Summer Secrets (3 page)

I did cry, though, that day in the hospital, holding his hand. Horrible as this is to admit, I think I cried less because my dad was dying than for the dad I had never had. I cried for the missed opportunities, for not having a dad who loved me unconditionally and unreservedly. I cried for not having a dad who accepted me exactly as I was.

And I think, in amongst the tears, I cried with relief.

My mother grieved appropriately for a woman who had lost her husband of almost thirty years so tragically, and then, after six months, she blossomed.

Looking at her now, you would never imagine she had ever experienced a day’s unhappiness in her life.

Two

The first thing my mother did after my father’s death was put our big old house in Gerrards Cross on the market and buy herself a gorgeous, light-filled flat on Marylebone High Street.

My mother has come alive again. She has filled the roof terrace with terra-cotta pots, geraniums and honeysuckle spilling over, clematis climbing up the trellis that hides her from her neighbors and allows her to sunbathe naked, which she does whenever the weather gives her the opportunity.

She has a cat (my father hated cats, which, really, should have been an instant warning sign—never trust a man who doesn’t like children or animals, and it seemed to me that my father didn’t particularly like either), a wardrobe of beautiful clothes, most of which are picked up downstairs in the Whistles sale, and a busy social life with her new townie friends.

We have plans to meet this morning at Sagne, which is something of a tradition on a Saturday, even though I am usually, as I am this morning, suffering the effects of the morning after.

It wasn’t quite so bad last night, though. No parties. I had dinner with Jamie, my on-again, off-again person. I can’t call him my boyfriend, because he is most definitely not my boyfriend, but he’s also most definitely more than a friend. What he is, most of all, is convenient. Jamie’s the person I can call, anytime, if I’m feeling horny, or talkative, or simply bored. I still can’t quite figure out why we haven’t been able to take the next step, because we do have great sex (although, honestly, most of the time I barely remember), and we do have great conversation, and it seems this should be enough, particularly given that neither of us seems to be able to name the one thing that is missing that would seal this deal.

He’s already left, for which I am grateful. I know what I look like first thing in the morning after a night of drinking, and it isn’t pretty. Although Jamie’s seen me like this many times before, I keep thinking I won’t do it again, and because he and I both know that’s not true, he’s taken to leaving while I’m still asleep. It slightly protects our integrity.

Last night we walked down to Regent’s Canal and had dinner in that restaurant that’s on a barge. It was lovely and romantic, and I wish to God I hadn’t polished off the martinis and all the wine, because the streets along the canal are at their most beautiful at this time of year, and I really would love to have strolled through, enjoying them.

If I recall correctly, it was more of a stumble than a stroll. Jamie had to keep catching me and steering me straight. I have no idea whether we had sex or not, but he says he usually stays now just to make sure I’m okay. Of course I’m okay.

Hang on. Something’s coming back to me. Last night. We had a fight. On the way home. Oh God. I groan and bury my face in the pillow, as if that will somehow make this memory go away, but it won’t; it’s still here, and I wish I didn’t have to remember.

Jamie is worried about my drinking. He started to tell me I was drinking too much, and I went ballistic on him. I shouted at him all the way along Blomfield Road. I don’t remember what I said, only his stricken face.

He didn’t stay the night. Now I remember. He said he wasn’t going to do this anymore, that he couldn’t watch me destroy myself in this way. He said all of my friends were worrying about me, and that at twenty-nine I was still acting like I was ten years younger, and it was time for me to grow up and start becoming responsible.

I remember screaming something about being responsible, I owned a flat, for God’s sake, and I had a steady job, and he knew nothing about me.

I open one eye and look over at the right side of the bed, which is, unsurprisingly, empty. Of course he didn’t stay the night and creep out early. He made sure I got home, and—I look down at myself, in a T-shirt and pajama pants—yes, undressed me, and then he left.

I am awash with shame. I may be on my own, but my cheeks are burning. He’s right. I can’t stand this. I can’t stand waking up every morning feeling like shit. I can’t stand waking up every morning swearing that I will never do this again, that today is the day I stop drinking, and then, at five, or six, or seven o’clock, I tell myself it’s only one glass of wine, or one beer, or a quick drink, which surely won’t hurt, and then, bam! Cut to the next morning, waking up with spotty memories about what happened the night before, and always, always, feeling like shit.

