by Lulu Taylor
Adam got her and Imogen back to London. The girls huddled close together in the back of the helicopter, sobbing, grateful for the noise of the helicopter that drowned out the sounds of their grief.
Back in London, he arranged for Imogen to be taken home. He drove Allegra back to the flat himself and stayed with her that whole first terrible night and the next day, which was almost worse. She woke having forgotten, for one blissful moment, what had happened. When it all came back it was with a sickening punch of recollection. It felt as though there would never be another happy carefree day in her life again. She was drenched in sorrow, and horrified by the pointlessness of such a death. More than anything, she felt lonely to the depths of her soul.
Adam was her rock. Through it all he stayed at her side, arranging things, supporting her, listening to her, giving her drinks when she requested them and gently removing the bottle when she’d had enough.
Late at night, in her sitting room, she said in a low voice, ‘Thank you so much. You’ve been wonderful to me. This is more than I deserve.’
‘It’s the least you deserve,’ he said seriously. ‘Besides, I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. These days are the worst. But, I promise, you’ll learn how to cope with this. You need only put your faith in time, which will heal you.’
‘I miss him so much … I don’t know how I’m going to get through a week, let alone a lifetime without him.’ Allegra’s head drooped and she covered her face with her hands, wondering how long she could bear these terrible feelings.
He put his hand on her back and rubbed it gently. ‘You can do it. You have to.’
Adam insisted that she didn’t return to work, even though she wanted to get back to the new club as soon as she could. He would cover everything, and David and Tyra could cope with Colette’s in the meantime, he told her.
David was very shaken up by the news. When he came round to see her, his eyes were reddened. ‘It’s wrong,’ he said, ‘young Xander is gone and I’m still here. I’d trade places with him in a second if I could. I’ve had my life and he’d done nothing.’
The news soon leaked out to the press, and the minute that happened, Adam insisted that Allegra should go back to Scotland.
‘Go and be with your parents,’ he said. ‘You all need to be together at a time like this.’
Perhaps he’d known that the press would soon be wondering exactly how Xander had died. Suspicions of suicide began to be raised, along with plenty of juicy features on the wealthy upper-class set and their decadent parties. One of the girls from the Black Party sold her story to a tabloid, and each spicy instalment was accompanied by that smiling picture of Xander they all used. When a photographer started loitering outside her flat, Allegra knew it was time to go home. Besides, she would feel closer to her brother there.
Her parents were utterly shattered by their loss, and the shared grief bound them all together: the row between Allegra and her father faded to nothing in the face of something that mattered so much more. The great house seemed heavy with sadness; no one had been untouched by Xander’s charm and charisma, and so no one was untouched by his death.
They went to Northampton for the inquest. In the Coroner’s Court, Allegra saw Imogen for the first time since that ghastly day in the hospital. She looked thin and pale, dressed in a simple black suit for her appearance in the witness box.
Allegra watched, feeling a strange sense of distance between her and her old friend. She listened to Imogen recount the events of the night, and felt only coldness and the stirring of anger. As the coroner listed the drugs found in Xander’s blood – cocaine, heroin, amphetamines and ecstasy – she closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, thinking, You bloody fool, you bloody fool. How could you not know that would kill you? And she fought back hot despairing tears.
Afterwards, Imogen came to find her. ‘Allegra?’ she asked, her eyes beseeching. ‘Are you all right? Are you coping?’
‘How do you think I’m coping?’ she retorted. She was tense and exhausted, plagued by her frightful nightmares more than ever. ‘I’m a fucking mess, of course.’
‘I’ve wanted to come and see you …’ Imogen stopped talking and stared at the floor. She looked drained and ill. Her face was gaunt, eyes red and tired, the skin around them grey.
‘Then why didn’t you?’ Allegra snapped.
‘I … I don’t know. I don’t know anything at the moment. It’s all so terrible.’ She wrapped her arms around herself and looked up beseechingly as if hoping for some kind word. Allegra said nothing and she felt nothing except for a cold, hard emptiness. Imogen looked away from her piercing gaze, then said quietly, ‘When’s the funeral?’
Allegra realised that her hands were balled into tight fists and her shoulders were tense. Of course she’ll come to the funeral. She has to, I suppose. She said, ‘The coroner is releasing Xander’s body now and the funeral is next week, in Scotland.’
Imogen’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Will you send me the details?’
‘Yes.’ Allegra glanced over her shoulder and saw her parents standing at the door to the court, talking to an official. ‘I have to go now.’
‘Allegra …’ Imogen breathed nervously and bit her lip. ‘I’m … I’m sorry.’
‘I’ll see you at the funeral,’ she said brusquely, and hurried off.
Allegra had no idea how she survived it.
She’d never been to the funeral of a young person before, and there was no feeling of celebration or completion. Here, the church was filled with the weight of their despair at the senselessness of a life cut short for no reason.
The whole congregation felt it, and the service was almost unbearable. The hymns could hardly be sung, except in cracked and broken voices, the readings were delivered by people choked with tears. The address, given by their father, was punctuated by sobs from the congregation.
