The Last Summer (51 page)

But of course it wasn’t, because my heart was involved, and because there was more.

I’d recently decided that I had to try to find my daughter. Not to interrupt her life or to try to reclaim her, but to know where she was, what had become of her. I had to know, you see. I had to know that she was cared for and happy. And I wanted Tom to help me find her.

I walked back into the sitting room, pulled my purse from my handbag and pulled out his card. I sat holding the card in my hand for some time; looking from it to the telephone and back at it. Then I picked up the receiver. Minutes away, I thought; he’s only minutes away.

‘Hello . . .’

It was him: awake and alert. ‘Hello,’ he said again.

‘Are you busy?’ I asked. I’m not sure why I said that. It was half past one in the morning, but I suppose I thought he might have been in the midst of passion with Venetia, or another.

‘Clarissa.’

‘Yes, it’s me.’

‘Let me take this somewhere else,’ he said, and there was a click.

I immediately felt stupid. Wanted to hang up. I knew the only reason he’d be moving to another room, another telephone,
was for reasons of privacy. He was with someone: in bed with someone. Was it Venetia? And already I could see her, lying back in a feathered turban, reciting poetry as he made love to her.

‘Hello,’ he said again, and I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t speak, couldn’t speak.

‘Don’t go silent on me . . . Clarissa? Is everything all right?’

‘Yes . . . yes,’ I said, half laughing, trying to sound blasé. As though I’d called him up simply to compare notes on the weather. ‘Everything’s fine, perfectly fine. I was just wondering . . .’ I began, not sure what I was going to say, not sure what I’d been wondering. And I felt myself panic. What on earth was I doing? How could I begin to talk to him about Emily or his father over the telephone?

‘I was just wondering . . .’ I said again.

‘Yes?’ he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

‘I was just wondering how one makes a Singapore Sling,’ I said quickly.

He laughed. ‘I don’t know. How does one make a Singapore Sling?’

‘No, seriously, it’s not a joke. I need the list of ingredients . . .’

I could hear him, lighting a cigarette, inhaling.

‘You’re making cocktails? Really? Now, at . . . one thirty a.m.?’

‘No, not at this moment, but later . . . tomorrow.’

I closed my eyes, wanted to scream; wanted the ground to swallow me up.

‘Please, tell me the truth: you haven’t called me up in the middle of the night for a list of cocktail ingredients – have you?’

‘No,’ I replied.

‘Shall I come over?’

‘No!’

‘Old lover-boy still there then?’

‘Oh God, look, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I called. I couldn’t sleep and . . . and for some reason I thought of you.’

‘Clarissa . . .’

‘Is Venetia there?’ I asked, and then winced.

I could hear him sigh; almost see him shake his head. ‘I could meet you somewhere . . . at a hotel . . .’

‘Tom! Good grief, do you think I’ve called you up because . . . because . . .’ I faltered, rising to my feet, searching for the cigarette box.

He laughed. ‘Clarissa, I’m teasing you.’

‘I’d better go,’ I said, feeling like a total fool. ‘I’m not sure why I called you. I’m sorry.’

I heard him sigh again. ‘Don’t be sorry . . . never be sorry. Look, I’m leaving for Paris in the morning, but let’s meet up when I get back. I’ll telephone you.’

‘Yes, fine. Have a lovely time. And do give my best to Venetia.’

He laughed again. ‘I’m pleased you telephoned. I was wondering when you would.’

‘When?’ I repeated, irritated by his presumption.

‘You said you would, remember?’

‘Yes, I did. I mean, I do remember.’

‘And Clarissa . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Try and be good for me.’

‘Goodnight, Tom,’ I said, and hung up the receiver.

