A Hidden Life (42 page)

‘I couldn't … what would I say? I've never written an introduction
before, how long would it have to be?' Her heart was suddenly pounding. She didn't know whether she was terrified or excited. Perhaps a bit of both. She'd just written a whole screenplay, but this was a proper commission.

‘I thought you could write a piece about how you remember your grandfather. Personal stuff. Nothing too intellectual. Just what he was to you. It's the sort of thing our readers love … Would you consider it? About two thousand words.'

‘Well, if you're sure. Anyway, how do you know I can write?'

‘I'll take a chance. If it doesn't work, we'll think again. Can you?'

‘Write? Yes, I think I can. But it'll be a challenge. I've never done anything like this before. D'you think it would make the book better?'

‘I do. And there's something else. You'd have your name on it. Have you considered that? Can't I appeal to your vanity?'

There was that smile again. ‘Okay. I'll try. I'll write something and email it to you.'

‘Great. Let's have a pudding, okay?'

Suddenly, Lou felt hungry again. The book would be there, in the bookshops with her name on the cover, under Grandad's. For an instant she wished more than anything that he were alive to see it, but this was still fantastic.
Blind Moon by John Barrington with an introduction by Louise Barrington.
She said, ‘Yes, I'd love something. Thanks.'

When the waiter arrived, Jake said,
‘Tarte au citron
for me.'

‘And for me, please,' Lou added.

‘Coffee?'

She nodded. She didn't really feel like coffee, but it seemed the right thing to have at this moment. Sophisticated. A writer's drink.

‘Now,' Jake said, ‘that we've dealt with business, I'd like you to tell me about yourself.'

He sounded as though he meant it. Lou folded her napkin and laid it on the table.

‘I've wanted to be a writer ever since I can remember,' she began and saw him lean forward. He was interested. He wasn't pretending to be. He really, truly was.

Nessa sighed into the phone. ‘No, Justin, I'm not at home. I'm in London.'

‘That's amazing. So am I. Please tell me where you are, Nessa. I need to talk. I'm in a car. I'll come straight round to wherever it is.'

How irritating was this? Why did he need to talk? Surely it could wait. Everything had to be immediate with Justin. He was the Emperor of Instant Gratification – now, now, everything now. She glanced sideways to where Mickey, stark naked, lay on the bed with the satin coverlet wrapped round her. They hadn't even got as far as getting in between the sheets, but then it was only four o'clock. She could hardly say it was too late … she did some quick mental calculation. If he came round now, they could get rid of him reasonably quickly. She could make some excuse. They'd still be able to have another swim and then supper and then come back to bed. Thank God for small mercies. Justin might have phoned fifteen minutes earlier. She wouldn't have been able to answer the phone. Wouldn't have wanted to. Just thinking about what they'd been doing only a few moments ago, she and Mickey, made her feel aroused all over again. Now she had to concentrate on her silly brother who was obviously in some trouble.

‘You haven't done anything stupid, have you? Drugs or something?'

‘God, Nessa, give me credit for some sense!'

Sense was precisely what Nessa did not give him credit for, but she said only, ‘Okay. Be in the lobby of the Devere Lodge Hotel in fifteen minutes. Can you do that? It's in Mayfair, just round the corner from the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square.'

‘I'll find it, don't worry. I'm in the area. I'll be there. What are you doing somewhere like the Devere? Are you alone?'

‘No, as a matter of fact. Not that it's any of your business. I'm getting ready now and I'll see you soon, okay?'

She snapped the phone shut before he could ask any more questions.

‘Bloody nuisance, my brother,' she said to Mickey. ‘Do you want to come down with me and see what he wants?'

‘No, it's okay. I'll wait up here. He might not want to confess whatever he has to confess in front of me.'

‘Maybe you could come down later. Give me half an hour or so and then just appear. Okay? Will you do that?'

Nessa was at the dressing-table mirror with a good view of Mickey on the bed behind her.

‘Okay, no problem. I'll be down soon.'

Nessa made her way to reception. It would be a pleasure to sit here for a while and wait for Justin. This hotel was complete bliss. The sofa she chose was red velvet and sinking into it was like burying yourself in the petals of a rose. Justin would spend the entire time till he saw her wondering
How come Nessa's in London? Who's she with? What's the story?
He knew about the divorce of course, but not in detail. For a moment, she felt a little nostalgic about how they used to be, she and Justin, when they were kids. Close. Telling one another everything. She dismissed this vague feeling of regret as nothing but sentimentality. The truth of the matter was she'd adored her little brother when that was all he was, but when he grew up into a rather selfish and, in her opinion, not terribly intelligent man, she'd gone off him. As simple as that. She wondered how many siblings, parents – relatives of one kind and another – went on pretending to love one another because of convenience, what was expected and so forth, when in truth love had disappeared out of the equation long ago. She'd have put good money on it being most people. For instance, she asked herself, how much love does Phyl have for us now that we've left home? We'll all troop down there next week to celebrate Matt's birthday in the traditional way, but I bet if I cancelled and Justin cancelled it would make not a jot of difference to our Non-Wicked Stepmother. Lou was a different matter. Where Matt and Phyl were concerned she was the bee's knees and little Poppy of course could do no wrong. So maybe it was the blood is thicker than water thing, but that wasn't entirely it, because how to account for her not really loving Justin any longer? She sighed. The love she felt for Mickey had pushed most other emotions into a small corner of her being. And she'd go to the dinner in Haywards Heath because Matt, oddly enough, did genuinely seem to want to keep in touch. He does love me and Justin, she told herself, and wondered fleetingly
whether it was because they reminded him of the blissful days when he was married to Ellie … that was a possibility. The drag about this particular birthday was the fact that Matt insisted on Gareth coming too, and Tamsin. She'd asked him why on the phone, pointing out that a divorce was a divorce. He'd replied, mildly but firmly, that Gareth was still Tamsin's father and it was a family event.

