A Perfect Heritage (42 page)

‘I suppose not. Your marriage was so very short you could never really have known real fulfilment. I feel so sad for you, over that.’

She wondered what on earth he would say if he knew about Cornelius; he would be shocked, undoubtedly, but would he be able to accept it, understand? She would never tell him anyway, so it wouldn’t matter. Only . . . it would. So large a part of her, that second, hidden life of hers, there for the discovering. It was a big risk, on more than one level. Could she,
should
she do this, yield to this sweet, uncomplicated temptation?

The walk on the Downs, dusted with winter sunshine, slowly awakening to spring, was wonderful. He took her hand at one point, helping her up a steep slope, then continued to hold it. ‘You don’t mind do you?’ he asked, half serious, and she leaned up and kissed his cheek and said, ‘No, of course not, it’s lovely.’

Dinner was delicious, eaten at his kitchen table: an excellent cottage pie followed by rhubarb crumble. ‘Nursery food,’ he said, ‘so good after a long walk.’

And then they sat by the fire listening to Handel on the hi-fi and she started worrying again, wondering what might be happening in London, what furious, or indignant messages might be left on her answering machine, whether Cornelius or Lawrence Trentham or both might be looking for her, outraged and avenging, or speculating on where she was.

The concert ended. ‘Nightcap?’ Timothy said.

‘I’d love a cocoa,’ she said.

‘I meant something more exotic. But cocoa you shall have.’

He brought two mugs back, set them on the low table between them.

Then he looked at her.

‘I am so very fond of you, Florence,’ he said, ‘I am so hoping you will give me the answer I want.’

‘Timothy—’

‘But I am not going to press you. I understand you need time. There are many things for you to come to terms with, not least sharing your life full-time. Something you have never done.’

She smiled at him.

‘I appreciate your understanding so much, Timothy,’ she said.

‘I just think –
know
indeed – that we can be very happy together. And I know my children feel the same. They like you enormously.’

‘As I do them.’

‘Laura told me a secret today. She is going to have a baby.’

‘Oh, Timothy, that’s so lovely.’

‘I know. I am very excited. Sad, of course, that was something Barbara most grieved over, never having a grandchild. But very wonderful for me.’

Goodness, Florence thought, I would be a step-grandmother. How amazing, after a lifetime of spinsterhood. Would that ease the pain of her own, never-forgotten baby? Or make it worse?

‘Things like that, you see,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘are best shared. And I think you would be a very delightful grandmother by marriage. But – wrong of me to put even that pressure on you, dear Florence. I am resolved not to do it. Now – bed. Goodnight, my dear. I’ll see you in the morning.’

She got up, kissed his cheek; as she reached the door, he said, ‘I don’t want you to think I am not longing to take you to bed, Florence, but again, it would be wrong before you have made up your mind. It’s not the blessing of the church I am looking for, but your own.’

‘Of course,’ she said quietly.

‘And besides,’ he said, with an odd, slightly embarrassed smile, ‘I feel rather nervous, just contemplating the whole thing. I have no idea, of course, whether you have had relationships, I’m sure you have. And I don’t want you to tell me unless you choose to. But it will be a challenge, in any case. I have only ever made love to one woman and I might prove very unsatisfactory to you; I really have no idea.’

‘Oh, Timothy,’ said Florence, walking back to him, kissing him again, ‘I’m sure you will prove extremely satisfactory. But I think you are right; we should wait a little longer. Although, like you, I like the idea of it very much.’

‘Really?’ he said and his smile was brilliant suddenly. ‘How very good that is to hear. Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well.’

Oh, he was so incredibly nice. What had she done to deserve him? What? Nothing, she told herself, as she lay wide awake, far in to the small hours, you don’t deserve him in the very least.

In the morning she accompanied him to church. Raised to attend morning service, she found herself jerked back into childhood and the singular pleasure of singing hymns, the words of all of which she remembered. They then went to the pub and had a drink in the bar, and were inveigled into eating a rather bad lunch. And after a short walk, she finally, and reluctantly, returned to London.

Sitting on the train, she felt bathed in ease and happiness, wondering that such things were hers for the taking. She compared it with what she knew: disorder, unease and much emotional discomfort. Where was the problem, why did she even hesitate? Was she quite mad?

Deciding that she was, she took a taxi from Waterloo. And immediately tumbled back into discord.

