The Last Summer (52 page)

‘So, how’s business? How’s the gallery doing?’ he asked.

‘Doing very well,’ I replied. ‘I’m extending it – into the shop next door.’

‘That’s wonderful, Clarissa,’ he said, and I could tell he was being sincere.

‘Tom,’ I began, emboldened by alcohol, ‘have you ever
seen
my gallery?’

He hesitated, pondered on that question for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘yes, I think I do know it.’

‘And have you purchased anything from me? And by that, I also mean through a third party.’

He laughed. ‘Aha! What a question. What makes you ask that?’

‘Because I have a few – or I seem to have a few – anonymous patrons,’ I replied.

He glanced down at the table. ‘I might have done.’

‘Please, Tom, tell me the truth . . .’

‘Yes. Yes, I have bought some paintings from you.’

‘How many?’ I asked.

‘A few,’ he replied, holding my gaze. ‘Does it really matter how many?’

‘No . . . no, I suppose not,’ I said. But in a way it did. Was he one or all of the men who came in taxicabs and private cars to collect paintings?

We moved on. He asked me about Charlie. I spoke of my impending divorce and he talked about his. He said he felt no sadness, no bitterness, and that it had been wrong from the start. Said he’d known the day he was married that it wouldn’t last.

‘Why did you do it then?’

‘Good question. I suppose at the time it seemed the obvious thing to do . . . everyone else was married. You were married.’

‘But
you
didn’t have to marry.’

‘No, perhaps not, but I was lonely. I wanted to share my life with . . .’ he paused, staring at me. ‘What I wanted I couldn’t have, so I compromised. And I’ve never been much good at compromise.’

‘I thought you wanted children?’

‘Yes, I suppose I did for a while, or there was a time when I thought I did. But after I married Nancy, I quickly realised I didn’t, or perhaps not with her. And then . . . then we lost a baby. Anyway, it didn’t happen, wasn’t meant to be.’ He lifted his glass to his lips and said, ‘But what about you? You didn’t have children either.’

And it stung.

‘No, it didn’t happen for me either,’ I said looking down at my plate, pushing at a slice of carrot.

‘Shame. I’ve always thought you’d make a wonderful mother.’

I looked up at him and smiled, and I pondered for a second or two, wondering what I should say. ‘Yes, well, we can’t have it all,’ I said, repeating Rose’s tidying-up phrase. I could have told him then, perhaps. And perhaps I had an opportunity, but it still didn’t
feel
like the right moment. You see, I’d practised this for so long and in so many different locations, but we’d never been sitting there, in the Savoy – having dinner together. It had never been like that.

‘And so . . . what about Venetia?’ I asked. I had to. And you know, I really didn’t want to. I didn’t want to hear.

He leant back in his chair, smiling.

‘Yes?’ I said, staring back at him, waiting; blinking.

‘You know, I think you ought to speak to Venetia yourself,’ he said.

I shook my head. ‘I don’t. Quite frankly, Tom, I think it’s rather pathetic.’

His smile broadened, and I could feel a simmering rising up inside of me again. I stared back at him, resolute, I thought; defiant. ‘Yes, really rather pathetic,’ I repeated.

He leant forward, his arms on the table. ‘And what, exactly, is
rather pathetic
?’

I realised we were dangerously close to having a row, and on this, our first proper date, it seemed unfortunate to say the least. But I had to keep going; I had to persevere. After all, he’d stepped over a line, not me.

‘That you and Venetia have been . . .’

‘Yes?’

I shook my head, sighed. ‘That you’re carrying on with someone old enough to be your mother, Tom.’

He laughed, and continued to laugh for quite a while. ‘Clarissa,’ he said at last, reaching over for my hand, but I pulled it away.

‘No! Don’t. Please don’t. I saw you together, I know, Tom.’

He sat back in his chair and sighed loudly. ‘You know, you’re head’s always so
bloody
muddled, Clarissa.’ And I was really rather astounded, because he suddenly sounded quite angry. ‘It’s not something I wish to talk about with you here, tonight,’ he continued, ‘I think
you
need to speak to your godmother; you need to talk to Venetia. And then . . . then perhaps we’ll resume this conversation.’

