A Perfect Heritage (34 page)

‘Susie, hi. Lovely to see you.’ It was Flo Brown, the lovely woman’s editor of the
News
; she was really friendly, sat down for five minutes, chatting, asking how things were. Susie could have kissed her. Actually, she did kiss her. Flo’s actor boyfriend joined them, briefly, and then two more friends: please, Jonjo, arrive now while I’m looking cool and popular. He didn’t. Then they left to go upstairs and eat. Please, please, Jonjo don’t arrive now, while I’m looking such an obvious no-mates. He didn’t.

It was almost seven. Bloody Guinevere. Had to be her fault. Had to. Although she was feeling quite irritated with Jonjo as well now.

Maybe she should go to the loo; that would pass five minutes. She slipped her phone into her bag, stood up: as she did so she heard a text arriving. No doubt to say they were going to be even
l8-er.
She was fumbling for it, when: ‘Susie! I’m
so
sorry. Got stuck in hideous traffic and I ran the last quarter mile.’ He did look quite flushed and was breathing heavily. ‘Guinevere’s given up, got to meet some critic, she sends her apologies. God, I’m sorry, really rude – what are you drinking?’

He looked even more amazing today in his City suit and white shirt, dark hair ruffled. He really was – well, something else. Lucky, lucky Guinevere.

‘You needn’t have worried,’ she said, kissing him briefly on the cheek, wondering what kindly god had seen off Guinevere for her, even if just for an evening. ‘Honestly I’ve been quite happy, chatting to people.’

‘No, well, it was bad,’ he said, ‘specially as we invited you and after what you did for Guinevere. It’s been tweeted round the world, that picture. What are you drinking?’

‘It was an Apple Cooler, but I’m a bit tired of it.’

‘How do you feel about champagne cocktails?’

‘I feel great about champagne cocktails,’ said Susie, laughing.

‘Me too. They do good ones here. Look – you grab those two seats over there, I’ll get the drinks.’

‘So – how’s it working for Bianca?’ said Jonjo when they were settled. ‘She and Patrick are my best friends – well, Patrick really, but she’s been so kind to me too. I love her.’

‘She is great. And she’s wonderful to work for. Of course.’

She could hardly tell him how totally bloody it was.

‘And were you there before her, or did she bring you in?’

‘She kept me in,’ said Susie, grinning. ‘I was leaving and she persuaded me to stay.’

‘Cool.’

‘Yes, and it’s all very exciting. Relaunch of the brand coming up, lots to do.’

‘I don’t know much about cosmetics,’ said Jonjo, ‘except the size of the market of course. Mega.’

‘Yes, bigger than the car industry, I believe. Well people, women anyway, will pay anything for dreams. Dreams and promises.’

‘Promises? Not the actual thing, eternal youth and all that.’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Susie, laughing.

‘Oh, OK. Must be fun, though, your job.’

‘Oh, it is. Huge fun.’ Liar, liar! ‘How about yours?’

‘Well, I like it. It keeps me awake through the day.’

‘And what exactly do you do? I mean, I know you’re a trader, but . . .’

‘I’m a foreign exchange trader. We speculate on the fluctuation values of currencies – it’s all a big gamble, really. I love it. It’s high pressure, very much non-stop, quite exciting at times. And we have a lot of fun during the day, lot of laughs, bit boys own, all totally politically incorrect of course.’

‘Yes.’ Susie had heard about this. ‘I imagine you don’t have any girl traders?’

‘A couple. Hired for their looks rather than their brains, though. Feminists keep out. You a feminist?’

‘Um, yes, of course,’ said Susie primly.

‘You don’t look like one,’ said Jonjo.

‘Is that a compliment?’

‘Yeah, course.’ He grinned again.

‘Thank you.’

‘Guinevere is a feminist. Or thinks she is. She talks the talk anyway. Not sure about walking the walk. Want another?’

Susie’s glass was still half-full and her head was beginning to spin – the champagne cocktail had been extremely strong on top of the Apple Cooler, and she hadn’t eaten anything since a Danish on her way to the office.

‘No I’m fine,’ she said, ‘thank you. But could you grab some nibbles, nuts or something?’

‘Sure. Oh God!’ He looked at his phone. ‘Guinevere. I’m probably meant to be somewhere – oh, no, hang on – oh, right – she says this critic is taking her out to dinner. I’m not allowed on those gigs.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m a complete retard when it comes to art. Don’t know anything about it. Don’t know the words, don’t know the people, don’t know the galleries even. I got into awful trouble the other night because they all started talking about the Prado and I said I’d got some really cool trainers from them, went on about how special they were, the America Cup ones, you know, they’re patent leather, and they all just stared at me.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Susie, giggling, ‘you thought they meant Prada!’ This struck her as quite extraordinarily funny.