There were eight calls on her answering machine: three from Lawrence Trentham, sounding distressed, asking her to call him, then five from Cornelius, making the same request.

She phoned neither of them. She called Timothy to say she was safely home, as he had requested, and then settled down to watch TV, some foolish Sunday serial.

She slept badly, dreamed feverishly. The morning dragged next day and shortly after two Cornelius arrived at The Shop.

‘Anyone here?’

She shook her head.

‘Good.’ His voice was cold, his face hostile. He locked the door, put the notice on it.

‘What’s going on, Florence?’

‘I – don’t know what you mean.’

‘Of course you do. Leonard says that picture’s a fake.’

She didn’t tell him, of course, the real reason. She couldn’t. But she did tell him she had needed some money urgently.

‘But why? And why didn’t you ask me for it?’

‘Cornelius, there’s a limit even to my lack of pride. It’s humiliating, to be dependent on you. I – had some financial problems and I really needed money.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t think that is any of your business.’

‘Of course it is. Since you decided on this major deception, using a gift of mine.’

She was amazed at the way the lies flowed.

‘Well, I’d taken on Duncan’s mother’s nursing home fees – oh, not all of them, just filling in a gap for the family.’

‘Florence! When you have so little? Kind, generous, but – rash.’

‘I know. Anyway, I did it. So I had to honour it. She’s very old and frail. So I – I decided to – to sell the picture.’

‘Our picture.’

‘No, Cornelius,
the
picture. Mine, if we are to be precise. You gave it to me.’

‘And only the other day you had the gall to tell me it was priceless to you.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. But – well, I thought I might get it back one day.’

‘Who bought it?’

‘The Stuart gallery.’

‘That little shit! Do you know where it went?’

‘Overseas, I’m afraid. Cornelius, it’s no use. We’ll never get it back. I’m so, so sorry.’

‘Well, what’s done’s done. I’m very disappointed in you, Florence. But I suppose I understand your motives. Do you want that other painting back?’

‘Of course I do! It’s very precious to me. Real or fake.’

‘I do find that hard to understand.’ His expression was close to dislike.

‘Cornelius,’ she said, hurt making her desperate, ‘please, please try to understand what it’s like to be me. Always, always, I’m the underdog. Playing second fiddle to Athina—’

‘That’s absurd!’

‘It’s true. She is your wife, has the status, the security, I have nothing . . .’

‘You have me. And my love.’

‘No, Cornelius, I don’t have you. I’ve been hidden away now, notionally at least, for nearly thirty years. It’s been lovely and I entered into it with my eyes completely open but sometimes, just sometimes, I long for security, normality. I have to manage on my own, most of the time.’ She was pale now, not tearful, but desperately sincere. ‘And I have to be alone, most of the time. It isn’t easy, while enduring Athina’s high-handed attitude. I have no security—’

‘Yes you do,’ he said. ‘You have great security, as you know. When you need to claim it.’

‘Yes, of course. And I’m grateful for that. Although I find it hard to imagine I’ll ever use it.’

‘Florence, you must. If you need to. That’s why I did it.’

‘I know. And I’m grateful. But – anyway, I do have to manage everything, deal with the world, on my own. And I need you to understand how difficult that is.’

There was a long silence; then he said, ‘Come here, Little Flo.’ He drew her towards him and said, ‘I love you. I love you so much. I am so very lucky to have you in my life. I don’t deserve you.’

‘No,’ she said, smiling suddenly, ‘you really don’t. But—’

‘I know. I cannot imagine life without you. How I would bear it all. And I do realise that it could happen, that someone, some decent chap, will come along and ask you to marry him. And you would have every right to leave me for him. Every right.’

And suddenly she knew that Timothy Benning was not for her. He was far too good for her. She had not lived the life of a good person. She had been an adulteress, had deceived the woman to whom she owed everything, deceived her ruthlessly and without remorse. Would remorse have made it better? Perhaps a little; but she had not felt it. Had even found succour in the thought, as Athina snubbed and belittled her, that she had her husband’s heart. And his body, quite frequently.

A person such as that had no business moving into the life of a person such as Timothy Benning. Moreover, there were new deceptions now, layered one upon another. She had lied, with hideous ease, to her lover, had concealed from him that she had aborted his child, had found a spurious reason for doing what she had done. And that alone, Timothy would have found unforgivable. That she could have aborted a baby without considering other, more virtuous options – and while concealing its very existence from its father.

