While there were some dropouts, most women turned up without fail, and Claire regularly taught three classes on Saturdays. She believed the students enjoyed the chance to relax and gossip with one another as much as they had the desire to learn new stitches. Over time she became quite friendly with some of them and when Leonora invited some of the nine o’clock class to a meal at her flat one evening, Claire went and had a good time. And Leonora was as good as her word about the tickets for the flower show.
Claire continued to visit the Countess to help her when she was too unwell to make the class. Her daughter Ann, who actually became quite good and quite devoted to knitting, ran her own PR agency and, as a way of saying thank you for helping with her mother, often slipped Claire invitations to receptions and parties that her celebrity clients threw. Claire didn’t even think of attending them until she showed a few of them to Toby, who absolutely insisted they go.
Imogen was almost equally enthusiastic and sometimes went along as Claire’s guest. Just as frequently, Claire gave her the invitation and Imogen went with Malcolm. ‘The only parties I get to attend are dreary book launches,’ Im complained. ‘At the last one my author was useless. He works like a dog, then drinks like a fish and gets sick as a parrot.’
‘My god, he’s a one-man menagerie.’
Im laughed. ‘Yes. And he’s not the worst. Then I have all those dreary goodbye parties. There’s always someone leaving one house to go to another. But heavens, Lady Ann knows how to publicize anything. She certainly brings out a crowd. I wish I could get her behind a few of my books.’ She sighed. ‘No budget for that, I’m afraid. Well, it’s nice to see the fashionistas – and there’s the free booze. You know I love my drink.’
One of the pleasant developments in Claire’s life was that she had clearly moved up in status with Imogen. She was never to know that it was partly because Toby had sworn Im to silence over the fact that Claire’s family were the Staten Island Bilsops and the Murrays of Newport, that they owned acres of ocean-front real estate and were, like all old money, incredibly discreet about it.
Even without knowing that, Claire had to admit to herself that Im, whom she enjoyed and had come to truly like, was more than a bit of a snob and Claire’s friendships with Ann (Claire was amused that ‘Lady’ Ann rarely used her title) and some of the other more prominent women raised her to an appropriate social level in her roommate’s eyes. She was no longer the caretaker living in the box room, but an equal although she did continue to do most of the cleaning in the flat. Since the successful visit to Im’s parents at which she had apparently aroused Edward’s interest, she’d gotten even more invitations, some of which she accepted, though it sometimes meant missing an evening at the Patels’.
One Saturday, after a long day of classes, Imogen wanted her to double with Malcolm and Edward. When Claire refused because of exhaustion, Imogen wouldn’t stop pressing her. ‘Oh come on. Don’t be so wet. It’ll be fun.’
‘Please. All I want is a bath and a bed,’ Claire said. ‘I’m completely knackered.’ She loved to use English words like knackered and brilliant and knickers. Calling a sweater a jumper and an undershirt a vest gave her a silly little thrill of pleasure as if she were somehow in costume.
‘But Claire,’ Imogen protested, ‘Edward is a real catch. And I’ve told you he fancies you.’
Claire thought of the stolid Edward. He had been very attentive when she had dined with Imogen’s parents, and it had been nice of him to drive her home, but she hadn’t thought of him once since then. Comparing his qualities to the excitement and physical grace of Michael Wainwright or the wit and education of Toby Stanton only made Edward even less attractive to her.
‘I’d better not raise his hopes then,’ Claire said. ‘You see I don’t fancy him.’
‘Oh, Claire, how do you know? It took me years to notice Malcolm.’ Claire could easily believe that but refrained from saying so. ‘The fact is, Claire, you live like a nun. No men here, working with women, seeing those Camden people.’ She paused. ‘You’re not gay, are you?’
Claire actually blushed. ‘No. The truth is I …’ she paused. Imogen had become a friend, but she loved gossip and interfering in people’s lives, especially their love lives. Still, in the face of the speculation on her sexuality, and Imogen’s enthusiasm for Edward, Claire felt she should say something. ‘The fact is I really like Toby.’
‘Of course you do. As do I. Everyone likes Toby. He’s a bit of a disappointment professionally, and he’s always been lazy, but he has all that charm.’