‘That’s it. I mean, honestly you’d think I’d killed a puppy, the evils I got. None of them spoke to me the rest of the evening.’

‘It’s all so stupid, that snobbery,’ said Susie. ‘It goes on in my business as well, the girls from the glossies can hardly bring themselves to speak to the mass market weeklies and then there’s the totally unbridgeable gap between the magazine journalists and the bloggers. I mean, none of them are exactly curing cancer, are they?’

‘Unlikely. Well I’m glad you’re not shocked. Guinevere was.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. I almost wasn’t allowed to come to the party, forbidden to even mention anything that wasn’t about champagne or where to put coats. I’m glad you think it was funny.’

‘I think it was hilarious.’

‘That’s really nice,’ he said. And then he just looked at her, smiling, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners the way George Clooney’s did – he did look a little bit like George Clooney, actually, a young George Clooney . . . Get a grip, Susie, what are you like?

‘You know what, I’m so hungry,’ he said suddenly, ‘and I know you are. Look, would you’d like to get a bite to eat? Seeing as I’ve made you so late.’

Oh my God. How amazing. She opened her mouth to say she’d love to, that it would be really nice, and then stopped – didn’t it look a bit sad to have nothing on, to be totally available all evening, a week before Christmas?

‘I’m all right for a bit,’ she said cautiously. That was always a good one. Late dates looked excellent.

‘That’s fine. We could eat here. Or grab a cab, head up West. Where’ve you got to be later?’

‘Oh – oh, sort of Chelsea way.’

‘OK. Well maybe we’d better go there. Come on, I’ll get them to call a cab.’

While they were waiting she went to the loo, checked her phone.
Still on for 8?
Well, she wasn’t; it was almost that now. She texted back:
Sorry, thing’s going on forever. Maybe 9.30–10
.

Then she could text again later – if necessary . . .

Alone in a bar, Henk went into the gents and punched the door violently.

She came out, smiled at Jonjo; he was looking at his phone.

‘This is fine; she’s at the Bluebird with those creeps. Oh, did I
say
that?’

‘You did.’

He looked stricken.

‘OK, what I meant was those
critics
. Here we go, here’s our cab, after you.’

She’d slung her coat over her shoulders and it slithered off as soon as she sat down. He tried to help her pull it up again, failed; somehow his arm remained over her shoulders. Just casually. She smiled at him. Just casually . . .

Susie, think what you’re doing. He’s not yours, he can’t be yours, he’s the property of a very important high-profile person and anyway, your boss’s husband is his best friend.

He looked down at her suddenly, grinned, and kissed her cheek. Just her cheek.

‘This is turning into a fun evening.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes it is.’

He studied her face, started at her mouth, moved up to her eyes, then her hair.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘you are totally gorgeous. I—’

And then his phone rang; he rummaged in his pocket.

‘Excuse me. Guinevere! Hi. Yes. Yes, I see. Oh, but – sorry? But – Guinny – sorry, sorry, Guinevere, you don’t like me being with those people. I – what? But actually I’m sort of fixed up for the evening now – what? Oh, just – just . . .’

Just me, Susie thought, just me, the PR who was useful to his girlfriend, and who he was spending the evening with because his own plans had changed.

‘It’s fine,’ she mouthed at him.

‘Well, all right. But it could be a bit difficult. Well, it looks quite – rude. Yes, I know those people are important, but—’

Susie waved at him, mouthed, ‘Go, go.’

‘Yes, all right, Guinevere. Yeah, I’ll come over right now. To the Bluebird. Could be a slow journey. Yes, of course I’ll do my best. OK. OK. Bye.’

He switched his phone off, looked at her remorsefully.

‘I’m sorry. But the original idea was we should spend the evening together. Her and me I mean, so . . .’

Which she then cancelled, Susie thought. Bitch. And now maybe the art critics weren’t important enough, or were too dull.

‘Honestly, Jonjo,’ she said, ‘it’s fine. Fine. I have to meet these people later, anyway.’

‘Yes, I know. But still, I was looking forward to our little supper.’

‘You’ll have a much nicer one at the Bluebird.’

‘Not necessarily. And you won’t be there. So where can I drop you? Where do you live?’

She looked out; they were already zooming across Holborn Viaduct. Damn. Too quick. ‘I live in Fulham. But I don’t want to get all the way out there. Listen, drop me in Sloane Square, presume you’re going that way?’

‘Sure.’