And she could not have kept it all from him: not always. Marriage, certainly to someone as good and transparent as Timothy, was about truth, about trust; it could not be built upon lies and suspicion. And, gradually, she would have wrecked what Timothy Benning was about; besmirching his goodness. He would have looked at her with those smiling, affectionate eyes, and gradually, inevitably, they would have seen what was really there: a capacity for, and indeed a history of, infinite deceit. She could not do that to him, could not destroy him and his happy, easeful life. It would be the final act of wickedness, worse, far worse than deceiving Athina. Who, after all, was fairly wicked herself.

And so, with many tears, she wrote to Timothy. She knew that no emotional reason would persuade him; she said simply that she felt that their lives were too different, too difficult to blend, that she was unable to fit into his life, charming and pleasant as she found it, and that she feared they would make each other unhappy, being the inherently different creatures they were.

Indeed, I think we should not meet again, for I have made up my mind and seeing you might make it waver. Thank you for the happiest three months of my life and, most recently, the happiest two days of those very months. I long to accept, long to join you. You are very special, very good and very, very dear to me; I am so fond of you. For that very reason, I know I cannot hurt you as I know I would.

Thank you for everything and please forgive me. And try in due course, to remember me lovingly as I do you.

Florence

She addressed the envelope, read the letter three more times, weeping as she did so, then walked to the postbox and pushed the letter in by sheer force of will, holding on to it with the tips of her fingers and then finally letting go and, crying quite openly now, walked back through the dark, cold streets to her little house, and to her lonely, difficult, sometimes dark life that she had thought briefly she could escape from, into warmth and light and happiness, and now knew she never could.

Chapter 40

This was so terrible. It took the whole thing and her unhappiness up to a new level. She’d walked into the classroom after lunch one day – she’d taken to hiding in the loos during lunch – and there on her desk had been an envelope. Fearing the worst, she’d not picked it up or opened it for a while.
Milly
it said, and a little kiss underneath. Probably someone feeling sorry for her, wanting to let her know. One of the less popular people, perhaps – no, they’d be too afraid of reprisals themselves. It wasn’t in handwriting so she couldn’t begin to guess, but in rather elaborate capitals, with decorations on each one, flowers on the ‘M’, twining up it a little figure forming the ‘I’, then the two ‘L’s turned into swans’ necks, and finally the ‘Y’ forming a kite, with a long tail trailing down. Surely no one would do that if they were being mean? Feeling a bit as if she was jumping into an ice-cold pool she suddenly ripped it open; and it wasn’t mean, it was a note from Carey:

Hi Mills,

I’ve missed you. We all have. Time to make up. Come for a hot chocolate after school. Friends reunited, huh? Sorry if we’ve been a bit mean.

Of course what she should have done was rip it up, look coldly at Carey, say no, sorry she was busy; but it was like – well, getting out of that dreadful cold pool and walking into a gorgeously warm one, with the sun shining down on her after months of dark skies, and she sat there, smiling foolishly at the note, and when Carey came in and smiled at her, and then all the others, she smiled back and it was as if none of the misery and loneliness had ever happened.

‘Starbucks after school, yeah?’ said Carey. ‘We’ve got to do something first, so not till four thirty. We’ll all be there.’

‘Cool,’ said Milly.

The afternoon dragged; she had fixed to see Jayce, but cancelled her. She knew it was mean, but she could make it up to her . . .

She hung around in the library and then arrived, carefully not even a minute early, at Starbucks in the Fulham Road, her heart thumping, wondering what she would say to them all, because it was actually a little bit difficult – she had no idea what had brought about this sudden change, but something had, and all she felt was gratitude. No doubt they would tell her in due course.

Starbucks was almost empty at half past four; she frowned, went in and walked all round, in case they were hiding under a table or behind a pillar, ready to say ‘surprise, surprise!’. But there was nobody else there, apart from a couple of mothers with small children and a man working at his laptop. Milly walked out again; waited for a very long ten minutes and still nobody came. Finally, thinking Carey must have been held up, and having checked her phone for the umpteenth time, she went in again and sat down at one of the tables. Whereupon one of the Starbucks’ staff came out from behind the coffee machine, walked over to her and said, ‘Are you Milly?’

