Forget Me Not (27 page)

‘Was your father definitely in Brazil for those eight months? With no breaks?’

‘Definitely.’

‘There’s no way he might have forgotten, is there? It was thirty years ago, after all.’

‘He does
The Times
crossword every day in twenty minutes. His memory is still excellent. He said he knew for sure that he came back on August the ninth, because that was his mother’s birthday.’

‘And is there any chance your mum might have gone out to Brazil?’

‘That’s a very good question,’ I said. ‘And I did ask him that a couple of days later as casually as I could; and he said that there had been no question of her joining him because she was looking after me and Mark – we were five and seven at the time.’

‘So you believe that while your father was in Brazil all those years ago, your mother had an affair, which led to the birth of your sister.’

‘Yes, that’s what I now believe. Dad admitted that it had been a very unhappy time for him and that the marriage had been under strain; and it would at last explain why Cassie’s so … different.’

‘But what a huge thing to conceal.’ An ice-cream van went down the road, blasting out its cheery but somehow melancholy jingle. ‘And for such a long time.’

‘You’re telling me.’ I pressed the tissue to my eyes.

‘And how do you feel about Cassie now?’

I looked at the ceiling. ‘I thought I’d feel differently about her – alienated and awkward – but the truth is I feel exactly the same. She’s still my very annoying, feckless and frustrating sister …
Cassie
.’

Jenny nodded. ‘But why do you think your parents wouldn’t have told her at some stage – let alone you and your brother?’

I shrugged. ‘I suppose because Dad was trying to protect Mum. He adored her. He must have adored her to have coped with what had happened – or what she’d done, rather,’ I added miserably. ‘And I assume he wouldn’t have wanted Mark and me to know in case we thought badly of her.’

‘So his aim was to protect her and to preserve the illusion of family unity.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s perfectly understandable, though unfortunately it entailed the deception with which you’re now struggling. But who do you think might have taken the photo?’

I shrugged. ‘No idea. Some passing stranger probably.’

‘And where would you and Mark have been at the time?’

‘Probably with Dad’s mother, Granny Temple. She loved having us over. So perhaps Mum had dropped us off there while she went to meet … him. This Carlo …’ I shook my head. ‘I still can’t believe it, Jenny. Even though I’m thirty-five and haven’t exactly had a child in ideal circumstances myself.’

‘What shocks you most about it?’ Jenny asked gently. ‘The thought that your mother had an affair? Or the fact that you’d never been told the truth – if it
is
the truth – about Cassie?’

‘It’s both,’ I replied. ‘But I’m principally shocked by the fact that my mother had … an affair. I can hardly say it, still less get my head round it.’

‘Why not?’ Jenny asked. ‘A lot of women stray during their marriages. It’s the stuff of life.’

‘I know, but it seems so totally unlike her. My mother was so … proper,’ I protested. ‘She was always telling us how not to let ourselves down – how to behave well – when it now seems that she herself didn’t always do that.’

‘How do you feel about her now?’

‘I feel a bit angry with her – and … let down.’

‘Because you’d always idealised her?’

‘To some degree – yes. But because she always projected this image of her marriage as being so perfect and rock-solid when it clearly can’t have been. She had someone else’s
baby
.’

‘But she was a beautiful young woman then. She had two small children. Her husband went away for a long spell. Perhaps she resented him for “abandoning” the family, as she might have seen it. Plus you say that she’d married very young.’

‘Yes, at twenty. It was a shotgun wedding.’ So that was two lapses of judgement she’d made.

I heard the soft scrape of Jenny’s pencil across her pad. ‘And your dad was older than her?’

‘By twelve years.’

‘Which is quite a big gap. Who knows, they might have had problems before he went to Brazil. Then she’s left on her own for eight months and she meets this handsome man, an Italian from what you say, about the same age as herself. And he makes her feel loved instead of lonely …’ I thought of Mum’s euphoric expression in the photo. ‘Your mother was a human being, Anna.’

‘I know.’ I could hear the tick of a clock somewhere.

‘And she probably gave you that advice because she was trying to make sure that you didn’t make the mistakes that she felt she’d made.’

