I'll Let You Go (81 page)

When the body had been lowered, inevitably calling to mind the whirligig boy across the way—when they had taken turns shoveling dirt over the box—after all had stepped back in respectful contemplation—that is when the final mourner arrived.

Pullman loped to the grave and no one interfered. He circled, tentatively poking his head in the airspace above. Seeing the great hole, he used a paw to push in a clod; if that weren't enough, roundly and ceremonially chuffed. Some of the mourners swore they heard the old man chuff in return.

A
n autopsy revealed that Louis Trotter had exsanguinated into his thoracic cavity. Trinnie attended a meeting at the law firm that had represented her father for thirty-five years. It was suggested that Cedars-Sinai be sued for employing what the attorneys characterized as a “fatally non-aggressive” treatment plan, the assertion being that their client had died of medical inaction.

An aneurysm such as his was rare, and the doctors hadn't caught it; they had attempted to rule out cancer or thyroiditis instead. They admitted being frustrated in their efforts to extract cells during the initial outpatient procedure, and the pathologists now had an understanding of why they had failed. It was speculated that some months ago, a microscopic tear in the decedent's arterial wall had caused a leakage of blood—the root of Mr. Trotter's difficulty in closing his collars. The hole had spontaneously repaired and the blood resorbed. Such a “rip” may have had its origin years ago, and been caused by trauma; a car accident or what have you. (There
had
been a collision with a taxi in Mallorca, but that was in '85.) The innominate artery had been weakened and filled with “turbulent” blood flow, then burst from its capsule underneath the collarbone that day as the old man leafed through the pages of a recently acquired twelfth-century bestiary.

Trinnie knew that her father never had any use for hospitals; he was a lousy, irascible patient and saw doctors on his terms, not theirs. He had lived a long and wonderful life and would not have wished a drawn-out lawsuit to be part of his legacy. So while Trinnie was amused that a
quantity of physicians were shitting their pants, she forbade the lawyers to proceed.

O
n ten o'clock Wednesday morning, they left Burbank by private jet. When they returned, approximately three and a half hours later, they were married—again. The oldlyweds agreed to tell no one, not even Toulouse.

Why had Trinnie proposed (for Marcus would not have dared)? The reasons were manifold. She was thrilled at the effect he was having on her son. It was as if some magnificent chunk of the boy had been restored—perhaps his heart. He seemed more
alive
with his daddy in the world, more at ease, more boyish, more manly, more everything. It may have been her pride that colored what she saw, but Trinnie knew he respected Marcus's native intelligence and eagerly sought him out for all manner of arcana, and was usually more than satisfied with the response. Seeing them together like that—student and mentor—was a
coup de foudre
.

Yet it wasn't just the child they shared. She was forced to admit to her therapist that her husband's psychosis had always made him more perversely attractive; now it pulled her in deeper still, potentiated by the feeling she had in her bones that he would never leave her—them—again. In the time since his return, Trinnie had become convinced the wrenching dislocation that had transpired between them was actually a
good
thing; they were now in possession of their own “personal myth,” portable and custom-made, to which they'd been fated, and fated to recover from, too. The past would hold no dominion, and they would be infinitely richer for it.

In other words, she had fallen in love for a second time.

The therapist had some concerns. (They always do.)

The most compelling reason for repeating those vows was the death of her father. The digger had always felt guilty for not having protected her from the beginning; he had built La Colonne out of hubris, and it became their tomb. It didn't matter that his feelings were irrational—to marry Marcus again would close the circle, and give the old man absolution. Hadn't she told him on his deathbed that they'd spent the night there? Hadn't the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile?

She had lost a man to the tower just as before—sacrificed so the other might stay.

“G
randma!” shouted Lucy, running to Bluey's arms.

Though her name was now officially Rose, she had graciously agreed to fall back on the birth moniker so as not to further confuse our dear cottage resident. The old woman looked stricken; Lucy had forgotten (and Toulouse had failed to remind her) that Bluey didn't take well to noise or abrupt movement. Even the girl's clothes were loud—a Lacroix jigsaw-print mini with red tights and lime-green ankle boots. Her grandmother smiled and softened, yet didn't say a word. Lucy had enough for both of them.

