ I said, mesmerised.
‘I know,’ he said, turning back to his book. ‘I noticed that boat yesterday.’
Howell was enjoying an illustrious career. He had started at Capital Radio and then worked as John Major’s private secretary before becoming head of communications at the BBC. At this time, he was a partner in a PR company called Brown Lloyd James, and as with Shelagh, I marvelled that someone like him would want to be my friend. His take on life lifted my spirits and his faith in me gave me confidence.
The summer of 1999 was coming to an end – Robert and I had survived our first two years of separation. James and Annabel Dearden invited me to their house in Chipping Norton for the christening of their daughter, and at the end of the day Annabel came to wave me off.
‘Who was that beautiful godfather?’ I inquired as I climbed into my Mini. ‘The guy with the blond hair and serene manner.’
‘Oh, silly me,’ she wailed, brushing her unruly hair from her face. ‘That’s H. He’s single, and I didn’t introduce you – he’s the sweetest, and I mean the sweetest, man on the planet.’ She called me the next day. ‘OK darling, I’ve organised a dinner so you two can meet. He’s only in the UK until Friday, so it’s this Wednesday at the Ledbury – 8’o clock.’
While I was getting dressed for the dinner, Flo came up to my bedroom. ‘Please don’t go out Mummy,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m starting at my new school tomorrow and I’m scared – I need you here tonight.’
My heart sank. ‘Come on, Flo – I promise you’ll be ok. I’m only going around the corner for supper, and I’ve got a mobile phone now, so you can call me if you really, really need me.’ Not the gold-standard parent now, but I was keen.
Six of us were gathered around the table. Annabel subtly sat H. beside me. I took a quick glance and confirmed that he was just as gorgeous as I’d thought at the christening. We began talking, and as he stretched across me to reach for a menu I swear I felt him run his index finger down my naked arm. Wow.
Diddle de do, diddle de do, my mobile rang in my bag. I answered it with a sinking heart. ‘Ok, Floey, I’m on my way home now.’
I rang Annabel the next morning and came straight to the point, knowing H. was leaving town the next day. ‘I really like him,’ I told her.
‘Ness, he’s quite famous – I can’t just give you his number.’
‘Balls to that, but I suppose you’re right. Could you call him and give him my number?’
She laughed. ‘OK – just for you.’
H. rang me later, and we had a drink that night, I looked across the table into his eyes and wanted to dive into them there and then. When he next rang from LA, to say that he was returning to the UK the following week, I suggested he came down to the farm. The kids were with Robert and I gave strict instructions to Lindy, Mum and Dad to stay away. He was the epitome of West Coast cool. He’d been a guitarist in a rock band and, like many artists, seemed to have a layer of skin missing, leaving him sensitive to every detail. The late-September light gave the weekend a golden glow as we walked along the beach, ate in cafés and, come the evening, lay on the sofa and stared into the crackling fire.
We drove up to London and I dropped him off at his flat on the Chelsea Embankment without so much as a goodbye peck on the cheek. He didn’t suggest a drink that night, leaving me with an intense yearning to see him again. He called the following day and invited me for a drink in the Surprise, his local pub. We sat looking at each other and barely talking – I wanted to touch him so badly. As the barman rang the bell for last orders, H. noticed a copy of the Evening Standard on the table next to ours. ‘MILLENNIUM WHEEL STANDS PROUD’ read a headline. ‘Shall we go and see it?’ he said.
We drove to the South Bank. I cut the car engine and we walked arm in arm, both in awe of the wheel looming above us. Then he kissed me, and I kissed him and we kissed each other, and then he said, ‘Have you seen the new Globe theatre?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
We drove east along the river, parked behind the ghostly power station that would soon become Tate Modern and walked down towards the water. It was very late. A light breeze was rippling off the river. H. held me tight under his arm as we neared the imposing wrought iron gates of the Globe. We peered in. I could feel H.’s hand run down my back and test the texture of my short silk skirt between his fingers. I turned around and he smiled. I smiled back, as his hands drifted down to touch my naked thighs and yes, right there, out in the open, overlooked by the glowing dome of St Paul’s, with my back against the gates, we made slow, sweet love.
