That night, after Charlie had come home and told me about Tom buying Deyning, I couldn’t sleep. And when I did, when I finally fell into an exhausted, nervous sleep, just before dawn, I dreamed of him once more: him and me back at Deyning—together. The following morning I awoke long after Charlie had left the house and gone to work, and I lay in my bed for quite some time pondering on the evening ahead. I contemplated falling ill: feigning a headache or the symptoms of a mysterious virus. I hadn’t seen him since our last night together at Deyning, just after the war, and I wasn’t sure what to expect, or even if I’d cope. Would he be the same? Would we be the same?
Later, over coffee with my mother, I wondered whether to tell her the news. The names Deyning and Tom Cuthbert had for so long been synonymous in my mind but, I knew, were mutually exclusive in hers. Occasionally she’d mention Deyning, referring back to that time when all of us were together, but such memories only brought pain. Our lives had changed, and Tom’s name—no longer uttered by either one of us.
That day, as she spoke, I imagined her reaction, the look upon her face: first, the horror at the mention of the name, Tom Cuthbert; that I could still utter these three syllables after so many years; and then, as the news sank in, the realization of a new order. For where did that leave us? And where did that place her judgment? Tom Cuthbert, who had not been good enough for her daughter to look at, let alone marry, now presided over all that had once been hers, all that she’d once held dear. Like a stain burnished on our souls, his name was in our lives forever.
I decided not to tell her. She’d know soon enough.
Chapter Twenty-seven
. . . No one is able to tell us anything, or give us any answers. We have tried, interviewed everyone we can think of, but it really is as though he’s evaporated into the ether. C assures me that he will turn up—eventually, she tells me that he may well have taken on “another name,” a new identity, & that this might actually be something good (for him, at least). What perilous & decidedly queer times we live in.
After much deliberation I chose to wear a new silver-blue silk chiffon dress, one I’d had made that season. It was short, daringly short, and sleeveless too, with an asymmetrical hem just below the knee, a broad sash at the hips and a deep V neckline.
The fashion continued for a boyish shape and I had taken to wearing one of the new-style brassieres, which laced up at the sides to flatten one’s chest. It was a look quite the opposite of my mother’s and Venetia’s day, when curves had been accentuated, even worshipped, when women had been held in by whalebone, heavily upholstered like an item of furniture. Now it was all the rage to look shapeless, and bare, with uncovered arms, and legs revealed in flesh-colored silk stockings. It was a bold, modern look for a bold, modern world. But it was a step too far for Mama, who loathed the new fashions, and considered them hideously unfeminine and quite immoral. She blamed alcohol, cocktails, the new jazz music, the craze for dancing—particularly the Charleston—and even the suffragettes, for what she perceived to be an unstoppable moral decline. The day she’d spotted a lady wearing trousers outside her home in Berkeley Square, she’d used the telephone—which she insisted should only ever be used in emergencies—to call me up and tell me. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to,” she said. “And where will it all end? With gentlemen in tea gowns?”
That evening, Charlie and I arrived at the Blanches’ late. After handing our coats to the butler we made our way up the staircase to the first-floor drawing room. I was nervous, more nervous than I could remember ever having been, and it was my fault we were late. I’d had something of a panic attack before we’d left home, and had locked myself in the bathroom with a large brandy, telling Charlie—through the door—that I had what I thought was the onset of a migraine. Even in his ignorance he’d not made my ordeal any easier, and had simply lectured me on punctuality and the importance of timekeeping—in what I now thought of as his army voice. I’d sat perched on the edge of my bathtub, listening to him as he paced about the room, waiting for me to emerge, giving minute-by-minute time checks as though we had an appointment with the King. When, eventually, I opened the door, ready for him to continue his diatribe about my hideously sloppy timekeeping, he’d simply stared at me and smiled, as though he’d suddenly recognized a long-lost friend; as though he hadn’t seen me in years.
“Good God, Clarissa . . .” he said, “are you out to break hearts tonight?”
As we entered the Blanches’ drawing room I was determined not to look about the room for him, but when I walked in, there he was: unmissable, unmistakable; a dark, smoldering presence that caught in my throat, took my breath away.