They sat in silence, the fun fractured, an odd sadness, disproportionate to the nature of their parting between them. They reached Hyde Park Corner, the back streets of Belgravia absurdly easily –
where was the bloody traffic, come on, just a little jam somewhere, please!

‘OK,’ said Jonjo, as they drove down Eaton Place. ‘Well, sorry again. And thank you again. It’s been really nice. I . . .’ And then he did it. He leaned over and kissed her, hard, on the mouth. It was surprising. And lovely. And very, very sexy. And there was something else too, that wasn’t just sex; something new to her, a sense of being close to where she had always wished to be, somewhere warm and calm and absolutely in accord with her, the real her, not the cool flirty person she pretended to be.

And then he pulled away and said, very quietly: ‘I think it’s just as well we’re not going to have dinner together. It would have been quite – dangerous.’ And then he kissed her again, only this time more thoughtfully, exploring her mouth, his hand in her hair, pushing through it, his tongue working on her – his other hand now moving up her leg, under her skirt, stroking her, pushing at her, and she felt herself filling up with sex. It was the only way she could describe it, leaping, lovely, yearning, sweeping sex. She felt she would have done anything at that moment, taken her clothes off, done it there and then in the taxi, in the middle of Sloane Square; she had never wanted anyone so badly in her life.

‘You are very lovely,’ he said. ‘Very, very lovely. The best thing that’s happened to me for a long time. I – oh God!’

‘Sloane Square, mate,’ said the taxi driver, sliding back his window with a sadistic flourish.

And Susie pulled down her skirt, hauled her coat from where it had fallen on the floor, shook her hair back, and then, getting out of the taxi rather slowly, said, ‘Bye Jonjo, and thank you . . .’

‘It was—’ he said and then she leaned back in and kissed him, a cool, social kiss, and then slammed the door shut and walked very unsteadily towards the station.

Chapter 34

She had always kept a lot from him – it was an essential part of their relationship. Small, shadowy secrets, as well as bigger, darker ones. If he had known them, any of them, he would have felt sometimes pressured, occasionally irritated and this time, this once-in-a-lifetime, or so she hoped and prayed, heartbroken. If he knew or guessed this, their lives would become immeasurably complicated, dangerous, and changed for ever and so he must not.

She knew exactly when it had happened; firstly, because such occasions were obviously limited, and secondly because it had been so wonderful, so brilliantly, sweetly, astonishingly wonderful that she felt there was something inexorable about its completion. Only, of course, there could be no completion, she thought confusedly, hanging on to common sense determinedly in the hours after they told her that the test had been positive, that she was indeed pregnant, the one thing she had always dreaded so much and that now she was in danger of welcoming.

And it
was
a danger: for she felt, unbidden within her, growing alongside her baby, a small shoot of joy.

She allowed herself a day or two of that, of savouring the joy and the thought of what might be, and then crushed it, ruthlessly and savagely. For it would not be joy, if she allowed it, it would be hardship and unhappiness and a betrayal of everything she truly believed, everything that justified the relationship, and of Cornelius, who she loved and Athina to whom she owed so much and who she also loved – although who would believe that, she wondered, lying awake through a long, long night, staring out at the dark sky.

No, there could be no baby, no child of this union; and she must deal with the situation in her own formidable, clear-sighted way.

She was forty-two. She had thought it would not happen now, which was why she had begun to be just a little careless, had failed to take her pills – the wonderful pills that modern girls took for granted and her generation regarded as near to magical – and therefore missed taking not just one, but two.

They had been in Paris, of course – where else was the sex so wonderful, where else was Cornelius so very much her own, where else did she feel not only physically but emotionally safe? The nights they spent in English places, beautiful to be sure, in small hidden hotels in the heart of the English countryside – never cities, for there were people who knew them, or rather, knew Cornelius and Athina, in every one of them – were often wonderful, but in Paris they owned the world, could contain themselves safely within it. Cornelius who was, by now, extremely rich, had bought a tiny apartment in Passy, just one bedroom and one
salon
on the top floor of a beautiful old building. An attic, really, but still most beautiful with its panelled doors and tall windows opening on to a minuscule balcony. There they would meet and talk and walk around Paris and eat and make love; sometimes only a twenty-four-hour visit for Cornelius, a longer one for Florence, for absences could not be allowed to coincide too precisely. That was when they had come to know Paris so well; every district of it explored and dissected and learned as if by heart.

And that was when Cornelius had bought her the occasional – for she would not allow it very often, being proud as well as cautious – beautiful dress or coat or pair of shoes. This was the time when almost every Englishwoman was dressed as a milkmaid, courtesy of Laura Ashley or in the muted Biba-chic of dark skinny jersey dresses or long black coats, coloured suede boots laced to the knee, and wild, long hippy curls. But Parisian women were still classically stylish in slender dresses and cardigan suits.