I didn’t really expect him to call me upon his return from Paris, whenever that might be. And I didn’t want to wait for disappointment. After all, he’d made no mention of how long he was to be away for, or when he’d be back. It could be a week, a month or longer. I began to regret my ridiculous middle-of-the-night telephone call to him. Upon reflection, his tone had been quite dismissive, I concluded.
I’ll call you
. . . What
had I been thinking? And did I really want to meet up with him –
alone
? Being newly single, the thought of seeing him again – on my own – filled me with more than a little trepidation. Would I succumb to him, yet again? Or would I feel spurned by his lack of interest? No, I reasoned, it was probably for the best that we didn’t see each other again. We could leave it to fate, and perhaps cross paths once every few years.

Then, late one evening, only a few days after my call to him, the telephone rang, and as soon as I heard the voice I smiled. ‘Hello, Tom.’

‘Clarissa,’ he said, again, slightly slurring my name.

‘How are you?’ I asked.

‘I’m very, very well, my darling, and how are you?’

He’s drunk, I thought, and immediately stopped smiling. ‘Yes, I’m well, Tom. About to go to my bed, actually. Do you realise what time it is?’

‘It’s half past Clarissa o’clock,’ he replied, and laughed. ‘And I was wondering . . . I was wondering are you’re up for cocktails tonight? We could share ingredients . . .’

‘Tom, you’re drunk. You need to go to bed. And anyway, where are you?’

‘Where am I? Where do you want me to be? I can be anywhere you want me to be.’ There was a clunk at that point and I realised he’d dropped the receiver.

‘Hello . . . Clarissa?’

‘Yes, I’m here.’

‘But where is here?’

‘Tom, you’re not making any sense. I’m going to hang up now.’

‘No, don’t go. I need you. I need to hear your voice.’

‘And why do you need to hear my voice? Have you no one to keep you company tonight? Is Venetia tired?’

‘Clarissa, Clarissa – don’t be like that.’

‘Oh Tom, really, I think you need to drink some water.’

Then the line went dead, and I, too, put down the telephone.

The following morning he called again, apologising for his late-night call to me. It had been a long day, he said. ‘Stuck in a bloody meeting.’

‘I see,’ I replied, waiting for him to say something.

‘I’ll be back in London tomorrow – and I wondered, can I take you out to dinner?’

We met for dinner two days later, at the Savoy. He was at the restaurant when I arrived, sitting smoking at the table, and looking rather anxious. As I walked towards him he turned, saw me, and immediately stood up. ‘Hello, Tom,’ I said and smiled. He stepped forward as though about to kiss me, then looked down and took my hand. And for a split second he was once again that shy, nervous boy in the ballroom at Deyning, unable to look me in the eye, or smile back at me. He hovered on his feet as the waiter pulled out my chair and I sat down. And then he, too, sat down, and immediately lit another cigarette.

‘How’s Venetia?’ I asked. I couldn’t help it. I was still angry.

He closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘Please, can we not talk about Venetia tonight?’

‘Oh yes, if it’s private, of course . . .’ I replied, looking down at the menu.

He sighed. Loudly. Sounding exasperated already.

We sat at a table tucked away in a corner, next to the window. And I was pleased. I could pretend to be distracted by anything
beyond the glass, I thought, turning away from him and catching my own reflection. He didn’t ask me what I’d like to drink, but summoned over the sommelier, ordered a glass of champagne and a whisky, and then a bottle of Château Lafite. But there was a particular year he wanted, which he couldn’t seem to find on the list. He pulled out a pair of spectacles, perched them on his nose. And as the sommelier, the maître d’ and another fluttered about him, I smiled. For they all knew his name, knew exactly who he was: Mr Cuthbert . . . Mr Cuthbert, they repeated, seemingly as many times as they could fit into a sentence without completely eliminating all other words. And I could tell he was used to it; long used to it.

When they finally dispersed, having identified and ascertained
Mr Cuthbert’s
choice of wine for that evening, he removed his spectacles, looked over at me, sighed heavily, and smiled. ‘So, Clarissa,’ he began, ‘do you realise how significant this day is?’

I shrugged; wondering if I’d forgotten some feast day or national holiday, then shook my head.

‘This is our very first date.’