‘That’s true.’ I thought of how she’d interfered in Mark’s life too – with such regrettable results. ‘But what I can’t understand is why my dad would then have treated Cassie not with a resigned tolerance, or even resentment, but as though she were his favourite. He’s always spoilt her in a way he’s never spoilt me. That’s what doesn’t make sense.’

There was a pause. ‘I’d say it does,’ Jenny said.

‘Why?’

‘Because in order to keep his family together, he’d decided to bring up this baby as his own, despite the distress he must have felt. Your mother also wanted to keep the family together, clearly, so she agreed to go along with the deceit that Cassie was his. But that might be the very reason why he indulged Cassie.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Perhaps he was so afraid that he wouldn’t be
able
to love her that he went out of his way to spoil her – to get a positive reaction from her, which would help him to feel paternal towards her. Perhaps that was the only way he could cope. Because if he rejected Cassie, the illusion of family unity would be impossible and everything would fall apart.’

It’s almost as though he was trying to compensate her for
something
.

‘You could be right,’ I said quietly. I stood up. ‘I’m glad I’ve talked to you, Jenny. You have a lot of wisdom. Thank you.’

‘So … What now?’

I heaved a deep sigh. ‘I don’t know.’

‘One option is to try to forget about it and carry on as though nothing’s happened. Do you want to do that?’

I shook my head. ‘It’s too big. But it’s not up to me to tell Cassie the truth, is it?’

‘So who is it up to?’

‘My father, of course.’

The next night, as I got ready for the Edwards’ party, I thought about how I might broach such an impossible subject with Dad. I’d have to choose my moment very carefully, I reflected as I put on my earrings. It might be easier to do it over the phone, or perhaps I could write him a letter; or maybe I should just get myself on the
Jerry Springer Show
and we could have it all out on there. Perhaps they’d even find Carlo, I mused as I slipped on my shoes. I imagined a punch-up between him and Dad, followed by a touching reconciliation brought about by an unexpectedly mature intervention by Cassie. The studio audience would go wild.

My reverie was broken by the sound of Luisa singing to Milly: ‘
Centellea, centellea, estrellita
…’

This was too much. I went downstairs.

‘
Me pregunto que eres tu
…’

‘Luisa,’ I said quietly. ‘The words to that song are “Twinkle twinkle little star / How I wonder what you are”. Would you kindly
stop
singing them to Milly in Spanish? However lovely your voice, I find it intensely annoying – and would you please stop talking to her in Spanish because you are
confusing
her.’ I thought of the biting incident at Sweet Peas. Then I thought of all the money Luisa had in her room: on my most recent narco-snoop I’d seen that her nest egg had grown to five grand. ‘I paid for you to go to English classes,’ I went on, struggling to control my tone. ‘But as far as I can tell you’ve done no studying.’

Luisa flushed bright red. ‘Am sorry, Anna.’

‘And when I can get to speak to your English teacher, Mr Cox – with whom I have now left three messages – I’m going to ask him precisely what you do there.’ She blenched. ‘I know you go every morning,’ I went on, ‘but what you get up to there during those three hours is beyond my comprehension.’

‘Comprensión
?’ she repeated blankly.

‘
Sí. Comprensión
! Understanding! What we don’t have enough of around here!’

‘
Mamá, estás enfadada con Luisa?
’ Milly said.

‘I’m not cross with her,’ I replied. ‘
Nada más estoy un poco
frustrada
.’

Milly turned to Luisa. ‘
La Momia is infeliz actualmente
.’

‘I am
not
unhappy,’ I protested. ‘I am fine, thank you very much. Anyway …’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’ll see you later, Milly.’ I kissed her. ‘Be a good girl.’

‘
Soy una chica buena!
’ she protested indignantly.

‘I know you are, darling,’ I said

I got a cab to the party so that I could drink. As it drew up outside the house I saw a column of guests flowing up the steps and being welcomed by aproned caterers bearing trays of champagne. As I took a glass I glanced at the label – it was vintage Veuve Clicquot. The Edwards’ did nothing by halves.

I went through the hall, which was now hung with expensive paintings and decorated with two floral arrangements the size of telephone kiosks. The scent of stargazer lilies mingled with the cloud of expensive perfume that clung to the beautifully dressed crowd.

‘-We’ll be going to Sardinia again.’

‘-We’ve got a place in Monaco.’

‘-I did have a Sisley, but I sold it.’