He stood by the fireplace, directly in my line of vision, and we saw each other—eyes locked—instantaneously. I turned away, moved toward our hosts, Davina and Marcus. I took a glass of champagne from a maid holding a tray, stood with my back to him and tried to make conversation, my heart pounding so violently I thought the whole room might feel its rhythm. Then I heard Charlie call out, “Clarissa! Clarissa! Do come over and say hello to Tom . . . here he is, my dear.”
As I crossed the room he watched me, but he didn’t smile.
I held out my hand. “Tom . . . how lovely to see you.”
His flesh was warm and smooth.
“Clarissa . . . small world.”
Charlie laughed, slightly nervously, I thought, and then said, “By Jove, you’re right, Tom, it is a small world too. Uncanny really.”
He looked the same, and yet different: a little older, more . . . polished, I suppose, and impeccably groomed. His dark hair was slicked back, and I’d forgotten, perhaps intentionally, how handsome he was, how penetrating his gaze, and that in itself threw me. He was smoking, a crystal tumbler in his hand, and when he smiled, lowered his eyes and looked down into his glass for a moment, I realized that he, too, was nervous. But when he raised his eyes and stared back into mine, it was my turn to look away. For there was something about him—his face—that dazzled me, quite literally dazzled me: as though he were a light much too bright to gaze upon directly. And in that light I was naked; every sensation amplified; each thought audible.
“You don’t look a day older,” he said, and I turned to Charlie and smiled, rather than look back into his eyes.
I noticed the girl standing to his side, looking rather uncomfortable, staring at me. “Oh, and this is Penny . . . Penelope Gray, my fiancée. Penny, this is Clarissa Granville—I’m sorry . . . Clarissa Boyd. Clarissa grew up at Deyning.”
“It’s a stunning place,” she said, taking my hand, glancing at the diamonds on my neck. “You must have had a heavenly childhood, growing up there.”
“Yes, it was . . . idyllic really.”
“And Tom lived there too,” she added, as though I needed reminding.
I smiled at her. “Yes, yes, he did.”
“We were only out on the lake last Sunday,” she went on, and I glanced at Tom: how could you? How could you take someone else out on the lake? “And Tom said it’s simply sublime there on a hot summer’s day. Oh, but I imagine you have some wonderful memories!”
“Yes, wonderful memories . . .”
“Well, once Tom’s restored the place, once the renovations are complete, you and your husband must come down and visit. Mustn’t they, Tom?”
I turned to him. He’d been watching me, watching me intently, but as I turned he looked away. And for a moment I thought he was ignoring her, pretending he hadn’t heard her. Then he looked at me and said, “Yes, yes . . . you must come down. Both of you.”
“So, is there a great deal of work to be done?” I asked.
“Good Lord, yes. I don’t suppose I’ll be in until next year—at the earliest.”
“Oh, so you’re planning on living there?”
“As opposed to?”
“Well, an investment. I hear you got the place for a song.”
“You’re right. I bought it at a ridiculous price. The days of those big places a
re over, I’m afraid.”
“Apparently not for some,” I said, smiling.
He pulled out his lighter, lit another cigarette, glancing up at me through thick dark lashes.
“No, well, I intend to use it as somewhere to entertain clients. It doesn’t need a full-time staff that way, so the costs of running the place will be kept to a minimum. And yes, to be honest, it’s an investment as well.”
“And I hear you’ve a place here in London now too.”
He smiled. “Yes, I’ve been fortunate, Clarissa; it’s been a good time to be in my line of business.”
I still wasn’t altogether sure what his line of business was, exactly. He’d made money in America, on the stock market, Charlie said, and he seemed to have quickly invested in property in London.
I watched him glance across the room; lift his glass to his mouth. And, already, I wanted to reach out and touch his face. Just to know he was there; that he was real.
“He has a beautiful place down the road, Clarissa,” Penny said.
“Oh, really. Where, exactly?”
She replied quickly, “Hyde Park Gate.”
“Gosh, not far then,” I said, looking back at Tom. “Strange that our paths have never crossed . . . but I suppose you haven’t been back here long.”