I pick up the phone and call my mum. “Can we make it eleven?” I croak when she picks up the phone. “I’m not feeling so good.”

“Oh God, Cat. Again?” She’s used to these Saturday morning phone calls.

“I know. I’m sorry.” To my amazement, my eyes then well up with tears as my voice starts to crack.

“Mum? I think I need some help.”

*   *   *

An hour later I’m sitting opposite my mum in Sagne, fortified by several strong cappuccinos, four aspirin, and an almond croissant. I know they say the best cure for a hangover is a full English fry-up, but the thought of greasy bacon and fried bread, ever, is enough to make me throw up. A meltingly buttery almond croissant, with just the right amount of marzipan filling, does it every time.

“So,” says my mother, gazing at me with concern. “You need help with your drinking?”

Suddenly it doesn’t seem quite so urgent. When I spoke to her this morning my head was pounding, my mouth felt like three thousand squirrels had died in it, and I felt entirely desperate. Now, buoyed by painkillers, coffee, and sugar, I’m realizing that I completely overreacted.

“Sorry about that.” I am sheepish. “You caught me at a particularly bad moment. I was feeling like complete crap when I called, but I’m fine now.” I expect her to smile with relief, but when I look at her, she is frowning.

She is so very elegant, my mother. Her hair, dyed to within an inch of its life when my father was alive, was left to turn its natural salt and pepper once my father died and now, three years on, is a soft shade of whitish grey. She has it cut in an elegant bob, her skin still soft and smooth, her eyes that startling shade of green, which—thank you, God!—I have inherited, the one thing I have inherited from her.

It is no surprise that my father called me the changeling, because in truth I do not look like either of them, with the exception of my mother’s eyes. My father had that classically pale, wan British skin, a nose that was slightly beaky, although he always described it as aquiline, and thin lips.

My skin is naturally olive, hiding a multitude of alcoholic sins. Even when I am horrifically hungover, practically comatose with exhaustion, I never look pale or pasty or ill. My lips are full, and my hair is dark with streaks of gold that come out in the sun on summer holidays to hot places. As a child, I detested my looks, longing for mousy brown hair, pale skin, blue eyes, and thin lips. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, I am becoming more accepting, occasionally, only occasionally, looking at myself in the mirror and feeling both surprised and pleased at the face that stares back.

Still, it is not a face that resembles my mother’s. At twenty paces, and despite her having spent the vast majority of her life in this country, you would peg her for an American. Something in the way she holds herself, a confidence, her smile: and yes, she does have great big perfect white teeth (another thing, thank you, God, I have inherited).

She is slim and tall, and even in a pair of jeans and V-necked T-shirt, with an antique gold belcher chain around her neck and ballet flats on her feet, she is almost ridiculously elegant. More so now that she is able to dress as she wants. Her style is simple: she wears shades of greige, never a color, and always looks immaculate, even without makeup, even though she appears to make little effort.

I find it hard to believe she is my mother.

But she is, and I know her, and I know this frown, which is not a good frown.

I take a deep breath. “I really am fine. I just had a bit too much last night, and I always wake up feeling awful, but I don’t need help. I mean, clearly I’ve been drinking too much.” She looks up then, surprised I have admitted it. “I know I’m drinking too much, and I’m going to stop. I can’t stand waking up feeling the way I’ve been feeling, so I’ve decided that last night was the last time. That’s it. Today no more alcohol.”

I wait for her relieved smile, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she is still frowning, and now she is looking down at the table, as if she is figuring out what to say next, and I know it’s something bad when she finally gives a big sigh before meeting my eyes.

“Cat,” she says slowly. “There’s something I’ve never told you. Something I should have told you years and years ago, but I could never find the right time. I am so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing for you, but now I think I’ve done you a great disservice in keeping this from you.”

My heart is pounding. What on earth is she talking about?

