The Last Summer

by Judith Kinghorn

  “You said you would, remember?”

  “Yes, I did. I mean, I do remember.”

  “And Clarissa . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Try and be good for me.”

  “Good night, Tom,” I said, and hung up the receiver.

  I didn’t really expect him to call me upon his return from Paris, whenever that might be. And I didn’t want to wait for disappointment. After all, he’d made no mention of how long he was to be away for, or when he’d be back. It could be a week, a month or longer. I began to regret my ridiculous middle-of-the-night telephone call to him. Upon reflection, his tone had been quite dismissive, I concluded. I’ll call you . . . What had I been thinking? And did I really want to meet up with him—alone? Being newly single, the thought of seeing him again—on my own—filled me with more than a little trepidation. Would I succumb to him, yet again? Or would I feel spurned by his lack of interest? No, I reasoned, it was probably for the best that we didn’t see each other again. We could leave it to fate, and perhaps cross paths once every few years.

  Then, late one evening, only a few days after my call to him, the telephone rang, and as soon as I heard the voice I smiled. “Hello, Tom.”

  “Clarissa,” he said, again, slightly slurring my name.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “I’m very, very well, my darling, and how are you?”

  He’s drunk, I thought, and immediately stopped smiling. “Yes, I’m well, Tom. About to go to bed, actually. Do you realize what time it is?”

  “It’s half past Clarissa o’clock,” he replied, and laughed. “And I was wondering . . . I was wondering, are you up for cocktails tonight? We could share ingredients . . .”

  “Tom, you’re drunk. You need to go to bed. And anyway, where are you?”

  “Where am I? Where do you want me to be? I can be anywhere you want me to be.” There was a clunk at that point and I realized he’d dropped the receiver.

  “Hello . . . Clarissa?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “But where is here?”

  “Tom, you’re not making any sense. I’m going to hang up now.”

  “No, don’t go. I need you. I need to hear your voice.”

  “And why do you need to hear my voice? Have you no one to keep you company tonight? Is Venetia tired?”

  “Clarissa, Clarissa—don’t be like that.”

  “Oh, Tom, really, I think you need to drink some water.”

  Then the line went dead, and I, too, put down the telephone.

  The following morning he called again, apologizing for his late-night call to me. It had been a long day, he said. “Stuck in a bloody meeting.”

  “I see,” I replied, waiting for him to say something.

  “I’ll be back in London tomorrow—and I wondered, can I take you out to dinner?”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  We met for dinner two days later, at the Savoy. He was at the restaurant when I arrived, sitting smoking at the table, and looking rather anxious. As I walked toward him he turned, saw me, and immediately stood up. “Hello, Tom,” I said and smiled. He stepped forward as though about to kiss me, then looked down and took my hand. And for a split second he was once again that shy, nervous boy in the ballroom at Deyning, unable to look me in the eye, or smile back at me. He hovered on his feet as the waiter pulled out my chair and I sat down. And then he, too, sat down, and immediately lit another cigarette.

  “How’s Venetia?” I asked. I couldn’t help it. I was still angry.

  He closed his eyes, shook his head. “Please, can we not talk about Venetia tonight?”

  “Oh yes, if it’s private, of course . . .” I replied, looking down at the menu.

  He sighed. Loudly. Sounding exasperated already.

  We sat at a table tucked away in a corner, next to the window. And I was pleased. I could pretend to be distracted by anything beyond the glass, I thought, turning away from him and catching my own reflection. He didn’t ask me what I’d like to drink, but summoned over the sommelier, ordered a glass of champagne and a whisky, and then a bottle of Château Lafite. But there was a particular year he wanted, which he couldn’t seem to find on the list. He pulled out a pair of spectacles, perched them on his nose. And as the sommelier, the maître d’ and another fluttered about him, I smiled. For they all knew his name, knew exactly who he was: Mr. Cuthbert . . . Mr. Cuthbert, they repeated, seemingly as many times as they could fit into a sentence without completely eliminating all other words. And I could tell he was used to it; long used to it.