Claire paused. She and Toby hadn’t only seen each other at his bookshop, but at various PR parties and at a few dinners before or after them. Though he had never kissed her or made a sexual advance, Claire wrote it off to shyness. In fact, he didn’t seem to be a very physical person. Claire put the thought of the wild sex she had had with Michael Wainwright out of her mind and thought of the pleasantness of being with Toby. He was certainly smarter and far more well-read than Michael. And he made her laugh instead of cry, which, she had learned to her cost, was important.
‘Oh, take your bath,’ Imogen said. ‘It will give you more energy and if you do something with your hair you’ll be quite presentable for dinner.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Claire said. ‘I’m too tired, I’m not hungry, and I certainly don’t want to lead Edward on when I prefer Toby.’
‘Prefer Toby?’ Imogen paused, sat down on the sofa, and then began to laugh. ‘You don’t mean …’ She kept laughing and Claire felt a wave of anger mixed with dread.
If Toby were a romantic compromise she certainly didn’t want Imogen to tell her he was out of her league. She may have not gone to university while he had gone to Oxford, but she knew he liked her. ‘Toby really cares for me,’ she said, feeling her cheeks redden.
‘Of course he does. Of course he does, but not that way. Claire, he’s gay. And he’s with Thomas. Always did like rough trade.’
Claire stood with her robe clutched around her. For a moment she felt disappointment and then was flooded with embarrassment. Of course Toby was gay. Hadn’t she always known that? There was nothing effeminate or flamboyant about him, but the lack of any sexual energy toward her should have, almost had …
‘That’s a corker! But didn’t you know?’ Imogen looked up from the sofa and saw Claire’s face. She got up and went to her, putting her arm around her. ‘Oh, but you didn’t.’
‘It’s just that, well, here in the UK all the men seem, well, different.’
‘Do they all seem gay?’
‘No, no. It’s just that I can’t place anybody. Toby or Lady Ann …’
Imogen gave her a brief hug. ‘Well, no harm done. I mean, you haven’t made an ass of yourself, have you? You haven’t thrown yourself at him?’
‘No. Of course not,’ Claire said. All she wanted to do was get to her room and lie down with the blanket pulled up over her head and cry. Only now was her disappointment beginning to overtake her surprise.
‘Why don’t you join us for dinner? We’ll all get pissed and, who knows, you might end up snogging Edward and finding you like it.’
Claire stiffened. ‘I really can’t,’ she said. ‘I have a pounding headache. I’m just going to take some aspirin and lie down.’
Imogen sighed. ‘All right. I better call Malcolm.’ She let Claire go back to her room for which Claire was grateful. She closed the door and the few steps from it to her bed seemed to take half a lifetime.
She curled up on her little bed. Why was she so stupid with men? Toby had seemed so very friendly – no, was so very friendly – but she had completely misread the signs. It was embarrassing. She was ridiculous. Just as she’d been ridiculous in front of Michael Wainwright, Katherine Rensselaer and the security guard that night when she’d nurtured the foolish hope of dining with Michael. Other men would be Toby’s romantic focus, just as other women would be Michael’s.
Claire tried carefully to remember what she had said to Toby
and if there was any way in which she had exposed her feelings for him. It must be clear that she liked him, but had it been clear that she liked him in an inappropriate way? She flushed, and her temples started to pound. The aspirin was having no effect and tears sprang to her eyes, partly from the pain and partly from her feelings. She was hopeless. How could she bear to face Toby? Wouldn’t he look at her with slightly amused pity?
There was a knock on the door and Imogen put her head in. ‘A letter for you,’ she said and brought it to Claire. ‘Oh, you don’t look well. Do you think it’s flu?’
Claire would have shaken her head if it wouldn’t have had a catastrophic effect. ‘No,’ she told Im, her voice weak. ‘Just one of my headaches.’
‘Would you like a whisky? Sometimes that helps.’
The thought made Claire sick to her stomach but she just declined and took the letter that Imogen was holding. When she looked at it, Tina’s handwriting didn’t make her feel any better. What fresh hell was this?
‘Well, call if you need anything,’ Im said. ‘I’m working on the DIY garden pond book until Malcolm gets here.’
Claire waited till she left then opened the letter.