I felt more than a little chastened. He had spoken to me like one of his employees, I thought – one who’d perhaps stepped out of line.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘And yes, I shall. I shall do that.’

We sat in silence for a while, drinking our wine, each of us staring across the room.
It’s a disaster . . . it’s a disaster
, I thought.
We have nothing in common any more. He’s turned into a monster; one of those rich playboys Mama loves to hate
. I glanced at him, saw him close his eyes.
He’s hating this: he’d rather be with her, Venetia
.
Then I caught his eye, and he smiled, but I looked away, across the restaurant floor.

‘Please, Clarissa, can we . . . shall we be friends?’

I turned to him. ‘Yes, of course.’

He smiled again, but I could sense something more in his smile: amusement, I thought.

He ordered a brandy, and I wondered how Venetia coped with his drinking. She hardly touched a drop herself. And I saw them again, in her dressing room, upon the daybed: Tom, tie undone; his head to her bosom.

No!

He must have seen me wince, must have seen something in my expression, because he leant forward at that moment and said, ‘Please . . . trust me, believe me. There is nothing between Venetia and me . . . other than a mutual interest.’

Later, when we left the restaurant, he suggested that we go dancing, but I didn’t want to.

‘I think I should get home, Tom,’ I said.

‘Then please, at least allow me to see you home.’

I wasn’t sure. I was still irked by the thought of him and Venetia, and whatever it was going on between them. But I had to tell him about Emily, and I knew it was a conversation we had to have alone, in private.

We took a taxicab back to my flat, sitting in silence, side by side, and as we turned into my street, I said, ‘Would you like to come in for a nightcap . . . a coffee?’

I realised how it sounded, and I was nervous, so much so that I couldn’t get my key into the lock, and eventually had to admit defeat and hand it to him. And it felt strange opening the door on to my small, singular world, walking into my home with him. I saw him look about the hallway, taking it all in. In the sitting room, as I took off my coat and shoes, he wandered about the place, glancing up at the paintings on the wall; bending down to view a photograph, picking one up.

‘Rather different to Deyning,’ I said.

‘But you’ve made it beautiful . . . as only you could,’ he replied, loosening his tie. I turned away from him, walked into the kitchen to fill the kettle, and as I lifted it I heard him collapse into an armchair with a loud sigh. When I returned to the room he’d closed his eyes, and I thought perhaps he was about to leave me, drift off into an alcohol-induced slumber.

No, please, don’t fall asleep . . . not now . . .

I sat down on the rug by his feet. Was it the right moment? Would it be a huge shock? Would he be angry, walk out?

‘I need to talk to you, Tom,’ I said, quietly, wondering if he could still hear my words. ‘I need to tell you something . . .’

And with his eyes still closed, he said, ‘Yes, I know, and I’m longing to hear.’

I was confused. Had he some idea of what it was I was about to tell him? No, it was impossible, surely: the only two people who knew were Mama and myself. But my mind raced on into a freefall of possibilities. Had Mama told Venetia and she in turn told Tom?
A mutual interest
, he’d said.

At that moment the kettle began to whistle, and I jumped to my feet and returned to the kitchen.

That night . . . that night in the park . . . well, we had a baby, Tom . . . yes, that’s right, we had a baby.

‘We had a baby,’ I whispered, stirring the coffee.

I walked back into the room, handed him his cup and saucer and sat down on the floor once more. He moved in his chair and I turned to look up at him. He stared back at me, raised his eyebrows expectantly. ‘So . . . are you going to tell me why my mother came to see you – or not?’

I gasped: a strange mix of surprise, frustration and relief. I’d entirely forgotten about Tom’s mother’s meeting with me, or the fact that I’d inadvertently mentioned it to him in the theatre that evening. And here I was, my heart racing, my mind entirely focused on telling him about his daughter; now forced to tell him of his unknown father.