“No, not long,” he replied.
“And London’s like that, isn’t it? You could be living next door to your own family and not even know it,” Penny said, taking hold of his hand. She had a slight Irish accent and I wondered where they’d met, how long they had known each other.
“And so . . . are you back for good?”
“I’m not altogether sure,” he said, enigmatically. “What I mean is . . . I’m sure I’ll be going back to America—at some stage—but I’m not sure when, or for how long.”
I glanced at Penny, wondering how she felt about a transatlantic engagement; she blinked and smiled back at me.
I’d already had a drink before leaving home, and now I felt quite giddy. But it wasn’t the alcohol. I’d just discovered that not only did Tom Cuthbert own Deyning, the place that would forever be home to me, but that he was also, for the time being at least, living quite close to me in London. And right at that moment it was too much. I looked for Charlie, who’d moved away and was speaking with Marcus Blanch and another couple, and I wished he’d come and talk to Penny, talk to Tom, rescue me.
“So, you two have already met . . . known each other before,” Davina said, appearing at my side, putting her arm around me as though she sensed my discomfort.
“Yes, but quite a few years ago, Davina,” I replied.
“How fabulous. I do so love it when paths cross over once again, particularly if there are old secrets to be told,” she said. And I felt her pinch me.
“No secrets, I’m afraid,” Tom said, and then, glancing at me, he added, “Unfortunately Clarissa was always out of my league.”
“Aha! But not now,” she replied, and then, smiling at Penny, she quickly added, “I mean if you were both single and all that.”
I tried to laugh, and so did he.
Later, as we moved through to the dining room, Davina took my arm and whispered, “I’ve put you next to Mr. Cuthbert, darling. You can reminisce together.”
“Oh God, no.”
“Why ever not?” she whispered. “He’s absolutely divine, darling. Take no notice of the fiancée, she’s a little limpet. It won’t last.”
Davina was right. Penelope Gray was a limpet. All through dinner she watched us, Tom and me, as we spoke. It was tricky. We sat side by side and spoke mainly of Deyning and what he planned to do with it, without ever looking at each other. Marcus Blanch, sitting to my left, at the head of the table, asked Tom if he and Penny would live there once they were married. “Grand house for a big family, eh?” he said, with a wink at Tom.
“We’ll have to see,” Tom replied.
“When is the wedding?” I asked.
“I’m not sure . . . perhaps . . . next year,” he replied. And I thought, yes, Davina’s right: there’ll be no wedding.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to be happy. Of course I wanted him to be happy. But it was obvious to me that he wasn’t in love. Why he’d become engaged, I don’t know. Perhaps because he thought he should, thought it was the right thing to do. But he could do so much better than Penelope Gray. Was I jealous that night? No, because he still didn’t belong to anyone. Yes, he was there with someone, but she didn’t own his heart. And though I was no longer sure if I ever had, I knew I’d had more, much more of him than Penelope Gray.
Toward the end of dinner, as Charlie, Marcus and a few others stepped out on to the balcony for a cigar, Tom moved a little closer and asked me, quietly, if I was happy.
“Yes . . . yes, I suppose so,” I lied. “And you?”
“I’ve been too busy to know about happiness,” he said.
“I can’t believe that you’re going to be living at Deyning. It’s all so strange . . .” I shook my head. “So strange.”
“To be honest, Clarissa, I’m taking a punt, a bit of a gamble—in more ways than one,” he added, glancing at me. “The place is a mess, a big mess.” Suddenly he sounded so American. “It needs a tremendous amount of work—and a pile of money, that’s why it went for so little. The Fosters, the people who had it after you, they never lived there, didn’t do anything to it. And you know the state it was in.” He turned to me and smiled. “I don’t imagine your mother would recognize her beautiful interior now.”
Tom. There he was, once more staring back into my eyes, a smile playing at one side of his mouth. I wanted to say so much. I wanted to say how wonderful it was to see him again; how much I’d missed him; how often I’d thought of him, dreamed of him. I watched him turn away, lift his cigarette to his lips, and I found myself once again studying that profile: those cherished features etched on to my heart; that line of forehead, nose, mouth and chin. I wanted to raise my hand to his face, trace its outline and memorize it so that I’d never, ever forget.