Milly nodded.

‘Your friends asked me to give you this. Said they’d had to go.’

She ripped open the envelope.

Hi Mills,

Can’t believe you fell for that. Did you really think we’d be seen dead in Starbucks with you? You might have brought your fat friend and how gross would that have been? Best go home now and get on with your homework like a good little girl.

It was so absolutely brutal, like getting a slap across the face when you were looking the other way, that Milly burst into tears and sat there for quite a long time crying, her head on her arms, until the girl who had given her the note came over to her and said awkwardly, ‘You OK? Sorry if it was bad news. Can I get you a hot chocolate or something?’

And Milly, unable to bear even such detached kindness, shook her head and ran out and down the road, all the way to the tube station, while dreading that one of them would be waiting for her in a doorway, to do some other horrible thing.

Only they weren’t, and she finally arrived home so white-faced and exhausted that Sonia decided she must be ill, and sent her up to bed, and then called Bianca to say exactly that and that if Bianca could come home early, that would be nice, but if not she could hold on until Patrick arrived.

But Bianca’s phone was on message and Sonia rang the office number and got Jemima, who said she wasn’t expecting Bianca back, that she’d gone out to a meeting; and then added awkwardly that Patrick wasn’t coming back for another two days, he’d been held up in New York.

Sonia said icily, which she knew was unfair because it was hardly Jemima’s fault that no one had told her and that she couldn’t stay indefinitely and if Jemima heard from Bianca could she please tell her to call her immediately and that Milly really wasn’t well.

Bianca had been looking forward to seeing Patrick; he’d been away for over a week now and it had been uncomfortable and stressful. She’d missed him on a personal level too, but so swiftly was he changing from the old Patrick, from the loving, attentive person she thought she knew, into this strange, distracted, remote creature, that this hardly entered the emotional equation when he called to say that Saul wanted him to stay on and dig a bit deeper into an engineering company. ‘He’s fired up over this one, Bianca, I really have to stay on.’

Asked to list them in order of importance, those emotions, she would have put rage, indignation and frustration well below a hostility towards Saul Finlayson so strong, that if he had walked into her office now she would have thrown the rather large and heavy flower arrangement that resided on her desk at him and hoped it would deal a fatal blow.

As she slammed down the phone, her mobile rang; it was Saul Finlayson.

‘I’m sorry about Patrick,’ he said, walking into her office five minutes later. ‘Very sorry. I can see how annoying it must be for you . . .’

‘It’s more than annoying,’ she said, eyeing the flowers, wondering if she was strong enough to throw them, and deciding, regretfully, she was not. ‘It’s quite serious. I was totally relying on him this evening, I have a meeting with the VCs, Sonia can’t stay on to look after the children, he’s already two days late and—’

She stopped, realising this was not perhaps quite the message that she should be sending to Patrick’s boss: that her main reliance on him was as childminder.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

‘So why are you here?’

‘To say I’m sorry. You did sound quite – cross. And I was nearby, so it was easy to come in, not as if I had to make a special journey of it.’

‘I’m so pleased about that,’ she said.

‘Well, I wouldn’t have come otherwise, obviously. But this thing he’s investigating for me could mean millions, and all the difference between losing them and winning them. I thought I should explain that.’

‘Well, I can see how important it is, but he had promised to be back—’ Stop it, Bianca, stop sounding like a whingeing wife, it’s not clever.

‘Bianca – I did warn you about this sort of thing. Maybe it’s time you stopped relying on Patrick for domestic backup. He’s not working for the family firm any more.’

‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘You must give me your views on other aspects of my personal life some time.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t presume to do that,’ he said, so seriously that she started to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t meant to be funny.’

‘I know, but it was.’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘do you really have to cancel your meeting with the VCs?’

‘Yes, I do. Of course it isn’t really very important. Just about a few millions, actually. Not as important as yours of course.’

‘Would it have taken very long?’

‘Probably all evening, and now I only have about half an hour.’

‘I see. Well, would that leave you enough time to have a coffee with me? Before you go home?’

‘No,’ she said, anger rising again. ‘No it wouldn’t.’

‘Well, that’s a pity. I wanted to know how your plans were coming along. And about how the conference went.’

‘I’m surprised you should remember something so unimportant as my sales conference,’ she said, adding briskly, ‘Patrick always comes to my conferences, for the dinner and so on. He had to miss it, for the first time ever.’