‘-The way the dollar’s going …’

‘-Will you be at the Cartier again this year?’

I stepped out of the french windows, stopped and looked down on to the garden, allowing myself to enjoy the moment. I felt my chest fill with pride. The limestone paving gleamed in the early-evening sunlight, the raised flowerbeds looked elegantly architectural and the plants within them complemented each other in terms of their colour and form. The granite water feature looked imposing; the pleached limes were neat and smart, their clipped branches beautifully intertwining, as though the four little trees had linked arms. I was relieved to see that no one was standing on the lawn – the high heels would have wrecked the new turf.

There were about a hundred people there already – I recognised a few figures from the City, a couple of politicians and one or two celebrities, who were probably private clients of Gill’s. I spotted the cellist Julian Lloyd-Webber; he was talking to the actor Robert Powell, who was leaning against one of the tall granite planters.

Seeing Powell made me think of Carol Gowing, because she’d done an episode of
Holby City
in which she’d had some scenes with him. I found myself wondering what had become of her and whether Mark still thought of her, four years on, and whom, if anyone, he was with now.

‘Anna!’ Gill Edwards was at my elbow, in a salmon-coloured silk shirt-dress. ‘I’m thrilled you could come. So …’ She indicated the garden with a sweep of her hand. ‘What do you think? Are you pleased?’

‘I am – if you are.’

‘I’m delighted,’ she replied. ‘We’re both delighted. Martin even likes the hydrangeas.’ She giggled. These were not the pink mop-headed ones that he had so loathed, but a compromise variety –
Hydrangea paniculata
– which have elegant cones of white flowers. ‘Now, who do you know here?’

‘Just you and Martin, I think.’

She grabbed my hand. ‘Then let me introduce you to some very old friends of ours – Antonia and Eduardo Morea. This is Anna Temple,’ Gill said, leading me towards the couple. ‘Anna is the very talented designer of this lovely garden.’ I could have kissed her.

‘You’re the garden designer?’ Antonia said. She was about sixty, elegant in a pale-pink silk trouser suit with a dove-grey pashmina.

‘Yes, I am.’ I tried not to gawk at the postage-stamp-sized lozenge diamond on her ring finger.

‘Eduardo and I were just admiring it – it’s fantastic. How long did it take to build?’ I explained. ‘And are you very busy at the moment?’

My heart leapt. ‘Fairly busy,’ I was careful to say.

‘Because we live in Belsize Park and our garden really could do with a facelift, couldn’t it, Eddie? Mind you,’ she snorted, ‘he says the same thing about me.’

‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ he protested. ‘But we could make much more of the garden, that’s true. Oh, yes please,’ he said as a passing waiter offered us some more champagne.

‘Do you have a business card?’ his wife asked me.

I’d decided in advance that handing out cards would look crass. ‘I think the best thing would be to ask Gill. Or you could visit my website? My name’s Anna Temple.’

Mrs Morea took a leather-bound notebook out of her clutch bag and scribbled in it with a tiny gold pencil. ‘Anna … Temple …’ She smiled at me. ‘I’ll take a look. But I love these huge planters – and that fountain is wonderful and sounds lovely.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Well, we mustn’t hog you,’ she said. ‘But I am definitely going to call you.’ I smiled goodbye, knowing that she probably wouldn’t, but having enjoyed our chat.

There was still no sign of Jamie as I went down the steps, but then I saw a familiar face. ‘Miles!’ I exclaimed. My old boss.

‘Anna!’ he almost shouted. ‘How lovely to see you.’ He clutched both my hands and kissed me warmly on the cheek. He still looked like an overgrown cherub, except that his blond curls were a little greyer than before. ‘But … how do you know Gill and Martin?’

‘They’re clients of mine.’

‘You mean you built this … ?’

‘No. My wonderful landscaper, Jamie, built it. But I designed it.’

‘Well, Fabia and I have just moved out to Hampshire. Now I know what you can do I’ll get you to come out and see our garden – it’s a two-acre wreck.’

‘I’d love to,’ I said. ‘And how are your boys?’ I asked as a caterer offered us a caviar canapé.

‘They’re great. The eldest will start boarding next year – I can hardly believe it. But what about your little girl?’ he asked. ‘Sue showed me a photo – she looks adorable.’