‘And besides,' he'd added, ‘I'm not divorced from Gareth. Surely you can spend one evening in his company?'

And she'd agreed because, above all, she wanted to be thought of as civilized and doing everything she could to keep things normal for Tamsin. But it was a drag, because for a long time she'd imagined that perhaps Matt's birthday would be a suitable occasion for her to arrive with Mickey as an obvious couple. She'd even kidded herself that she could just
be
in her new situation without having to explain anything to anyone. No such luck. That would have to be done quite separately. Perhaps we should host a coming-out ball, tee hee. She was smiling at the thought when she saw Justin coming through the revolving doors. She waved at him.

‘Hello, Justin,' she said. ‘I can't get up, this sofa's too comfy. Come and sit down. You look like hell.'

‘Always so kind, Nessa darling.' He sank down beside her and gave her cheek a perfunctory kiss. ‘But you're right for a change. I look like hell because I feel like hell.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘It's hard to know where to begin …' Justin said. ‘Can we order something to drink? I need something … how about a glass of wine?'

Nessa stood up and went to the bar. She ordered two glasses of white wine and while the barman was getting them, turned to look at Justin on the sofa. He had an expression on his face which she recognized from childhood. This was how he looked when another kid had taken something of his and not given it back: wounded, aggressive, and on the verge of a tantrum. This, she thought, is going to be interesting.

‘It's always good to see you, Lou, you know that. Even with a piece of information like this.' Matt smiled at his daughter. ‘And your
mum's always happy to see Poppy, even for a few hours. Can't you stay the night?'

‘No, not really, Dad. There's stuff I have to do, but I'm so grateful to you for this idea. And I'm sorry to have sprung it on you. I was upset when Mme Franchard told me. I've thought about it since, though, and I don't know what I believe any longer. It might all be made up. I just felt – well, Rosemary was the only grandmother figure you had, even though you weren't very close, I know.'

Matt stared down at the slightly worn leather that covered his desk and fiddled with his letter-opener. ‘Come along, then. Let's have a look and see what's in the files.'

They made their way down the stairs to the cellar, which had been converted many years ago into a storage room.

‘I had no idea this was down here. So many files! What's in them all?' Lou stared around her and Matt laughed.

‘Old wills, property-searches, papers of every kind. Some people think it's a pile of junk but I prefer to call it an archive. A fantastic filing system in any case, which Rosemary's husband set up and we're still grateful to him for it, believe me. Right. Let's see.'

‘What are you looking for exactly?' Lou wanted to know. She was peering at the labels as they walked between free-standing shelves, crowded with box files.

‘I know it's down here somewhere. Yes, here you are. Rosemary's papers.' He pulled the file off the shelf and opened it. ‘Not much in here, really. I can honestly say I've never opened this before. Let's take it upstairs and have a look. I'll get someone to bring us a cup of coffee.'

Seeing Lou sitting in the client's chair made Matt feel strange. He'd hidden from his daughter the shock he'd felt when she broke her news: that his adopted grandmother might have murdered his father's birth mother. He was used to hiding his feelings and concentrated on keeping his voice even as he searched methodically through Rosemary's effects.

‘Birth certificate, marriage certificate, will. Various bits and bobs. I thought as much,' he said at last. ‘And there are letters in here. From my father to Rosemary. Nothing of much interest. This is her prayer book. She went to church every Sunday of her life as far as I know.'

Matt picked up the leather-bound book. A small piece of blue writing paper fell out of it as soon as he opened the front cover and he picked it up and read aloud what Rosemary had written on it in her spidery hand:

Matt could feel himself turning cold. When he finished reading the letter, the silence grew, filling the room, and then he spoke again. ‘My father must have hidden this letter after Rosemary died. Folded it into a book he knew wouldn't ever be looked at again. Filed it away in the cellar assuming no one would ever come across it. And look at the date: 1963. Two years before the publication of
Blind Moon.
' He sighed and buried his head in his hands. ‘It's as though this letter gave him permission to write the book. To tell the truth. And to hide the fact that he was doing so by pretending it was a novel. Making up names for all the characters.'

Lou sprang up and went round to Matt's side of the desk and threw her arms around him. ‘Oh, Dad,' she said. ‘This must be such a terrible shock for you. I'm so sorry …'

‘No, no, it's all right.' Matt hugged his daughter. ‘It oughtn't to make any difference and yet … d'you think he knew all the time? From his days in the camp? From his early childhood?'

Lou nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. I think he saw her die. His real mother. It's very – very vivid. You'll have to read it, Dad. Now that you know it's not invented.'

Matt laughed. ‘That's a bit of a thing, isn't it? I never read my dad's books when I thought they were an invention and now this one turns out to be true, so I've got no excuse, have I? Have to find out what he went through. Poor bugger.' Tears came to his eyes and he blinked them away. ‘He had to live with that his whole life. Why couldn't he have told me? Or my mother?'

‘Constance wouldn't have been the most sympathetic person, I shouldn't think. And Grandad wouldn't want her getting on even worse with Rosemary than she did, would he? He'd have pushed it all down, deep inside him. Hidden it until he came to write the book.'

Matt put the sheet of blue paper back into the prayer book. ‘Let's go home. I want to talk to your mother. And thank you, Lou, for telling me this. I won't pretend it's not a shock, but it's always better to know the truth.'