A
date
, I thought: so American. ‘Oh, really. Is this a date then?’

‘You know what I mean,’ he said, turning his head away in mock exasperation. ‘It’s taken me . . .’ he paused, staring at me. ‘It’s taken me sixteen years to get to this point . . . to take you out to dinner.’

‘Yes, here we are, after all these years.’

The waiter appeared, placed our drinks upon the table. We raised our glasses. ‘So, here’s to us: Clarissa and Tom,’ he said, smiling back at me. And it struck me then, he was in an unusual mood. One I didn’t know, couldn’t recall ever having seen before.

‘Are we celebrating something?’ I asked.

‘Yes, we are. We’re celebrating us. We’re going to be very
selfish this evening, because no one’s going to claim either one of us; no one’s waiting for you, or for me. And we’re here. We’re here together . . . after all these years.’

It was true enough. Every moment we’d been together, every single moment we’d managed to snatch in the preceding sixteen years, there’d always been someone somewhere, waiting for me, or for him.

I smiled. ‘Like all our rendezvous,’ I said.

‘Down by the lake . . .’

‘In the meadow . . .’

‘At the boathouse . . .’

‘Under the chestnut tree . . .’

‘On the lawn . . .’

‘By the ha-ha . . .’

‘In the walled garden?’

‘No! We never met there,’ I said. ‘That was always Mama’s territory.’

He stubbed out his cigarette, shook his head. ‘I remember the first time I set eyes on you. Just as though it was yesterday.’

‘And so do I,’ I replied quickly. ‘It was in the ballroom at Deyning.’

He looked up at me. ‘Wrong.
That’s
when we were introduced. No, the first time I saw you, the very first time I set eyes on you, you were running through the garden, in the rain.’ He looked away, remembering. ‘You were shrieking, laughing, and you looked so completely free . . . a vision.’ He paused, his eyes half closed, concentrating. ‘You didn’t see me, didn’t notice me, but I saw you. I watched you, and I’d never seen anything or anyone as beautiful.’

‘Yes, well, that was a long time ago . . .’

He shook his head. ‘Feels like a moment ago.’

‘You’re right, sometimes it does. But then I remember . . . I remember all those who are no longer here. My brothers, my
cousins, so many friends . . . and it all seems so long ago. Lifetimes ago.’

He stared back at me, into my eyes, and I began to feel that yearning once more: a yearning for another time and place, for him. He looked down at my hand resting on the table. ‘But when I look at you I go back to that time, and I see you as you were that day.’

‘Good!’ I said, pulling my hand away. ‘I think I’d far rather you saw me forever sixteen.’

He looked up at me. ‘I see you as you are, Clarissa,’ he said. ‘I’ve always seen
who
you are.’

I’d taken a taxicab to the Savoy that evening, quietly practising my lines, what I wanted to tell him, all the way there; trying to anticipate his reaction and what I would say.

‘Yes, Tom, that’s right . . . we had a baby. Emily. She’ll be almost twelve years old by now, and I need to find her . . . I need you to help me find her . . .’

But after one glass of champagne those rehearsed lines had already muddled themselves. And after another, I felt my edges begin to blur, my anger melt away into something else. Something far removed from the anger I’d carried with me into the Savoy earlier that evening. Each time I looked back into his eyes, that same desperate yearning returned, flooding my senses, drowning me. For he was still the boy I’d stood with by the lake. And I felt overwhelmed by sadness. Sadness at all the days and months and years that had been spent and were gone forever: sadness at the waste.

I noticed his hair, now greying at the temples of his brow; the lines around his eyes, upon his forehead; and as the waiter refilled our glasses, I excused myself and went to the powder room. I sat there for some time trying to remember the order of the words, what it was I had to say. What it was I wanted to tell him.

When I returned to the table his mood was noticeably lighter. He teased me, telling me he’d thought for a moment I’d gone, already bored of his company. But I knew, knew by the slight frown and the look in his eyes that he’d seen my sadness.