Allegra sat or stood through it all, unable to sing a note. She could only listen, fighting the chaos that was battling inside her. She felt as though it was boiling up, building up a head of steam, and was frightened of what might happen when it decided to burst out of her.
At the graveside their mother collapsed, howling, on to her husband and had to be led away. Allegra stepped forward and threw a small bunch of heather from the garden at Foughton on to the coffin. She stared at it, the rough stalks with their miniature bell flowers on the smooth pine box, unable to believe that Xander was inside it, and that in a few minutes he’d be consigned to the cold underground darkness forever. For a moment she trembled on the edge of panic and hysteria.
He’s not there, she reminded herself, fighting for control. He’s gone.
If she didn’t believe that, how could she cope?
She saw Imogen step out from the mourners and toss in her own tribute: a beautiful white rose in full bloom.
‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, Xander.’ She looked up and locked gazes with Allegra. Imogen’s eyes were swimming with tears and her lip was trembling. For a moment they stared at each other over the open grave. Then Imogen turned away, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.
The wake was held at the castle. The weather was still fine, so they were out of doors, on the lawn. It was as though no one wanted to be shut up in the gloomy interior of the house: they wanted to be outside where they could breathe and see the sun.
Allegra talked politely to relatives and staff, but it was difficult. The atmosphere of overwhelming misery was oppressive and the social chatter felt pointless in the light of the terrible thing that had happened. Couldn’t they all understand that it was over? There wasn’t any point any more. She reached into her handbag for her cigarettes – she’d been smoking far too much recently, she knew that – and wandered away from the main gathering, grateful for the small comfort of a lungful of smoke. She walked further and further away, seeking some peace, until she found that she’d reached the pink marble temple where she and Xander had spent so much time together as c
hildren. Here they’d lain on rugs, read books and munched apples and biscuits; later they’d smoked cigarettes and shared nips of the spirits stolen from the drinks table in the library.
Perhaps I’ll put something here, she thought, something to remember him by. She sat down on the cold stone bench and imagined a small plaque or inscription, something that commemorated him in a private way. What could it be? As a boy, he’d memorised some of his favourite poems and had loved Lear and Belloc. She’d look through the books and find something. She began to remember some lines from ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’.
‘Allegra?’
She looked up. Imogen was standing at the entrance to the little temple, a mournful figure all in black, her hair tucked up inside a beret and her grey eyes huge in her wan face.
‘I wasn’t following you,’ she said quickly. ‘I came here to remember Xander.’
Allegra stared at her and took a drag on her cigarette, releasing the smoke in a long, slow stream. ‘So did I,’ she said. As soon as she saw Imogen, it was like a cold metal shutter had slammed down inside her. Go away, she thought, you have no right to be here. Leave me alone with Xander.
Imogen walked slowly in the temple, her boots tapping on the stone floor. She sat down on the bench next to Allegra and looked at her, but Allegra kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, out between the marble columns of the little temple and over the bleak Scottish countryside.
‘Allegra …’ Imogen’s voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper. ‘I know how you must feel …’
‘I don’t think so,’ she managed to say through gritted teeth. ‘I don’t think you do.’ The anger inside her was swirling round, getting faster, like a whirlpool gathering strength.
‘I loved him too.’ The words were breathed rather than spoken, to be picked up and carried away on the winter breeze.
Allegra whirled round on her, her eyes blazing. ‘If you loved him,’ she shouted, ‘then why did you let him die?’
Imogen recoiled in shock, her mouth falling open, her eyes appalled. ‘What?’
‘You heard me!’ The words came out now in a fierce torrent. She was saying things she didn’t even know she’d been thinking. ‘What were you doing with him that night anyway? How could you have let this happen? You, of all people! You owe our family for everything you’ve got – everything! He trusted you and you let him kill himself in this stupid, stupid way!’
‘No, no …’ Imogen shook her head. Her voice was agonised. ‘You can’t blame me for this.’
‘Who else is there?’ cried Allegra. ‘You could have helped him! You let him die!’
‘How can you say that?’ Imogen’s face contorted at the awfulness of Allegra’s words. She clutched the edge of the bench, her knuckles white. ‘I loved him! For half my life I adored him.’
Allegra jumped to her feet and walked to the entrance to the temple. She spun round and said, almost imploringly, ‘Then how could it have happened, Imogen? How?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her voice cracked and she closed her eyes. ‘He did it to himself. I’ll never know why.’
‘I’m so angry!’ cried Allegra. Her mouth trembled, then distorted, and she hit the marble column with her fist as tears began to pour down her face. ‘I’m so angry – with death, and with Xander, and with everything!’
‘I’ve got to live with it too, you know!’ Imogen shouted, standing up, her hands shaking and her face pale. ‘Every day, I wonder if I could have stopped him. Every day, I feel guilty that I didn’t wake up and find him before it was too late. I can’t stop remembering what it was like to find him … to know he’d gone, that he was dead. You’re not the only one to suffer!’ She began to cry, sitting back down on the bench, her shoulders slumping.