“Oh, Grandma, I have so much to tell you!” Her accent was still cheap, but she wore it like the crown jewels. “England is so bloody wonderful! Aunt Trinnie said”—“aunt” being pronounced as in the first syllable of “entourage”—“Aunt Trinnie said you used to go there all the time. That you were a ‘regular'—crossing the Pond on the
Queen Mary
, I mean. Very posh:
Port Outward Starboard Home
. Did you know that's what ‘posh' stood for, Toulouse? At least you weren't on the
Titanic
! Aunt Trinnie said you were like a heroine out of Henry James—I'm halfway through
Portrait of a Lady
, and it's
so you
.”

They set out for the wandering garden. Bluey, having twisted her ankle, now used a wheeled walker to get around; its front legs were thrust through tennis balls, to let it glide. She had lost a good deal of weight and constantly drew her tongue—dried-out from incontinence meds—over chapped lips in a futile attempt to moisten them. She cleared her throat incessantly, as if to dislodge foodstuff caught within, because the Haldol prescribed to squelch her delusions affected the ability to swallow. But she still looked elegant, due to Winter's heroic ministrations. She wore her favorite Bill Blass and as usual was scrupulously done up for the children's visit.

The girl with straightened hair didn't seem to register any of the sadder nuances that Bluey presented. The cousins had been to visit a number of times since their grandfather's funeral, and Toulouse was, frankly, sickened by the caricature his relation had become. He hoped it to be a passing phase—he'd heard enough about Miss Hectare and her lord- and ladyships to last a lifetime. Lucy had flaunted the aquamarine
ring “Amanda let me borrow” and couldn't help but inform that it had cost five thousand quid and was designed by none other than the estimable Jade Jagger. He'd seen the charm bracelet she wore around her neck as well—*S*P*O*I*L*M*E*—and heard her prattle on about ludicrous chocolate boxes ringed in Chloé fringed denim that “Stella McCartney created at just four hundred apiece. They say
Eat Me
on the lid, and they're giving all the proceeds to breast cancer! Isn't that brilliant?” She'd exchanged her python Smythson for a fire-engine-red one with the snooty gold cover engravature:

She spoke wantonly of fashion, like a pathetic imitation of his mom—how her “completely knackered” clique all wore Chanel and Ghost and Uth and how she and Amanda went to a Moroccan-style wedding and a Hilton girl took her bloody blouse off and then they went to Paris (the city, not the girl) and sat behind Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Lopez watching models in nun's habits and $70,000 dresses, throats fakely slashed, sashay through fifteenth-century churches on bloodred catwalks—oh, but the “shows” were great fun! Her highest aspiration was to spin records at parties. She said she was meeting lots of boys who thought she was older. They all wanted to “bonk” and she'd actually “snogged” with a twenty-seven-year-old broker at Billie Piper's nineteenth birthday at the Papagaio.

