The Debutante (16 page)

Had the Blythe sisters been ‘reframed’ too? Had they struggled with the tensions of what and who they imagined they should be?

Rubbing her eyes, Cate looked up at the massive clock above the reception desk.

Time for a coffee.

And taking a stack of books with her, she headed out into the bright sunlight, in search of a cafe on the Marylebone Road.

Rachel was sitting on a bench in Gray’s Inn Gardens with her tuna sandwich. One of the largest public squares in London, it was neat and symmetrically composed, gravel pathways cutting across manicured lawns, bordered by imposing red-brick law chambers. Already it was filling with office workers, making the most of the unprecedented good weather, lounging in the cool shade of the plane trees with their lunch.

She took a sip of cold Diet Coke. How would Anna bear the high temperatures of Spain? Automatically her fingers reached for the Post-it with Anna’s number on it, which she’d shoved into the pocket of her dress before leaving. Of course, it was different, wasn’t it? England wasn’t made for intense weather conditions. Everything was easier on the Continent.

She unwrapped her sandwich but it sat untouched on
her lap. Instead she watched as a young couple holding hands searched eagerly for a private spot. Eventually they settled for a sloping enclave of grass behind a high wall of hydrangea bushes. Soon they were wrapped in each other’s embrace, any thought of food quickly forgotten.

Suddenly Rachel felt old, invisible and alone.

The memories she’d tried to sidestep this morning were back. Only now there was nothing to distract her.

Was it his fault? Or hers?

Part of her was desperate to assign blame. Yet the bulk of her resentment fell on Anna, which was insane. Of course she knew why.

Katie. She was only small then. A toddler.

Perfect. Unmarked.

Again, the shame pressed in.

It was during a time when Ryan, Katie’s father, was working as a roadie for the Stones. She couldn’t remember how he’d got the job but for that brief period of time he might as well have been one of them for the way he acted. He had all the arrogance, all the glamour of a rock star. And for once in his life he had money too. He talked about how he was going into the recording industry. How Mick could see he had a lot of talent and wanted to help him. He called him Mick, like they spoke all the time, hung out. Apparently there were invitations to spend the weekend at Jagger’s country house that never quite materialised.

Rachel had felt middle-aged and stuffy by comparison. She and Paul were valuing and emptying old houses. They
seemed like just one step up from junk men. No one lived in Marylebone in those days, it was a wasteland. Hip and Happening London was in Chelsea, the King’s Road, Hampstead … anywhere but where they were.

And there was no child. It had become an obsession for Rachel. Everywhere she went she saw them; pregnant women, round and soft, children, babies, families. Her lack was like a vacuum, sucking all the joy of life into a single concentrated black hole. But no matter what they did, she couldn’t conceive. They’d stopped trying; it became too tense an exercise. That’s what sex became for them; a futile exercise, a job they failed at each month.

So they decided to take their minds off it; have a holiday instead. Relax by the beach.

Anna and her family had come down to join them for a long weekend. And she was so lovely and glowing, really properly happy. Laughing, wearing miniskirts that showed off her long legs and so proud of Ryan, who was confident, masculine; darkly sexy. They were going places, succeeding at life. And there was Katie. The first child of many.

Rachel had hated Paul then. He seemed so staid, so prissy and inadequate. They’d been married six years. This was not the life she’d planned or signed up for. He’d married her under false pretences.

Her bitterness was poison, seductive and silent, so much a part of herself she couldn’t separate from it, see clearly. And it seeped out, spreading to include Anna.

Rachel looked again at the young couple, tucked into the shadows, oblivious now to anyone around them. Was it an office romance? Or something clandestine; hidden?

She’d bought a new dress. From Zandra Rhodes. She knew when she bought it, a week before they came down, that something was wrong. She didn’t buy the dress for her, or for her husband. It was low-cut, flowing. It was a dress that grabbed attention and kept it, that made her feel sexy and alive — like a real woman.

There’d been too much red wine that weekend, too much marijuana.

And she’d moved just that bit slower, more sensuously. Spent the weekend catching Ryan’s eye. Laughing at his jokes. Leaning in closer when he spoke, giving him her undivided attention, allowing her hand to rest on his shoulder just that bit too long. And he’d lapped it up, felt it was his due. It was only right that he should finally get the recognition he deserved. And she’d watched Paul, watching her … his face strained, eyes furious. She’d done it right in front of him; punishing him.

Anna had been busy with Katie, chasing her as she veered from one disaster to another. And Rachel had let her.

She wasn’t used to having a child in the house. She didn’t realise how things had to be cleared away. Put back.

How intent they were on touching everything.

Rachel looked up at the sky, cottony wisps of cloud sailing slowly across an expanse of blue. The years hadn’t made it easier to remember.

Her body had still been taut, magnificent. Anna had had a baby. She was softer, rounded; she had worn an all-in-one bathing costume, with a pointy built-in bra. Rachel had shown off her figure, wearing a purple crocheted bikini. Oiling her limbs with baby oil. Thick square Jackie O sunglasses.

She’d sent Paul to the shop for food.

They’d headed down to the beach. Katie spent too much time running straight at the water and eating sand. Soon she was tired, overheated and badly in need of a nap. Anna took her back to the cottage, lugging her up the steep pathway. She was tense, irritable.

