As I deliberated, I watched him. I noticed his skin was tanned, and he had that unmistakable air of success about him. He wore an impeccably cut dark suit, a white shirt and a dark blue tie. And as he moved a bronzed hand through the air, the glinting gold of his wristwatch caught my eye. He looked like a rich playboy, I thought, freshly arrived back from the Riviera. And Venetia appeared spellbound.
He stood with his back half toward me, and I could easily have slipped away; they need never have known I’d been there, standing feet away from them in the crowded bar that night. But I couldn’t do it. I had to go and speak to them. I wanted to know more. And that night, like most other nights, it was impossible to miss Venetia. She wore a long red kimono, and a vividly colored scarf wrapped around her head and fastened in place by an enormous diamond butterfly brooch. The Japanese look, I thought, watching her. She seemed to move quite swiftly from continent to continent, in terms of fashion, and was always caught under the spell of some opera. Her husband, Hughie, had not long been dead, but she abhorred black, said it added ten years at least to a woman’s face, and she hated the rituals of mourning. The very worst of Englishness, she said: so passé, and so horribly Victorian!
“Venetia!” I called out as I approached, sounding a warning shot.
Not surprisingly she looked startled. “Clarissa! Darling!”
I saw him turn, but I ignored him and moved toward my godmother, kissing her on both cheeks. “What a surprise,” I said, flatly, without any smile.
“Yes . . . well, Tom called on me unexpectedly, and . . . and here we are!”
I turned to him, forced a smile. “Hello, Tom.”
His tanned features froze, and for a few seconds he seemed unable to speak.
Then he said, “My God, Clarissa . . . and looking as divine as ever.” And I thought, no, that’s not you; that’s not the way you speak. But I continued to smile, and then I introduced Antonio.
He glanced at Antonio, looked to me, then back at Antonio. “Antonio,” he said, shaking his hand and elongating the syllables in an unnecessary way. Making a point, I thought. I could tell he was taken aback: he seemed unsure of what to do or say, or even where to look. But as Antonio greeted Venetia, he turned away from them, toward me.
“Fate, eh?” he said, staring at me.
“Coincidence,” I replied.
“There’s no such thing as coincidence. You of all people should know that.”
I couldn’t fathom what he meant, but it certainly wasn’t the time to embark on any deeper analysis. Trying to keep the conversation lighthearted, the way one would if one had bumped into any old friend, I resorted to the obvious questions: how was he? He looked very well: had he been away? Did he still own Deyning? Still spend time there?
Yes, he was well, very well; life was good. He’d just returned from Monte Carlo, been back only a day. He was thinking of selling Deyning; it cost too much to run, was too big for one person, he said, searching my face.
“Oh . . . I hope not. I hope you don’t sell it.”
“No . . . no, well, perhaps I shan’t,” he replied.
And I thought, how easy, what luxury to be able to change one’s mind at whim.
He asked after my mother, and then, when I asked—somewhat perfunctorily—after his own, he told me: told me of her death only three months earlier. And I immediately saw her, sitting on board that bus, waving back at me. I’d known then, I think, that I wouldn’t see her again, and right at that moment I wondered if she’d come to me knowing that too.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, swamped by sadness, the memory of that soft, powdered cheek. Lily of the valley. “I only wish I’d gone to see her,” I added, looking down at the glass in my hands.
“Well, you saw her; you saw her at Deyning—when you had tea with her, and she very much enjoyed that.”
“But I should have gone to visit her,” I said, tearfully. “And I told her I would . . . I said to her, as I saw her on to the bus, I’ll come and visit you, Evelyn . . . and I never did.”
He stared at me, wide eyed. “Evelyn?”
I bit my lip, looked away.
“She came to see you . . . my mother came to see you—here in London?”
I glanced back at him, nodded.
“I think we need to talk.”
“Yes, I think we do. But not now, not here.”
“No, not now.”
“And what are you two whispering about?” Venetia asked, stepping toward us.
“Catching up,” Tom replied, looking at me.