Athina, at forty-seven, was at the peak of her beauty, her ice-blond hair slicked back from her lovely, sculptured face, and photographed by every famous photographer for
Vogue
,
Queen
,
The Tatler
, dressed mostly by Saint Laurent or the ubiquitous Jean Muir and Ossie Clark, feted, admired, adored.

Cornelius would take her to Paris on shopping trips, albeit brief ones, for Athina would seldom allow them to be away together. Those were the times Florence hated; she could see the necessity, but knowing they were together, staying usually at the George V, in the city she and Cornelius had claimed as their own, made her physically ill with jealousy. Yet she never told Cornelius, never complained – for what right had she – and would work twelve-hour days at the arcade, refusing to go home to her little house until she was so absolutely exhausted that she was fit only for collapsing into bed.

The love-making that had left her with child had been one long, dark weekend in early November when she and Cornelius had scarcely ventured outside, so fog-ridden were the Parisian streets and so cold the air. The apartment was cold in spite of the small real fire and endless electric ones but Cornelius had acquired a very dashing long fur coat, Dr Zhivago style, which he spread across their bed and there they stayed for almost the entire two days.

‘I shall never be able to wear this coat now without thinking of you, Little Flo,’ he said, laying it tenderly over her as she rejoined him after fetching some champagne. ‘I shall see you, and I shall feel you, and above all I shall hear you, those disgracefully loud noises that you make, the sound of love. Oh, Florence, how lovely you are.’

She was ignorant about pregnancy for she had had no occasion to discuss it as married women did throughout their lives, and certainly about anything to do with terminating it. Lurid visions of hot baths and gin and backstreet butchery were the nearest and she had no intention of submitting herself to either. She had an idea that abortion was now legal and she went to the library and looked it up; it seemed that a termination of pregnancy, as defined in the 1967 Abortion Act, could be legally conducted by a doctor in a hospital ‘providing that continuing the pregnancy could be deemed necessary to prevent grave permanent injury’ to her physical or mental health, and that two medical practitioners were required to sanction it. She read this in growing distress, could see there could be considerable barriers to achieving the swift and efficient removal of her baby. Weeks could pass as she saw doctors, attended clinics, waited for beds; weeks of unhappiness and fear and sickliness and indeed, danger, for her condition might manifest itself to others. Athina had the sharpest eyes and might spot an ongoing nausea, or even a thickening waistline and burgeoning bosom, for Florence was bird-thin.

No, it must be done swiftly and discreetly and her best hope, she decided, was a visit to the expensive gynaecologist she saw regularly, a glamorous and worldly woman, who cheerfully issued prescriptions for Florence’s pill and even asked her from time to time how her sex life was and how her affair was going.

Everything went as she had hoped; Jacqueline Wentworth, sitting in her very grand rooms in Harley Street, confirmed her pregnancy, was most generous with her advice, and said she was absolutely sure Florence was doing the right thing.

‘And no silly guilt – apart from all the other people who would be made unhappy by your having that baby, he or she would not have the best of lives.’ Two thousand pounds would see her safely into a clinic in the wilds of rural Kent – ‘It’s really delightful there, lovely grounds and rooms and the most charming staff . . .’ – the possession of the two signed letters, and a painless and extremely safe conclusion to her pregnancy.

Florence’s initial relief was slightly tempered by the fact that she didn’t have two thousand pounds or anything near it.

She wondered if she might mortgage her house, but that, it seemed, would take several weeks, and the largest bank loan she could obtain was five hundred pounds.

She was fretting over where she might turn when she found herself staring at Leonard Trentham’s painting, the one of the Parisian courtyard, given to her, she was sure, by Cornelius – although it was one of his teases that he refused to admit it. She could sell that if it was sufficiently valuable, and she could get it copied, easily, although possibly not quite in time. But Cornelius seldom came to her little house, would never spot a good fake. She took it down from the wall, wrapped it carefully in brown paper, and set off in the morning for an art gallery in St James’s where she often went to exhibitions; the owner, Jasper Stuart, was always welcoming and indeed friendly. She had once told him that she owned a Leonard Trentham and he had said that if she ever wanted to sell it, he would be waiting with his arms open.

‘My dear Miss Hamilton, what an absolutely wonderful opportunity! Of course I will sell it for you, it would be an honour to have it on our modest walls, it’s—’

‘When?’ said Florence, interrupting him. ‘How quickly could you sell it?’