PART FOUR
1999–2018
1
THE ROSE CITY
The last days of the twentieth century and the first days of the twenty-first were certainly memorable. I was finally coming to terms with being separated and in the days leading up to Christmas, I’d gone to stay with H. in LA. We’d driven up Route 101 to see friends in Carmel and then spent a couple of dreamy nights at the Post Ranch Inn, before saying a sad farewell on Christmas Eve. On hearing that I was going to be spending Christmas Day alone, Peter Gabriel and his wife Meabh invited me to joi
n them, along with Peter’s daughters and charming father, for lunch at the Hempel Hotel. By the end of the meal, half the restaurant had gathered around our table and was having an animated discussion about what the next millennium held in store. I hadn’t realised how much fun you can have when you stray away from the traditional path.
That night I drove to the Dewars before going on for a Boxing Day lunch with the Deardens and their eclectic group of guests and catching a flight to Johannesburg where I met up with the children – they’d spent Christmas with Robert in Kenya. We then flew north to join Mum and Dad at Richard’s safari lodge, Ulusaba. The only other guests were a family from Hamburg and we toasted the New Year together, our elderly parents arm-in-arm, all of us aware that less than sixty years earlier they were expected to be mortal enemies.
There was time for reflection, and time to talk, as we sat around campfires: the nights were alive with singing frogs and growling cats, and with crickets rasping out their African rhythm.
‘Oh Dad, I feel so fortunate,’ I said, giving the fire a poke. ‘I’m so grateful to you for having me. I just don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this ridiculous life.’
Dad purred beside me, taking another sip of his gin.
‘I feel I should be doing more, giving back in some way,’ I continued, ‘but I’m not sure how to go about it.’
‘Ah, darling,’ Dad said, touching my cheek with his now-shaky finger, ‘don’t worry too much about it – every stage in life has its decade.’ He paused, considering his words carefully. ‘Right now, your priority is to make a nest for your children and provide them with the security to launch themselves off when they grow up. Then you can set about making a difference in the world.’
Dad was right, as ever, but I hadn’t realised just how soon my time to make a difference would arrive.
Navin and the Bannisters also felt the weight of the millennium’s importance, and initiated the idea of an annual Easter Pilgrimage. Our three families, plus Howell, gathered in Petersfield on Good Friday morning. We walked in torrential rain along the South Downs Way, resting over a pub lunch and then stopping in the late afternoon to re-enact Christ’s passion under the dripping branches of an ancient oak. Exhausted and soaked to the skin, we arrived at Winchester Cathedral just in time for evensong. The priest welcomed our bedraggled band of pilgrims, including our golden retriever Millie, who, overwhelmed by the moment, couldn’t stop herself from howling along with the angelic choir.
The following day we trudged on from Winchester towards Salisbury, keeping the cathedral’s majestic spire in sight for the entire afternoon. Then came a Saturday evening feast and, the following morning we went to the Easter Sunday cathedral service. Thus began an annual gathering and since 2000 we’ve hiked along many of the great pilgrimage routes in England and Wales, mostly in spring sunshine. As with our annual Necker holidays, the group photographs taken every year outside a cathedral, and often with a beaming bishop at our centre, give us the opportunity to view the past as if watching a stop-motion film: the children, at first so young, grow taller; us adults, once strong, increasingly showing signs of age, with the odd knee brace or hiking stick creeping in.
***
I’d been dreading receiving this phone call from Shelagh and when I did, it winded me like a kick in the stomach. ‘Don’t you dare cry, Ness,’ she said.
‘I won’t, I promise,’ I said, as I crouched in the pantry behind the kitchen, away from the children, trying to compose myself. ‘Where has it come back?’
‘It’s in my lungs this time,’ said Shelagh. ‘I start chemo tomorrow.’
‘Oh fucking fuck shit wank,’ I said, instead of crying.
We were already marking every moment as if it was imbued with a special significance, but now that Shelagh’s cancer was on the march, we upped the ante on every front. Voyage, conveniently located next to the Royal Marsden Hospital, was one of our favourite clothes shops, and as proof that she was going to beat her disease, Shelagh would buy a new dress before every chemo session. The Bannister family bought Great Orchard near Petworth, an Arts and Crafts house complete with sunken garden and rolling views. Shelagh set about decorating it with her usual style, balancing optimism about her future with a desire to leave a fitting legacy. Every walk we took, every picnic we planned and every meal we ate was undertaken with awareness and gratitude.