I thought you might want to know that Mike is getting engaged to Katherine Rensselaer. I’m going to be very busy planning not just my wedding but helping with theirs, too. Anthony gave me an eighteen-karat gold cross for my birthday with two diamonds in it. I wear it all the time. It looks like the one Madonna wore on her second album cover. Guess you didn’t remember my birthday, but I’m sure you’re way too busy. Abigail Samuels told me you wrote to her. I guess now that you are living in London you’ve forgotten your other friends.
Well, I just thought you might want to hear the news.
As she pulled the blankets over her head, Claire wondered why, no matter whom she desired, she was bound to be disappointed. It couldn’t be genetic. Her grandmother had been married for almost fifty years, and her mother had no trouble attracting men – even if they were low-lifes like Jerry. Only she was a complete failure.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Claire got through the next day by taking a long walk through Regent’s Park. She walked for hours, and though she got lost several times the fatigue did her good. The revelation about Toby made her feel stupid, but that was so often the case that she couldn’t be surprised. She was grateful she had never revealed herself to him, or been more aggressive pursuing him. The meek might not inherit the earth but at least they didn’t embarrass the hell out of themselves.
She was grateful, too, that the flat was empty when she got home and just as grateful that she had work and Mrs Venables the next morning. She tried to test her feelings, to work out how deep her disappointment over Toby was. She sat in the small armchair, looking out at the garden and comforted by the lap robe she wrapped herself in. Toby could still be a good friend she reminded herself. This didn’t mean that she couldn’t continue to see him. But she was not going to be one of those pathetic women who pursued hopeless relationships. If I walked away from Mr Wonderful I can walk away from any man she thought.
A light in the garden to the south threw the shadows of dancing branches onto the ceiling. Perhaps she’d have a cup of tea she thought and had to smile at herself. Perhaps someday she’d also speak the way the English did. Only the other day she had told Devi he was being ‘very, very naughty indeed’, which would not have gone down well in Tottenville. She sighed. How could she have imagined that someone like Toby could be central to her life here? No, like Mrs Patel, Nigel and Imogen, he must see her as an outsider, someone to be amused by but not to take into your life.
Claire sighed again and stood up leaving her throw on the chair. She prepared for bed and slipped into it. She would keep her dignity in front of Imogen and put her disappointment away. For the first time she reflected on Tottenville and how, despite living there her whole life, she had always felt like an outsider. Here, where everything seemed so comfortable, so right to her, she actually was an outsider. She had better not forget it.
But the next morning, after a long night’s sleep, she woke up in a more positive frame of mind. After all, she loved the routine of her days. Getting up relatively late, having time for tea and breakfast, the short walk around the corner to the shop, and her morning greeting to Mrs Venables was all such a dramatic difference from her old two-hour commute, and the work was so much more pleasant. She loved working with the colors and textures of the yarns, she was delighted that Mrs Venables allowed her to select the stock, she enjoyed opening the boxes, handling the new goods and arranging them attractively on the shelves. It was interesting to talk with each new customer, and delightful to add more money to the till. The shop seemed to do more business every day. Now, as well as the three classes on Saturday, they had begun planning a Wednesday evening session to accommodate people who couldn’t make the weekend ones. As Claire finished brushing her hair she reminded herself of how lucky she was. Perhaps the Toby fiasco wasn’t as embarrassing as she thought. She’d just avoid seeing him for a while and then go on with their friendly relations. And what did Michael’s engagement mean to her? Nothing at all. She had a life here.
This morning, when she got to the shop the door was locked. She jiggled it and then tried to pry it, but it definitely hadn’t been opened and Mrs Venables was nowhere to be seen. Claire walked to the estate agent’s shop across the way and asked to use the phone. She called Mrs Venables’s flat but there was no answer.
Claire felt a rising sense of dismay. Surely Mrs Venables wouldn’t have taken a day off without telling her. ‘I’m worried about her,’ she said to Mr Jackson, the estate agency manager. ‘She hasn’t opened the shop or answered her phone.’
‘Well, I have the key. You know, the building has been listed with us for some time.’ Claire didn’t know that but her concern for Mrs Venables didn’t leave much room to be surprised. Mr Jackson was fishing through a drawer of keys. He lifted one up. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Nigel won’t mind. Just bring it back later.’