He sucked hard on his cigarette, staring at me in that way, which always made me feel uneasy, embarrassed. I suppose he knew me so well, knew my secrets. But it was more than that, of course: I felt exposed and vulnerable under his scrutiny; as though he were able to read my mind, see and feel my thoughts.
I saw him watching Antonio, looking him up and down out of the corner of his eye, and I wondered what he was thinking. Was he shocked? Jealous? I couldn’t tell. But when the bell rang for us to take our seats and Antonio moved over, slipping his arm around my waist and kissing me gently upon my head, I saw him close his eyes and turn away.
“I must say, you’re looking quite sensational, darling,” Venetia said, smiling at me. “And so much happier too . . .”
“Yes, well . . . I am. I am happier,” I replied, not looking at any of them.
“And I have dedicated my life—my life’s purpose—to the happiness of Clarissa,” Antonio said, with a newly operatic tone to his voice.
Venetia laughed. “To happiness!” she said, raising her glass of water, and as we all clinked glasses I met Tom’s eyes, and immediately looked away.
“Let’s have dinner together, later, the four of us, eh?” Antonio suggested, and I so wished that he hadn’t.
“What an exceedingly good idea! You know, I haven’t seen my goddaughter in an absolute age, Antonio. I think you rather like to keep her to yourself, hmm?”
Antonio laughed. “You’re right, of course, I have no wish to share her with anyone.” He lifted my hand, kissed it. “But perhaps tonight, for a little while, I’ll share her with you both,” he added, winking at Venetia, who suddenly seemed to find everything hilarious.
I glanced at Tom, forcing a smile. But he didn’t smile back. So I said, “Is that agreeable with you, Tom?”
He didn’t answer, and Venetia laughed again, and then said, “But of course it’s agreeable . . . utterly agreeable.”
“Tom?” I repeated. I wanted him to answer me.
“Yes . . . spiffing,” he said, and then turned away to stub out his cigarette.
When we returned to our seats I was distracted: unhearing, unseeing. Thankfully, we were seated in the dress circle and they in the stalls, and I was relieved; relieved they weren’t anywhere near us; relieved I couldn’t see him with her. But as the lights dimmed, an image flashed before me: I saw him making love to a turbaned Venetia, saw him draped across her mountainous breast, nuzzling feathers and lace. It had to be an affair, I thought, had to be. Venetia had always preferred younger men as lovers, and there was always someone. Always had been. I wondered how long it had been going on; possibly years, I thought, and closed my eyes. Suddenly it all fit together, all made sense: how Jimmy always knew about Tom’s movements; why Venetia had been so interested in my marriage, and my friendship with Tom . . .
I shuffled in my seat, and sighed—surprisingly loudly. Antonio reached over, taking hold of my hand and anchoring it just as though I were a fidgeting child. But each time I thought of them a surge of anger rose up in me. Venetia and Tom . . . The sense of betrayal—or possible betrayal—was, quite literally, breathtaking. And as the play progressed I wondered if I could somehow fall ill, have an emergency at home . . . How I wished I had a dog, at least, to have to rush back to. I picked up my theater binoculars, leaned forward and peered down into the stalls, scanning along each row. And then I saw them, toward the front, the lights from the stage picking up the brilliant scarlet o
f Venetia’s kimono: the scarlet lady indeed, I thought. How aptly attired.
Later, as I stood in the kerfuffle of the lobby, waiting for Antonio to fetch my coat, they appeared together by my side, Venetia beaming broadly, looking rather pleased with herself, I thought. He mentioned a French restaurant, just around the corner, barely looking at me, and said to follow on—in a somewhat dismissive tone.
“Fine. See you there,” I said flatly, and Venetia frowned and shook her head.
It was a strange, uncomfortable meal: strange to be sitting opposite him, looking at him once again. And I don’t remember anyone other than Antonio actually eating. At first Tom seemed inclined to ignore me and talked mainly to Antonio, about art. He knew Antonio’s gallery, knew all of the central London galleries, but so many of them sold rubbish, he said. So I pretended to listen to Venetia, and, as she talked, I heard him tell Antonio that he’d recently purchased a painting by Matisse, and was planning on adding another to his collection. I heard Antonio extend an invitation to him, to a private view of a new Italian artist he was particularly excited about.