  When they finally dispersed, having identified and ascertained Mr. Cuthbert’s choice of wine for that evening, he removed his spectacles, looked over at me, sighed heavily, and smiled. “So, Clarissa,” he began, “do you realize how significant this day is?”

  I shrugged; wondering if I’d forgotten some feast day or national holiday, then shook my head.

  “This is our very first date.”

  A date, I thought: so American. “Oh, really. Is this a date then?”

  “You know what I mean,” he said, turning his head away in mock exasperation. “It’s taken me . . .” He paused, staring at me. “It’s taken me sixteen years to get to this point . . . to take you out to dinner.”

  “Yes, here we are, after all these years.”

  The waiter appeared, placed our drinks upon the table. We raised our glasses. “So, here’s to us: Clarissa and Tom,” he said, smiling back at me. And it struck me then, he was in an unusual mood. One I didn’t know, couldn’t recall ever having seen before.

  “Are we celebrating something?” I asked.

  “Yes, we are. We’re celebrating us. We’re going to be very selfish this evening, because no one’s going to claim either one of us; no one’s waiting for you, or for me. And we’re here. We’re here together . . . after all these years.”

  It was true enough. Every moment we’d been together, every single moment we’d managed to snatch in the preceding sixteen years, there’d always been someone somewhere, waiting for me, or for him.

  I smiled. “Like all our rendezvous,” I said.

  “Down by the lake . . .”

  “In the meadow . . .”

  “At the boathouse . . .”

  “Under the chestnut tree . . .”

  “On the lawn . . .”

  “By the ha-ha . . .”

  “In the walled garden?”

  “No! We never met there,” I said. “That was always Mama’s territory.”

  He stubbed out his cigarette, shook his head. “I remember the first time I set eyes on you. Just as though it was yesterday.”

  “And so do I,” I replied quickly. “It was in the ballroom at Deyning.”

  He looked up at me. “Wrong. That’s when we were introduced. No, the first time I saw you, the very first time I set eyes on you, you were running through the garden, in the rain.” He looked away, remembering. “You were shrieking, laughing, and you looked so completely free . . . a vision.” He paused, his eyes half closed, concentrating. “You didn’t see me, didn’t notice me, but I saw you. I watched you, and I’d never seen anything or anyone as beautiful.”

  “Yes, well, that was a long time ago . . .”

  He shook his head. “Feels like a moment ago.”

  “You’re right, sometimes it does. But then I remember . . . I remember all those who are no longer here. My brothers, my cousins, so many friends . . . and it all seems so long ago. Lifetimes ago.”

  He stared back at me, into my eyes, and I began to feel that yearning once more: a yearning for another time and place, for him. He looked down at my hand resting on the table. “But when I look at you I go back to that time, and I see you as you were that day.”

  “Good!” I said, pulling my hand away. “I think I’d far rather you saw me forever sixteen.”

  He looked up at me. “I see you as you are, Clarissa,” he said. “I’ve always seen who you are.”

  I’d taken a
taxicab to the Savoy that evening, quietly practicing my lines, what I wanted to tell him, all the way there; trying to anticipate his reaction and what I would say.

  “Yes, Tom, that’s right . . . we had a baby. Emily. She’ll be almost twelve years old by now, and I need to find her . . . I need you to help me find her . . .”

  But after one glass of champagne those rehearsed lines had already muddled themselves. And after another, I felt my edges begin to blur, my anger melt away into something else. Something far removed from the anger I’d carried with me into the Savoy earlier that evening. Each time I looked back into his eyes, that same desperate yearning returned, flooding my senses, drowning me. For he was still the boy I’d stood with by the lake. And I felt overwhelmed by sadness. Sadness at all the days and months and years that had been spent and were gone forever: sadness at the waste.

  I noticed his hair, now graying at the temples of his brow; the lines around his eyes, upon his forehead; and as the waiter refilled our glasses, I excused myself and went to the powder room. I sat there for some time trying to remember the order of the words, what it was I had to say. What it was I wanted to tell him.