With relief, Claire promised she would and ran across the road to the shop. Once inside it took her only a moment to know Mrs Venables was not behind the counter or getting something from the little cupboard under the stairs. Claire ran up to the flat. Mrs Venables was not in the sitting room or the kitchen. But as Claire called her name and tentatively started down the hall to the bedroom she thought she heard, well, something.
The door to the bedroom was partially open. Claire knocked. ‘Mrs Venables? Are you … are you …’ The door swung open from the slight pressure of her knuckles, and Claire could see a long bare foot lying on the carpet. She gasped and ran into the room.
Mrs Venables was lying face down on the floor. For a terrible moment Claire thought she might be dead but then she heard the noise again, the half whimper half groan she had heard in the hallway. She crouched beside Mrs Venables and, afraid to move her, put her head down to the old woman’s face. Had she fallen and broken her hip? That happened with old people. Or had she had a heart attack? Perhaps it had just been a dizzy spell or even a fall out of bed. ‘Mrs Venables?’
Claire put her cheek to the carpet so that she was inches away from the old woman’s face. ‘Are you ill?’
Mrs Venables made a noise in her throat. It wasn’t speech, but it was an answer to what Claire considered her most stupid question. Claire didn’t know if she should try and pick her up or leave her where she lay until help came. Then she realized she didn’t know how to call for help. What did you dial in London instead of 9-1-1? She felt a fine sweat break out all over her body. She shivered but she took Mrs Venables’s hand in hers. The old woman made another sound and weakly tried to squeeze Claire’s hand. Claire couldn’t bear to look at her, face down on the rug like a corpse. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, though she felt it was all wrong. ‘I’m here now. It’s all right.’ The old woman’s hand was icy cold. Claire reached for the bare foot and it was colder still. Slowly, gently, she be
gan to turn the old woman over, waiting for the slightest sound of pain.
But there was none. Once Mrs Venables was face up Claire grabbed the pillow and coverlet from the bed and tried to make her more comfortable. One of Mrs Venables’s eyes stayed focused on her as she moved, but the other rolled independently, as randomly as a blue marble in a tumbling box. It must have been a stroke, Claire thought, and became even more frightened. ‘Don’t try to speak,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a doctor in just a few minutes.’
She wasn’t sure that was true, but she went to the phone on the bedside table and dialed the operator. It all took almost more time than she could bear, but at last she was able to give the address to a dispatcher. Then she went back to Mrs Venables’s side. She took her hand and though its grip wasn’t any stronger, it did feel a bit warmer. Claire chafed it gently between her own two hands. ‘You’re going to be fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll call Nigel. He’ll come here or meet us at the hospital.’ Mrs Venables made a noise, this time a kind of gurgle that frightened Claire even more than the first look at her had done. ‘We have to go to the hospital,’ she said. ‘And Nigel will come and you’ll feel much better. They’ll fix this.’ She paused. ‘I’ll put some socks on you,’ she added. She went through a few drawers in the bureau until she found some very old knit socks. ‘These ought to do.’
Praying for the arrival of the ambulance, Claire rubbed the woman’s feet and put the sock on each one as gently as she could. It seemed as if she had been there for ages, but it was only a little before ten on the bedroom clock. ‘I’m going to call Nigel,’ she said.
Claire opened the little drawer beneath the phone. ‘I’m looking for your phone book,’ she said. But the top drawer only held a small pack of paper tissues, a pen, a box of lozenges and some hairpins. Claire said a little prayer. ‘I’m going to look in the second drawer,’ and her prayer was answered because as soon as she pulled it open, a little red leather book with gold embossing lay in front of her. It said ‘addresses’ and Claire snatched it up. How would an English mother list her son’s phone number? Under ‘V’ for Venables? Or ‘S’ for son? Or ‘N’ for Nigel? She was about to rifle through the pages when she noticed that the first page had not only Mrs Venables’s name and address but also Nigel’s. Several of his phone numbers had been crossed out and replaced. Claire prayed again, this time that one of the numbers was current. There were three. The first got no response, not even a machine. The second produced the fax buzz. ‘I’m calling him,’ Claire said. ‘Just one more minute.’ She dialed the third number which she remembered was the one on the shop sign. After three rings it was picked up.
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