“And of course Clarissa has a discerning eye, Tom. You may also know her gallery: the Deyning?”
I glanced quickly at Tom, caught his eye, and he smiled at me.
“Really? No, I had no idea.”
I knew at that moment he was lying. Perhaps it was his smile, or, and more likely, his rudeness and lack of interest, but he suddenly changed the subject. He picked up the wine bottle in front of him and began to speak—once more to Antonio—about wine: Italian wine. Antonio looked at me, conscious of the snub, and shrugged.
As the evening wore on he became increasingly provocative.
“So, Antonio,” he said, looking at me and not at Antonio, “how long have you two known each other?”
“I feel as though I’ve known Clarissa all of my entire life,” Antonio replied, effusively, and then placed his hand over mine. “We’re soul mates, Clarissa and me.”
“Really,” he said, still staring at me. “Is that true, Clereeza? Have you found your soul mate in Antonio?”
I laughed, looked away.
“And so . . . whereabouts in London do you live, Tom?” Antonio asked.
“Knightsbridge,” he replied, slurring the word.
“Oh, Antonio lives in Knightsbridge too,” I said.
“Well, what a coincidence,” he replied. “My driver can run us all home then. That is, if we’re all heading that way . . .”
Antonio intervened. “Thank you, Tom, but we’ll make our own way. We’re going back to Clarissa’s,” he said.
“Ah, Clarissa’s . . . yes, yes of course.”
I wanted to leave. I recognized the mood he was in, could tell by the look in his eyes.
“Back to Clarissa’s . . .” he repeated, staring into his glass, then lifting it to his lips.
“Shall we get the bill?” I asked, turning to Antonio.
“Please, allow me,” Tom interrupted. “I insist.”
When we all stood up, to say good-bye, he reached into his wallet, pulled out a card and scribbled a number onto it.
“I hope you might find time to call me one day, Clereeza,” he said, handing me the card.
“Thank you, Tom. Yes. I shall. I’ll do that.”
We didn’t kiss, we didn’t shake hands, we simply said good night. And then Antonio and I went out on to the street in search of a taxicab.
“I think you broke his heart,” Antonio said to me on the way home.
“Why, what makes you say that?”
“He’s a wretched man, a tortured soul. He has everything and he has nothing. And I could see . . . I could see.”
“But he’s with Venetia now.”
Antonio laughed. “You are adorable. He may have escorted your god-mama to the theater tonight, but I have a feeling that’s as far as it goes.”
Later, as we made love, I thought of him. I tried not to, but it was as though he was there, in the room, watching us.
At that time his name was everywhere, the newspapers filled with advertisements for Cuthbert-Deyning’s new offices and property developments, and the business papers often quoted their most recent acquisition. Over the next few days I pulled his business card out from my purse any number of times. I looked at it, stared at the number he’d scrawled onto it, and I thought about picking up the telephone and calling him. But what would I say? What would it say? No, it was for him to call me, I decided. If he really wanted to see me he could easily find my number.
But of course, eventually, my resolve would waver.
Chapter Thirty-eight
I’d been out to a private view, alone. And I’d been drinking champagne. Someone had mentioned his name, said he was the collector, the one to watch out for, the one buying up new modern art. I didn’t say anything at the time, didn’t let on that I knew him. And yet the mention of his name always capsized me into that well of loneliness, reminding me of my loss.
Later, as I’d lain in bed, unable to sleep and thinking of him, I wondered, as I’d done before, if he was in fact one of my anonymous patrons. And then I wondered if he was with Venetia. Was he lying next to her? Had he made love to her that evening? Was he making love to her now? I rose quickly from my bed, agitated and angry with myself for allowing him to keep me awake yet again. I went into the kitchen, lit the stove and placed the kettle on top of it.