Rachel had slipped her bikini top off, lain flat on her stomach. Ryan had passed her a joint. She’d reached for it without bothering hide her breasts, lazily turning over, sucking hard on the joint. Playing the sophisticate. He’d ignored them, ignored her. Closed his eyes, rolled over.

But she had known.

Later on, early evening, freshly showered and perfumed … ‘I’ve left my glasses down on the beach. I’m just going to get them.’

‘I’ll go,’ Paul had volunteered.

She’d turned on him. ‘You don’t even know where they are,’ she’d snapped.

He had given her a look. A look she’d never forget.

Then he’d got up, taken the car keys. ‘I’m going for a drive,’ was all he’d said before he’d left.

And she had let him. It had been a turning point. They’d both known it. And yet, it was as if she was being driven by something larger; a compulsion she couldn’t control.

Ryan had been outside, sitting on the steps, having a smoke.

Rachel had walked past him. ‘I left my glasses.’

That was all she’d said. All she’d had to say.

He’d got up.

She’d walked on, a little ahead.

He’d strolled slowly, lazily after.

It was dusk; the beach was all but abandoned, some man walking his dog.

There was an alcove, a high, narrow wall of rocks. By the time she’d reached it, he’d been right behind her, moving quickly, urgently. There had been none of the delicious, dangerous tension of that afternoon on the beach. As soon as she’d turned round, he’d been upon her, grabbing at her. She’d banged her head on the side of the cliff; her hair caught in the rough surface. And then he was inside her, tearing at the sheer fabric of her blouse, fingers digging into her thighs. He was bigger than Paul; it hurt. She’d tried to pull away but he’d held fast, pumping harder. And suddenly, with dreadful clarity she’d come to, into the shocking incestuous reality of what was happening, what she was doing.

They’d heard Anna calling. Her voice was strained, like she was crying. She was looking for her husband … for her sister.

Rachel had struggled but he’d clapped his hand over her mouth, carried on.

And then he’d come; it had seemed to go on for ages, to be running down the inside of her leg.

Rachel winced again, the memory burning with shame and self-loathing, as fresh thirty years later as if it had happened yesterday.

Katie had been left alone in the house. When they’d found her, she was bleeding, crying. She’d banged her head on something. Thank God she had been all right. Thank God nothing more dreadful had happened to her.

Rachel hadn’t got pregnant.

She’d got herpes instead. A disease she’d had to explain to Paul, with everything that meant. A disease she’d had for life. Paul had left for a few weeks; there was talk of divorce. But even when he came back, every time they made love after that, it was tainted.

After a while, people stopped asking when they were going to start a family. After a while, they stopped asking why too.

Standing up, Rachel threw the uneaten sandwich into the bin.

Anna never knew.

Or did she?

Rachel could never be sure what Ryan might say when he was drunk; what bitter and cruel truths may have been levelled at her. It was a wound that never healed; her secret, the weight of which was unbearable at times.

That summer, that particular obsession, had cost her her identity. After it had passed, she could never look at the world in the same superior way; could never hold her sister in contempt; could never win an argument with Paul. She’d fallen, like some biblical figure, from grace and she’d lived in a permanent purgatory ever since. Now she deferred not so much to others as to the knowledge of her inadequacy to negotiate with any dignity or character the loss of her dream.

As she left the park, she scanned the faces of the people she passed. Had any of them, relaxing on the grass on this beautiful summer’s day, ever betrayed the people they loved most? Or betrayed themselves?

Walking back to the office, her heels clicked along the pavement.

Rachel was, in fact, not fond of red shoes. But in wearing them, she acknowledged what no one else knew or could know; it was an outward sign of an inward failing.

When she got back to Jockey’s Fields, the office was locked. Jack was on his break. Turning the key in the door, she made her way straight to the desk and took out the number. She dialled, breathing a sigh of relief when she got through to the answering machine. ‘Hello, this is Anna. Please leave a message and I’ll call you back.’

It beeped.

‘It’s Rachel. Darling, Katie’s here. She’s come back. Something to do with her boyfriend though I can’t get a straight answer. I… I thought you should know.’

She put the phone down. Pulling her chair out, she sank into it, staring at the pile of paperwork.

There were all the things she didn’t say, like, ‘Katie’s in trouble. I’m frightened for her. And I don’t know what to do.’

But then her relationship with Anna had always been defined by the unsaid.

5 St James’s Square
London

8 August 1933

My darling Bird,
How brave you are to tear round the countryside giving speeches and electioneering for Malcolm in that rackety old car of his! I’m certain you are his greatest asset, but are you sure it’s a good idea for someone in your condition? No doubt I’ll feel differently when you invite me to join you for tea at Number 10 in a few years’ time but until then I remain concerned. I had secretly hoped that you might be the one person in the world who hadn’t gone mad and that Endsleigh might be a haven from the blight of radical political thinkers that have descended upon us poor philistines. But now I see I alone shall have to fly the flag of decent conversation at your table. I cannot bear to go down to Nancy’s this weekend for that same reason, except that Nick is going and London is so hot and sticky at this time of year and I am aching for a swim in their lovely pool.