  When I returned to the table his mood was noticeably lighter. He teased me, telling me he’d thought for a moment I’d gone, already bored of his company. But I knew, knew by the slight frown and the look in his eyes that he’d seen my sadness.

  “So, how’s business? How’s the gallery doing?” he asked.

  “Doing very well,” I replied. “I’m extending it—into the shop next door.”

  “That’s wonderful, Clarissa,” he said, and I could tell he was being sincere.

  “Tom,” I began, emboldened by alcohol, “have you ever seen my gallery?”

  He hesitated, pondered on that question for a moment. “Yes,” he replied, “yes, I think I do know it.”

  “And have you purchased anything from me? And by that, I also mean through a third party.”

  He laughed. “Aha! What a question. What makes you ask that?”

  “Because I have a few—or I seem to have a few—anonymous patrons,” I replied.

  He glanced down at the table. “I might have done.”

  “Please, Tom, tell me the truth . . .”

  “Yes. Yes, I have bought some paintings from you.”

  “How many?” I asked.

  “A few,” he replied, holding my gaze. “Does it really matter how many?”

  “No . . . no, I suppose not,” I said. But in a way it did. Was he one or all of the men who came in taxicabs and private cars to collect paintings?

  We moved on. He asked me about Charlie. I spoke of my impending divorce and he talked about his. He said he felt no sadness, no bitterness, and that it had been wrong from the start. Said he’d known the day he was married that it wouldn’t last.

  “Why did you do it then?”

  “Good question. I suppose at the time it seemed the obvious thing to do . . . everyone else was married. You were married.”

  “But you didn’t have to marry.”

  “No, perhaps not, but I was lonely. I wanted to share my life with . . .” He paused, staring at me. “What I wanted I couldn’t have, so I compromised. And I’ve never been much good at compromise.”

  “I thought you wanted children.”

  “Yes, I suppose I did for a while, or there was a time when I thought I did. But after I married Nancy, I quickly realized I didn’t, or perhaps not with her. And then . . . then we lost a baby. Anyway, it didn’t happen, wasn’t meant to be.” He lifted his glass to his lips and said, “But what about you? You didn’t have children either.”

  And it stung.

  “No, it didn’t happen for me either,” I said looking down at my plate, pushing at a slice of carrot.

  “Shame. I’ve always thought you’d make a wonderful mother.”

  I looked up at him and smiled, and I pondered for a second or two, wondering what I should say. “Yes, well, we can’t have it all,” I said, repeating Rose’s tidying-up phrase. I could have told him then, perhaps. And perhaps I had an opportunity, but it still didn’t feel like the right moment. You see, I’d practiced this for so long and in so many different locations, but we’d never been sitting there, in the Savoy—having dinner together. It had never been like that.

  “And so . . . what about Venetia?” I asked. I had to. And you know, I really didn’t want to. I didn’t want to hear.

  He leaned back in his chair, smiling.

  “Yes?” I said, staring back at him, waiting; blinking.

  “You know, I think you ought to speak to Venetia yourself,” he said.

  I shook my head. “I don’t. Quite frankly, Tom, I think it’s rather pathetic.”

  His smile broadened, and I could feel a simmering rising up inside of me again. I stared back at him, resolute, I thought; defiant. “Yes, really rather pathetic,” I repeated.

  He leaned forward, his arms on the table. “And what, exactly, is rather pathetic?”

  I realized we were dangerously close to having a row, and on this, our first proper date, it seemed unfortunate, to say the least. But I had to keep going; I had to persevere. After all, he’d stepped over a line, not me.

  “That you and Venetia have been . . .”

  “Yes?”

  I shook my head, sighed. “That you’re carrying on with someone old enough to be your mother, Tom.”

  He laughed, and continued to laugh for quite a while. “Clarissa,” he said at last, reaching over for my hand, but I pulled it away.

  “No! Don’t. Please don’t. I saw you together. I know, Tom.”

  He sat back in his chair and sighed loudly. “You know, your head’s always so bloody muddled, Clarissa.” And I was really rather astounded, because he suddenly sounded quite angry. “It’s not something I wish to talk about with you here, tonight,” he continued. “I think you need to speak to your godmother; you need to talk to Venetia. And then . . . then perhaps we’ll resume this conversation.”