He turned to me, opened his mouth as though about to say something, then stopped and held my gaze for a moment, an impossible moment, where time unraveled and placed us far beyond that room of strangers. I saw him look to my lips, saw his eyes move over my face, taking in all of me; knowing all of me.
“Clarissa . . . Clarissa Granville . . .” he said.
I could hear his thoughts; feel the rhythm of his heart in time with my own, the warmth of his skin against mine. I stared back into his eyes, into the darkness of the lake, and I saw us once more under the sweeping boughs of the chestnut tree in the lower meadow. I saw us walking through the fields, hand in hand, the honey-hued stone of my home glistening in the distance, following a path, dreaming of a future. Together.
I saw him look to my hand, resting on the table, and I immediately thought of that day, so long ago, at the station restaurant. We’d shaken hands then, shaken hands this night. I’ll say good-bye and shake his hand, I thought. And I felt a tear, brimming at the very edge of my eyelid, and I knew that if I blinked it would fall, and he would see. Everyone would see. So I struggled to keep my eyes wide open, trying desperately to summon other things, conjuring random images: my engagements for the coming week . . . my diary, lying open on the desk at home . . . the striped wallpaper . . . the old brass lamp that needed fixing . . . and then, out of nowhere, Emily.
Emily.
But I didn’t want her to be there, not then, not at that moment; so I tried to blot her out. I picked up a spoon laying on the table in front of me and studied it as though I wasn’t entirely sure what it was, as though I’d never seen one before. But I was aware of him watching me, so I turned to him and attempted a smile. “Isn’t this all rather queer?” I said, my throat tightening, the room becoming smaller. “You and me . . . here together . . .”
“Queer and wonderful . . . wonderfully queer.”
He moved around in his chair, placing his arm along the back of mine.
I felt his hand graze my dress . . . then a finger—a stroke, a single stroke—at the base of my neck, and a frisson, like a small electric shock: reawakening, reigniting. Then the doors opened in a clatter, and Charlie and Marcus stepped back into the room. Davina called down the table, asking everyone—all of her darlings—to please go through to the drawing room. “So much more comfortable,” she said, rising to her feet—with a shimmy and a twirl. I felt his hand move away, his warmth dissipate.
In the drawing room Marcus put on a record, a medley of piano music: George Gershwin, I think. I sat down on the sofa, and for a moment Tom stood about, looking awkward, one hand in his pocket. Then Charlie appeared and sat down next to me. Tom moved to the other side of the room, sat down in an armchair directly opposite us. And as the others filed through—an overly noisy, overly happy tribe—I avoided his gaze. I looked about the room as though it was an Aladdin’s cave of treasure.
And it was. For Davina, like my godmother, Venetia, had an eye for the exotic and unusual, and the room, littered as it was with souvenirs—a foible of its owner’s character—appeared a veritable mishmash of styles: a cornucopia of the places she had visited, or perhaps longed to. Strangely hypnotic tribal masks and primitive art jostled with English pastoral scenes, and Italian marble, Chinese lacquer and French Empire furniture—as well as what my mother would describe as bric-a-brac—all vied for the eye.
When Davina finally danced her way into the room and perched herself upon the arm of Tom’s chair, I felt a sharp twinge. And I could tell she’d taken something. She waved her hands about over-animatedly, kept sniffing and touching her nose. I watched her as she laid her head upon his shoulder, then lifted it and whispered something in his ear. And when she smiled over at me, I turned and looked away.
Strange though it may seem, I wasn’t remotely jealous of Penny that night, but Davina’s flirtatious behavior, her physical proximity to Tom, rankled. She was able to reach out and touch him in a way I could not, for I could never play that game with him. We could never pretend. So I tried to smile, join in the peripheral conversation. I laughed when others laughed, lit a cigarette, and glanced from person to person; I nodded, tapped my hand in time to the music, and all the time the only thing I could feel was him: his presence.
The Last Summer Page 25