“What is it?” My voice sounds strange given the buzzing in my ears, the pounding in my chest. Whatever is about to come next, I have the strangest sense it will be life altering in the most unchangeable of ways.

She sighs again before looking up.

“It’s about your father.”

Three

London, 1969

Audrey gazes out the car window at the lines of redbrick semidetached houses, all identical, all built after doodlebugs dropped on London during the Second World War destroyed lines of houses, as she tries to suppress the tiny jolts of excitement in the pit of her stomach.

She turns to look at her husband, his large hands resting on the steering wheel, his elegant jaw as tense as always. “You must be nervous, darling,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road.

“A little,” she lies, as he reaches over and pats her leg reassuringly, briefly turning his head to give her an indulgent smile.

“I might try to come out for the third week,” he says. “Although with work right now it’s terribly difficult. I know you don’t want to go, but your aunt needs you. This is absolutely the right thing to do.”

“I know,” says Audrey, who cannot believe she is being allowed to go back to her country, to America, for almost an entire summer, on her own, with no husband for whom she has to perform.

*   *   *

Five years ago Audrey left New York, as a nineteen-year-old single girl, to come to Buckinghamshire in England, to work as an au pair. Just a few miles away, in London, everything was swinging, life was being lived at a pace never seen before, none of which was apparent to Audrey, out in the suburbs of Gerrards Cross, minding children while their parents drank G&Ts and hosted dinner parties for neighbors and friends.

Audrey had always delighted in everything English, had grown up losing herself in the books of Jane Austen and Charlotte Bront
ë
, had wanted nothing more than to find herself a crumbling stately pile and a dashing lord of the manor to go with it.

It wasn’t that she planned to meet the love of her life when she first signed up with the au pair agency, but she couldn’t deny that every night leading up to her departure was filled with elaborate fantasies. She stepped onto that Pan Am flight at JFK, her head positively exploding with hopes and dreams.

The Wilkinsons—Pam, Tony, and their two children, Stephen and Lizzy—were delightful; their large, detached, Edwardian house on Mill Lane equally so, it was all a little quieter than Audrey had expected.

She had a room under the eaves on the top floor, thick white carpet and a record player in the corner of the room, a window that looked out over the trees, a view that made her happy.

The children—Stephen, ten, and Lizzy, eight—were delicious, and her evenings, initially spent curled up in her bedroom reading a book, soon grew busy.

She became friends with another au pair who worked up the road; Anna from Sweden. The two of them would dress up and go into Uxbridge for a night out, or pop into town for a drink at the Packhorse Inn. Which was where, one night, Richard found her.

Despite not being lord of the manor, he was dashing, and charming, and so fantastically handsome in his slim-cut suits and narrow Italian shoes. He swept her off her feet, even without the stately pile.

He treated Audrey like a princess, clearly adoring her, affectionately teasing her about her American accent, which she tried hard to eradicate, managing to soften it to a Mid-Atlantic drawl.

Richard was an estate agent, moving into commercial property as Audrey met him, his charm and good looks bringing him more and more success. He swapped his Triumph TR7 for an E-type Jaguar and swept Audrey up to the West End for glamorous Saturday nights out.

He knew enough people to gain access to all the best places. They rubbed shoulders with everyone from Marianne Faithfull to Prince Philip, from Twiggy to Vidal Sassoon, drinking champagne at H
é
l
è
ne Cordet’s Saddle Room or Tramp, playing roulette at Les A.

She met his friends after these dazzling nights out, for eggs and bacon at the Golden Egg in Oxford Street, wondering if they’d spy one of the Kray brothers, feeling impossibly glamorous, eating breakfast in the early hours of the morning, at the center of the entire world.

London came alive in the sixties, and Audrey came alive on those Saturday nights, guided by Richard, stepping carefully down the iron staircase into Annabel’s, where Louis greeted Richard with a handshake, Audrey with a kiss.

Of course she fell in love with Richard. She had never met anyone like him in New York, where the men could have done with a little of his debonair grace. She had never felt so fully alive as with Richard. Her au pair job stretched to two years, after which she told Richard she had to go home.