‘Well, that was what you were about to tell me, wasn’t it?’ he asked, looking a little bemused by my hesitation.

I turned away. ‘Yes, of course . . . that’s what I was about to tell you.’

I closed my eyes for a moment, steadying myself; realising Emily would have to wait a little longer.

But I wasn’t altogether sure how or where to begin about that day, the day his mother came to see me.

Begin at the beginning . . .

‘She wanted to talk to me about you,’ I said, shuffling nearer to his chair, allowing myself to lean against it, against him.

‘And?’

Just tell him. Be honest . . .

‘She told me you loved me, and that . . .’ I paused, unsure how to navigate from there.

‘That what?’

‘That you’d always loved me.’

I was half expecting a shrug, a joke, a witty quip, but he said nothing.

I reached up, took hold of his hand. ‘And she told me about your father, Tom.’

‘Ah, my father . . . I see. So she came to see you to tidy up a few loose ends then.’

‘I suppose she did in a way, yes. She wanted someone to know the truth; someone who cared, cared about you.’

I paused, waiting for him to say something, but he said nothing.

‘Your father, Tom . . . your father was the Earl, Earl Deyning.’

I turned and looked up at him. He stared at me.

‘So, I’m the bastard son of the old Earl . . .’

‘Tom!’

‘Well, really, what a lot of codswallop.’

‘No, it’s not . . . it’s the truth. Why do you say that?’

‘Why do I say it? Because, my darling, what does it matter now?’ He shrugged. ‘I am who I am. I wasn’t good enough to marry you . . . wasn’t good enough to be part of the Granville family. I think it’s rather funny, don’t you? I mean funny in an ironic way, of course.’

He was right. We’d lost so many years. And really, what did it matter?

‘Truly, it means nothing to me, not now,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps if someone had told me ten years ago . . . or even before the War, when I needed to know
who
I was, what I was . . . where I fitted in, it would have meant something, but no, not now. And anyway, I realised a long, long time ago that I’d probably been born out of wedlock. My mother was never able to furnish me with any information about my father – other than the fact I looked like him – so I assumed they’d been . . .’ he shrugged, ‘ships in the night, so to speak. And then there was the small matter of who’d paid for my education, where the money had come from to get me through university.’ He paused, shook head. ‘And other monies . . . quite sizeable amounts, which my dear mother could never explain. I had my suspicions, of course, and I imagine so did quite a few others.’ He paused again. ‘I suppose the greatest irony of it all is that I ended up purchasing my birthright, Deyning. Although that was only ever because of you, and nothing to do with any notions of grandeur on my part.’

‘Because of me?’

He looked down at me. ‘Yes. I thought if I could buy back Deyning, if I could present you with what you’d lost, what you loved most in the world, I might just win you back. It was a simple enough plan. All I had to do was make money.’ He paused, smiling at me, and then added, ‘And let’s face it, I’ve been rather good at that.’

‘Yes, you have been rather good at that.’

‘I didn’t – perhaps couldn’t – foresee the complications . . . your mother, your marriage, your life with Charlie . . . my inability to be on my own. I thought I’d be able wriggle out of any liaison as soon as I had a sign from you. And then, when you didn’t come to Southampton, when you didn’t appear – well, I thought that was a pretty clear sign.’

‘Oh Tom . . .’ I looked away. I didn’t want to think of that day, that time; my agony, his agony.

‘Strange how life turns out, isn’t it?’ he continued. ‘And here I am . . . Tom
Deyning
. How very apt that I decided to call my company Cuthbert-Deyning . . . maybe I do have foresight, after all.’

For some minutes he remained silent, staring just beyond me with narrowed eyes. As though, despite what he said, despite his somewhat flippant, cynical reaction, he needed a moment’s reflection: a moment to cogitate upon the details of his birth, his mother and now, suddenly, his father. He moved his head back, looked up at the ceiling and sighed. ‘So my mother and the Earl, eh? The lord and his servant . . . rather a cliché, don’t you agree?’