In the summer of 2001, we rented a floor of a palazzo overlooking the Accademia Bridge in Venice. Shelagh, then in the middle of chemo, was determined not to let the children feel any hint of her suffering and her bravery made her plight all the more painful to witness. The Bannisters and I were joined by all our children, Howell, a new friend called Stefan van Raay, the delightful Dutch director of the Pallant House Gallery, and Robert.
Writing this now, I can’t recall discussing Robert joining us on a holiday, and nor do I remember talking about the fact that there weren’t enough bedrooms and that we would have to share. However, I do remember the holiday. The early-morning walks, with Stefan guiding us around notable churches and their masterpieces. Robert hiring a Riva and a driver, and taking the glamorous boat to Murano, where Shelagh and I bought eye-wateringly expensive sets of wine glasses, and to the Lido, where the film festival was taking place. I remember going to the Frette linen shop, where Shelagh bought a set of fine linens to adorn her new bed. She had begun to plan her end as she had lived – beautifully.
Over the years, I’ve grappled with the question of why I allowed Robert to re-enter our lives. To justify his destruction of our family life, he’d had to focus only on the negatives of my character, viewing everything I said through a dark prism. Seeing myself through his eyes had taken its toll on my confidence; choosing to step back into his gaze was verging on the suicidal.
His departure five years earlier had profoundly unsettled our family. We were just beginning to thrive again, the children accepting their dual lives and enjoying undivided attention from each of us, and I’d managed to use my time away from them positively, reading, working, enriching friendships, travelling and pursuing ideas.
I’d always accepted that outside forces had played a major role in our separation, while also acknowledging that we hadn’t made each other really happy for years. I liked to remember the good times – Robert’s brilliant mind and the fun of being with someone who gave his energy to everything. As a family, we Bransons tend to forget anything bad that’s happened to us, and my father’s Quaker philosophy – ‘believe in the goodness of others’ – echoed in my subconscious.
I relished my trips to LA to visit H., and it thrilled me to know he came to London regularly. Our relationship could hardly be described as having a future – our focus was on our own growing families – but the time we spent together was fulfilling and, at that time, suited us both brilliantly.
Deep down in my heart I knew that the children would be better off if Robert and I were united as parents during their teenage years, and it’s impossible to separate your own well-being from your children’s. Robert missed home, the family and the comfort of knowing he was doing the right thing. I missed all these things too, but I also missed Robert, the Robert I still believed in and loved. On returning home from Venice, he sort of just moved in. I’m not sure how it happened, but one explanation that I can muster is that our family complications paled into insignificance in the face of Shelagh’s suffering. I also held onto the belief that our family was built with strong enough foundations to give us a chance of rebuilding a meaningful life together.
We briefly discussed this as representing a new beginning. I so wanted to feel love from him again and so wanted to feel part of a committed couple. To draw a line under our old marriage, we took the Central Line from Notting Hill to the City for an appointment with our divorce lawyers. After Robert had left in 1996, we got as far as signing a decree nisi; now, five years later, we both signed the decree absolute, the final piece of paperwork that ended our old, contaminated marriage.
&nbs
p; ‘I wish all our divorcing couples came in looking so happy and in love,’ said the young lawyer, as Robert and I hugged each other when the paperwork was complete.
Two days after Robert moved back in, we drove thirteen-year-old Noah down the M4 to begin his first term at Marlborough College in Wiltshire. Both Robert and Humphrey had gone there, and Noah was looking forward to starting his new chapter. Robert and I were still in a state of shock at finding ourselves back living together, and delivering our firstborn to boarding school make things feel even stranger. On finding Noah’s dorm, it became apparent that I hadn’t read the equipment list properly and had failed to pack any linen. Noah’s roommate was Jack Whitehall, who would later entertain us all with his stand-up and acting career. His mother Hilary, who was efficient and incredibly kind, told us what we needed and Robert went into town to buy it. Then, having made up Noah’s bed, we said our strained goodbyes, memories of our own first days at boarding school catching in our throats. Walking away down the corridor, we could hear the sound of Noah and his new friend Jack’s hysterical giggling. He was going to be fine.
On the way back to London we stopped for fuel and Robert filled our diesel car up with petrol. A truck towed us to a garage and we sat in a dimly lit Indian restaurant next door for two silent hours, waiting for them to pump out the tank before we could set off for home again.
Three days later, the planes struck the Twin Towers. Along with the rest of the world, I watched the towers collapse over and over again, mesmerised by the visual power of the attack and realising that the world was never going to be the same again.
One Hundred Summers Page 28