  I felt more than a little chastened. He had spoken to me like one of his employees, I thought—one who’d perhaps stepped out of line.

  “Fine,” I said. “And yes, I shall. I shall do that.”

  We sat in silence for a while, drinking our wine, each of us staring across the room. It’s a disaster . . . it’s a disaster, I thought. We have nothing in common anymore. He’s turned into a monster; one of those rich playboys Mama loves to hate. I glanced at him, saw him close his eyes. He’s hating this: he’d rather be with her, Venetia. Then I caught his eye, and he smiled, but I looked away, across the restaurant floor.

  “Please, Clarissa, can we . . . shall we be friends?”

  I turned to him. “Yes, of course.”

  He smiled again, but I could sense something more in his smile: amusement, I thought.

  He ordered a brandy, and I wondered how Venetia coped with his drinking. She hardly touched a drop herself. And I saw them again, in her dressing room, upon the daybed: Tom, tie undone; his head to her bosom.

  No!

  He must have seen me wince, must have seen something in my expression, because he leaned forward at that moment and said, “Please . . . trust me, believe me. There is nothing between Venetia and me . . . other than a mutual interest.”

  Later, when we left the restaurant, he suggested that we go dancing, but I didn’t want to.

  “I think I should get home, Tom,” I said.

  “Then please, at least allow me to see you home.”

  I wasn’t sure. I was still irked by the thought of him and Venetia, and whatever it was going on between them. But I had to tell him about Emily, and I knew it was a conversation we had to have alone, in private.

  Chapter Forty

  We took a taxicab back to my flat, sitting in silence, side by side, and as we turned into my street, I said, “Would you like to come in for a nightcap . . . a coffee?”

  I realized how it sounded, and I was nervous, so much so that I couldn’t get my
key into the lock, and eventually had to admit defeat and hand it to him. And it felt strange opening the door on to my small, singular world, walking into my home with him. I saw him look about the hallway, taking it all in. In the sitting room, as I took off my coat and shoes, he wandered about the place, glancing up at the paintings on the wall; bending down to view a photograph, picking one up.

  “Rather different to Deyning,” I said.

  “But you’ve made it beautiful . . . as only you could,” he replied, loosening his tie. I turned away from him, walked into the kitchen to fill the kettle, and as I lifted it I heard him collapse into an armchair with a loud sigh. When I returned to the room he’d closed his eyes, and I thought perhaps he was about to leave me, drift off into an alcohol-induced slumber.

  No, please, don’t fall asleep . . . not now . . .

  I sat down on the rug by his feet. Was it the right moment? Would it be a huge shock? Would he be angry, walk out?

  “I need to talk to you, Tom,” I said, quietly, wondering if he could still hear my words. “I need to tell you something . . .”

  And with his eyes still closed, he said, “Yes, I know, and I’m longing to hear.”

  I was confused. Had he some idea of what it was I was about to tell him? No, it was impossible, surely: the only two people who knew were Mama and myself. But my mind raced on into a freefall of possibilities. Had Mama told Venetia and she in turn told Tom? A mutual interest, he’d said.

  At that moment the kettle began to whistle, and I jumped to my feet and returned to the kitchen.

  That night . . . that night in the park . . . well, we had a baby, Tom . . . yes, that’s right, we had a baby.

  “We had a baby,” I whispered, stirring the coffee.

  I walked back into the room, handed him his cup and saucer and sat down on the floor once more. He moved in his chair and I turned to look up at him. He stared back at me, raised his eyebrows expectantly. “So . . . are you going to tell me why my mother came to see you—or not?”

  I gasped: a strange mix of surprise, frustration and relief. I’d entirely forgotten about Tom’s mother’s meeting with me, or the fact that I’d inadvertently mentioned it to him in the theater that evening. And here I was, my heart racing, my mind entirely focused on telling him about his daughter; now forced to tell him of his unknown father.