“They're all wankers, for the most part—poseurs. They come up to you straightaway and make their proposition. And you just stand there, gob-smacked. Amanda's older, so she gets hit on more. They're bleeding idiots! Poofs and poseurs! Tossers! Off their heads! They look you straight in the ‘porkpies'—that means ‘eyes.' It's Cockney-rhyming slang, haven't you heard of that, Toulouse? It's
great
fun. They look you in the porkpies, even the ones with rotten ‘boat races'—‘boat race' means ‘face.' And I thought English boys would be so … unaggressive! I was
wrong
, they are seemingly
so
un-English. Bounders! Oh, and Grandma!” She turned to Bluey, as if they were all on a talk show. “We went to the most
amazing
party at Badminton. Have you been? It's where
the duke of Beaufort lives. Lady Hectare's
brilliant
friends with Bunter and Tracy—Bunter's the duke's son. And Bobby is
so cute
. He's only twelve, but he's an earl, the earl of Glamorgan or something. There were
huge
amounts of marquesses and marchionesses, viscounts and countesses and even a bishop—the bishop of Kensington, I think. The
houses
there. They are
castles
, they are
manors
, Stradella is shite! Stradella is naff! Oh, Toulouse! I forgot—there was a Spanish infanta there too! But we never met her. Oh, bollocks. We were too busy painting our faces and being wicked! The duke's wife is a landscape artist, just like Aunt Trinnie. They have a nanny from New Zealand who
so
reminded me of Winter … and the marquess of Bath was there—Alex, I think he's called—he's friends with your mom. Oh! And do you
know
who showed up? The marquess of Went! Remember when we were at Leaf House with Edward and that old man showed us the maze? Well, that was
his
property—I mean, the marquess of Went. But the marquess of
Bath
is so
cute
, looks like a bloody wizard. And he's witty! And he wears the most
brilliant
vests and ties—and lives at Longleat with the marchioness—they're ‘trouble and strife'—that's husband and wife. But Amanda said Lord Bath has
lots
of wives—‘wifelets,' I think he calls them. He's like a Mormon. Do they call that ‘polygamous'? Oh, Toulouse, he's the
most
brilliant hippie! Longleat's open to the public. It would be like having crowds troop through Olde CityWalk, but that's the way they do it, because the upkeep is so expensive. They even have a
zoo
there, and bollocks if there isn't a gorilla living on an island
gob-smack
in the middle of the lake … oh it's posh and posh-totty. There are lions and tigers and rhinos and giraffes—and even a railway! Capability Brown did the landscaping, Trinnie told me all about her. Didn't Trinnie tell you about Capability Brown? Capability did Sutton Place too, that's the Hectares'. It's in Surrey—Surrey with a bloody fringe on top!
Capability Brown
and
Gertrude Jekyll …
aren't they the queerest, most brilliant names? Oh don't make a face, Toulouse, you look like an arse. Anyway, the duke had this very fab party and ordered everyone to wear purple leather and suede. Well, maybe it wasn't the duke's party, maybe it was his son's. And there was an entirely
different
brilliant gathering where the men wore tuxedos and went
shooting
. Foxes? Or maybe birds—I'm not sure. These people are
super
multitaskers! They're brilliant! And there are
ghosts
in that house, Grandma—I say ‘house' but it's more like a small
country
—it's like fifty thousand acres! Lauren Bush was there, and
Madonna, and the prince of Bourbon too. (Amanda calls him the Prince of Scotch and Soda, but not to his face.) Everyone got bloody well off their heads and played polo and it started to rain cats and dogs and the duke had a helicopter hover over the wicket so it wouldn't pour on the pitch. Oh, Toulouse, you
have
to meet the Dent-Brocklehursts! Then Henry did a little dance and it stopped pouring! It was brilliant. Jemma introduced me to George Harrison, of the Beatles? I had no idea who he was! Amanda said he was stabbed or something, and he looks a hundred years old. Got cancer, too. A gray, gray man. Amanda and I were in the kitchen and she said, ‘You've just met one of the Beatles,' and
I
said, ‘Bob's your uncle!' When I go back next week, we're going to a party at Gatcombe Park. And guess who's having it: Zara Phillips! She's Princess Anne's daughter but doesn't ‘wear' a title, isn't that so fab? Got a pierced tongue, Zara does—Amanda and I are thinking of getting
ours
pierced. But don't you
dare
say anything to your mum, Toulouse, or I'll be fit to—”

She couldn't help but notice that her grandmother was now leaning on the walker with her elbows and reaching out with both arms—rather plaintively at that. Lucy regarded her with a slightly confused smile; thinking that she wished to be held, the young socialite put a stiff upper lip on it while she and Toulouse maneuvered the old woman from her encumbrance. Now free, they embraced—and Bluey began to scream. No ordinary outburst, but a high-pitched bone-rattling ululation that startled the girl and filled her with horror. (Winter later reported that it usually happened at night and was the cause of some wonderment, because once begun, the siren could last up to fourteen hours without relenting or even varying much in pitch. Even those who had seen their share of screamers were astonished at the suprahuman outpouring.)

Lucy tried to break away, but found the old woman's grip to be formidable. Toulouse did what he could to pry them apart but was fearful of injuring his grandmother, who now fell atop the girl, pinning her to the hard ground, while other residents made their way over like querulous zombies.