Allegra stared at her, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. She took a deep breath. ‘No. You’re right,’ she said, calmer now she had said the thing that had been poisoning her for days. Now it had been released, it had lost some of its power and her cold anger began to melt away leaving only the despair. ‘You didn’t let him die. We all did. None of us stopped him when there was still time.’ She stared down at her tear-streaked hands. ‘But that’s what my life is like, you see. I never manage to do the right thing until it’s too late. I kill everything. Xander … my friendship with Romily …’ She gazed down at Imogen, her eyes dark with sorrow. ‘Sophie.’
‘No.’ Imogen shook her head. ‘No. You didn’t kill Sophie.’
‘It’s all my fault.’ Allegra bowed her head.
‘It isn’t. It’s not your fault, or my fault … none of us is responsible for what someone else chooses to do!’ Imogen stood up and walked towards her.
‘My life is horrible,’ Allegra whispered. ‘It always has been. Ever since Sophie died … even before … Only Xander knew what it was like, because only he had been through the same. He was the only one who understood. And now he’s left me.’ She stared down at her friend, tears welling up and sliding down her face. ‘What am I going to do?’ Her voice shook. ‘How can I go on?’
‘You’ve got me … you’ve still got me,’ Imogen said, and threw her arms around Allegra, who remained stiff and unbending. ‘Please, Allegra …’
Allegra felt the weight of her sorrow crushing her down. She put her head on her friend’s shoulder, her arms round the other girl, and cried, huge, shuddering sobs, until there didn’t seem to be any more tears left inside her.
When the storm of crying was over, she was left drained and calm.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, lifting her head at last. ‘I shouldn’t have said those awful things.’
Imogen led her back to the bench to sit down again. She took a tissue out of her pocket and gave it to Allegra, who blew her nose and wiped her eyes. ‘He didn’t mean to kill himself, I know that. And I would never have hurt him. I meant it when I said I loved him.’
‘I know you did. He was like a brother to you as well.’
‘No.’ Imogen shook her head. She gazed steadily at Allegra. ‘I really loved him. Properly. I had for years. I thought it was hopeless, but that last night we spent together … for a moment there seemed a possibility we might be together. I was so happy – and he was too. I just know it.’
Allegra stared back, absorbing Imogen’s words. ‘Did he feel the same? Were you going to make a go of it?’ she asked wonderingly.
Imogen said, ‘I can never be sure. But I hope that he might have given us a chance.’ Her voice trembled. ‘That’s why it’s so hard to live with. It seems so horribly cruel, to give him to me and then take him away like that, so soon.’
Allegra put her hand out to her friend. ‘I’m so sorry, Midge. I didn’t realise.’
Imogen took it and they held hands, taking comfort from each other. Then Allegra spoke in a quiet voice.
‘I’m glad that you were there with him. Fate must have made you bump into each other that day, so you could go with him to that awful party. He spent his last night with someone who truly loved him – and who was his friend. That makes me happier. It’s one crumb of comfort in this terrible mess.’
‘There is something else.’ Imogen took a deep breath then said, ‘I’m pregnant. And the baby is Xander’s.’
PART 5
Chapter 48
London
September 2009
OSCAR’S WAS LIT up, every room blazing with light. The front door was open and burly security guards stood to each side of the entrance. On the pavement people had stopped to stare, held back by velvet ropes, as the glamorous guests arrived in their smart cars and taxis.
Inside they were greeted by waitresses holding trays of Krug, and then directed up the main staircase and into the club.
Allegra and Adam had arranged the guest list between them: a thousand people had been invited to become founder members of Oscar’s, and almost everyone had accepted. Now they were arriving to celebrate the club’s inception and satisfy their curiosity. What did this new place have to offer? After all, there were
plenty of other clubs in London to join, according to your taste. What was so special about this one?
The answer was apparent from the first moment they came into the house: just like Colette’s, Oscar’s was built around luxury and comfort. The whole place felt like a home rather than a commercial space. The walls were papered and covered in proper paintings, mostly twentieth-century, from great abstract oils to quirky modern prints. Sculpture and ornaments were displayed everywhere, along with the vast amounts of flowers that were a feature of Colette’s, too. Sofas, chairs and banquettes were luxuriously and expensively upholstered, and piled with soft cushions.
But where Colette’s style was graceful English country house, Oscar’s felt like something altogether more modern. Its design, colour choice and decor were all more contemporary, as though these premises belonged to a fashionable, rich art collector with an eye for interior design. The first floor contained the restaurants – there were two, one informal and the other more grand – the luxurious rest rooms, and the bar and sitting rooms, where members could relax with their guests and enjoy some excellent cocktails or fine wines. Colette’s specialised in French wines – classic Bordeaux was a particular favourite among the members – but here the wine list was more varied and suited to people who’d grown up happily quaffing Californian, Australian and New Zealand wines, and had no problems with a decent Chilean Merlot.
On the next floor was the private screening room, and a function room that could be used for private dinners, cocktail parties, or even (though no one dared admit it to David) business meetings. On this floor too were the library and study area, expanded from the original plans as Allegra realised how many writers and journalists were going to be on the membership list. All of those people would appreciate a quiet place to work. On the floor above was the restaurant with the retractable roof that became a dance floor at midnight. The plans had been adjusted to include a terrace area that would become the smokers’ refuge when the weather was too bad to open the roof.