Jasper Stuart rallied from this rather unseemly haste and said he was having an exhibition of English watercolours in the next couple of months. Would that be soon enough for her?

‘Not really,’ said Florence. ‘I need the money most urgently. I shall have to take my picture elsewhere. I really can’t wait two months.’

‘Oh dear . . .’ Jasper Stuart hesitated. ‘Oh, Miss Hamilton that would be such a pity. I could make some inquiries, and if there was any interest I could advance you a sum which would approximate to the value of the Trentham – minus my commission, of course.’

‘Of course. And – and how much do you think . . .’

‘Oh, I think it would be valued at around . . .’ He paused theatrically, then, ‘At around a thousand pounds, maybe fifteen hundred?’

‘That’s not enough,’ said Florence briskly. ‘My own research indicated that Trenthams were priced much more highly than that.’

‘Well, perhaps the sources of your own research might be persuaded to take the picture on—’

‘Not possible,’ said Florence, and this was the first truthful thing she had said that morning. ‘The person in question is an art critic, writing for one of the glossy magazines.’

‘Which one?’

‘
Rural Life
, the one with all the beautiful houses. Perhaps you know him? Joseph Saunders?’

She was safe there; Joseph Saunders, her friend, and indeed a highly esteemed art critic, had once described Jasper Stuart to her as a poisonous little poofter who he would not be willing to exchange the time of day with.

‘Well, I know the name of course,’ said Stuart, slightly tetchy now. ‘And what value did he put on your Trentham?’

Joseph Saunders had actually said it was a very nice example of Trentham’s work, that they were out of fashion at the moment, but if she was lucky, she could get up to fifteen hundred for it.

‘Two thousand pounds,’ said Florence, her lovely eyes meeting Jasper Stuart’s slightly watery ones.

‘Less commission, I imagine?’

‘Absolutely. But I’ll take it elsewhere, Mr Stuart, I really don’t want to pressurise you.’

‘No, no, Miss Hamilton, I’ll make some inquiries and get back to you in – what shall we say? Three or four days?’

‘That would be very kind,’ said Florence. ‘And there is something else. I am very fond of that painting and for reasons of sentiment I would like to have it really well copied. Can you recommend anyone?’

Jasper Stuart said he could; he looked after her small figure clutching the painting and on her way to the copyist and wondered what sort of difficulty she might be in; presumably she’d got into debt with one of those new-fangled credit cards. He reached for the phone and dialled the number of one of his clients, a very rich American and they had a deal within ten minutes. The man said that three thousand sounded very fair if it was a genuine Trentham and Jasper Stuart said that of course it was, and a very charming one too.

The night before she had to go into the nursing home, Florence hardly slept. She was suddenly attacked by the thought of what she was keeping from Cornelius. The baby was his as well as hers; was she really right to keep it from him, this tiny, enormously important thing they had created together?

She changed her mind hourly, feeling at one and the same time she would be causing him enormous grief by telling him about it, and sparing him a great deal of angst and guilt if she did not. Days might pass as he wondered what to do, if she told him, and time was crucial.

And then, even as she decided not to tell him, never to tell him, she was assailed by a most painful and difficult grief and remorse of her own: that she was removing most ruthlessly from her body a living, breathing creature, entrusted to her to nurture and protect. Would the baby be alive when it was taken from her? And if so, how long would it take to die? Would it suffer? And what would happen to it then?

She tried to recall the reassurance given her from Jacqueline Wentworth: ‘Do remember, Miss Hamilton, we’re talking something the size of perhaps a quail’s egg. It doesn’t have any feelings (how could she know? How could anyone know?) and if doubts should assail you, and they probably will, think of the sort of life you could give this child, bringing it up alone as an unmarried woman, with very few resources.’

It was her last words that helped Florence to feel she was doing the right thing by terminating the pregnancy. She was above all a pragmatist, and it was hard to contemplate with optimism the long-term future of this child of hers.

And so, as the day dawned and she rose and put the last few things into her case and took a taxi to Charing Cross, she settled into a rather soothing certainty that her decision was the right one, and embarked upon the necessary action with a heart that, if not light, was courageous and positive.

Nevertheless, as the anaesthetist’s smiling, rather smug face came into her room to give her her pre-meds, she felt a hostility and a misery she would not have believed, and when she came round from the operation, to a smiling nurse assuring her that all was well, she felt not relief and happiness, but guilt and sorrow and a dreadful remorse that she had flown in the face of nature and not done for her baby what every instinct told her she should have done, that ripping it out of her body had been a wicked thing to do, and that she had deprived herself of perhaps some of the greatest joys, as well as difficulties, that she would ever be likely to know.