It had been some weeks since we’d bumped into each other at the theater and I’d recently ended my affair with Antonio, though we remained firm friends. Seeing Tom again had made me realize that there could only ever be one man for me, and, if I couldn’t be with him, then . . . then I may as well be single. What was the point in pretending? I didn’t want a fiancé, or another husband. And they all seemed to want ownership of some kind. No, I’d reasoned, it was probably my destiny to be on my own.
But I wanted to see him. And I needed to see him.
I didn’t want to know—didn’t want to hear—about him and Venetia, but I had to tell him about his father. After all, I’d promised Evelyn.
“Business,” I said, out loud, as I watched the kettle upon the stove. “It’s like business, that’s all.”
But of course it wasn’t, because my heart was involved, and because there was more.
I’d recently decided that I had to try to find my daughter. Not to interrupt her life or to try to reclaim her, but to know where she was, what had become of her. I had to know, you see. I had to know that she was cared for and happy. And I wanted Tom to help me find her.
I walked back into the sitting room, pulled my purse from my handbag and pulled out his card. I sat holding the card in my hand for some time; looking from it to the telephone and back at it. Then I picked up the receiver. Minutes away, I thought; he’s only minutes away.
“Hello . . .”
It was him: awake and alert. “Hello,” he said again.
“Are you busy?” I asked. I’m not sure why I said that. It was half past one in the morning, but I suppose I thought he might have been in the midst of passion with Venetia, or another.
“Clarissa.”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Let me take this somewhere else,” he said, and there was a click.
I immediately felt stupid. Wanted to hang up. I knew the only reason he’d be moving to another room, another telephone, was for reasons of privacy. He was with someone: in bed with someone. Was it Venetia? And already I could see her, lying back in a feathered turban, reciting poetry as he made love to her.
“Hello,” he said again, and I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t speak, couldn’t speak.
“Don’t go silent on me . . . Clarissa? Is everything all right?”
“Yes . . . yes,” I said, half laughing, trying to sound blasé. As though I’d called him up simply to compare notes on the weather. “Everything’s fine, perfectly fine. I was just wondering . . .” I began, not sure what I was going to say, not sure what I’d been wondering. And I fe
lt myself panic. What on earth was I doing? How could I begin to talk to him about Emily or his father over the telephone?
“I was just wondering . . .” I said again.
“Yes?” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
“I was just wondering how one makes a Singapore Sling,” I said quickly.
He laughed. “I don’t know. How does one make a Singapore Sling?”
“No, seriously, it’s not a joke. I need the list of ingredients . . .”
I could hear him, lighting a cigarette, inhaling.
“You’re making cocktails? Really? Now, at . . . one thirty a.m.?”
“No, not at this moment, but later . . . tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes, wanted to scream; wanted the ground to swallow me up.
“Please, tell me the truth: you haven’t called me up in the middle of the night for a list of cocktail ingredients—have you?”
“No,” I replied.
“Shall I come over?”
“No!”
“Old lover-boy still there then?”
“Oh God, look, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I called. I couldn’t sleep and . . . and for some reason I thought of you.”
“Clarissa . . .”
“Is Venetia there?” I asked, and then winced.
I could hear him sigh; almost see him shake his head. “I could meet you somewhere . . . at a hotel . . .”
“Tom! Good grief, do you think I’ve called you up because . . . because . . .” I faltered, rising to my feet, searching for the cigarette box.
He laughed. “Clarissa, I’m teasing you.”
“I’d better go,” I said, feeling like a total fool. “I’m not sure why I called you. I’m sorry.”
I heard him sigh again. “Don’t be sorry . . . never be sorry. Look, I’m leaving for Paris in the morning, but let’s meet up when I get back. I’ll telephone you.”
“Yes, fine. Have a lovely time. And do give my best to Venetia.”
He laughed again. “I’m pleased you telephoned. I was wondering when you would.”
“When?” I repeated, irritated by his presumption.
The Last Summer Page 35