‘I know. And I’m sorry about that too.’

‘Did Patrick tell you?’

‘No, of course not. He never mentions his personal arrangements. But I remembered your talking about it at Christmas.’

‘Oh,’ she said. She felt stunned, as if he had said he remembered her birthday.

‘I wondered if you managed to get round the perfume problem?’

‘Not exactly perfectly,’ she said, and she felt as if she might lose control now, being hideously near tears. She managed a bright, tight smile.

‘What happened?’

‘I – oh, you don’t want to know.’

‘I do. I’ve told you before, I find you, and what you do, very interesting. Look, are you sure you don’t have time for a coffee? Before you go home and after you’ve cancelled your meeting?’

‘Oh God,’ she said, smiling at him suddenly, ‘you really are not like anyone else, Saul.’

‘So I am told,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see what that has to do with it.’

Sitting with him in Starbucks – Starbucks, of all places, not some cool lounge of some cool hotel – drinking coffee, her meeting cancelled, Mike and Hugh audibly annoyed, texting Sonia to say she would be home in an hour and to give Milly some paracetamol, she sipped her double espresso and found herself telling Saul not only about the conference and Lady Farrell’s intervention, but her own brilliant idea. She was surprised to hear herself telling him this, but suddenly it seemed oddly comforting and reassuring. And there was no way he would talk about it to anyone.

‘That is extremely clever,’ he said, staring at her. ‘I’m impressed. You really do have a very good brain, you know.’

‘Thank you. Just lately, it hasn’t felt like that.’

‘No, probably not.’

There was a silence, then he said, ‘I do hope you’re not even thinking about squandering that on just one or two outlets?’

‘I might have to.’

‘Well, that’s pure stupidity.’

‘Thanks. The alternative is finding a few more millions. Oddly, they’re not always entirely easy to find.’

‘Well, of course they’re not,’ he said, slightly impatiently, ‘I thought you’d realise that.’

She sighed. ‘You don’t have a great sense of humour do you, Saul?’

‘No, everyone says that,’ he said. And then, after a pause, ‘Was that what your meeting was about?’

‘Yes. And of course you’re right. Everyone who knows about this, which is about three people—’

‘That’s good,’ he said.

‘Yes. Anyway, everyone says the same thing. I have to go global. Unfortunately that means more money. A lot more.’

‘And the VCs say no?’

‘They do.’

‘Fools,’ he said. And then, looking at his watch, ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’d love to stay but I do really have to go. And you have to get that money. You really do.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ she said.

‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘any time, just call.’

And then something quite extraordinary happened as they waited outside looking for cabs; he suddenly moved towards her and gave her a hug. A slightly tentative, brief hug, but a hug just the same; his arms went round her and pulled her close and instead of resisting him, as she would have expected herself to do, she moved into him, closer still, and turned her head and rested it on his chest, and felt a thud of emotional, rather than sexual, excitement and a sense that something important had happened, without having any clear idea why.

And then, while she waited for some tender, or even affectionate words, she felt him release her and his arm go up and his voice shouting, ‘Cab!’ And she started to laugh, because it was the only thing to do.

‘Why are you laughing?’ he said, and his face was quite hurt. ‘I thought you were in a hurry.’

‘I am,’ she said, ‘and thank you.’

And then she reached up and kissed him, just very lightly, on the mouth and before he could begin to react in any way, climbed into the cab and waved him goodbye.

A minute later she got a text from him:
Try not to worry. It’ll be all right. Call me if you want to
.

She would have liked to think there was some romantic, or even sexual double entendre to this but she knew there was not. Just the same, as the cab made its way to Hampstead, she sat back and looked out of the window, smiling. And wished, she realised rather unsuitably, that there was.

It had to be said, had to be done. He would never respect himself again if he didn’t. It was hard. For over half a century he had kept silent, not arguing, accepting criticism, turning the other cheek when ridiculed, turning a blind eye to her excessess her rudeness to everybody when she chose to give it, wishing his father would do it, speak up, confront her. But he never had and Bertie had decided, after considering other options, that his father was a coward. A charming, handsome, rather lazy coward. He did what he had to do, what Athina required him to do, in order to ensure Farrell’s success, and to keep her from haranguing him constantly; and where there was an option, an easy option, he took it. It was quite ugly sometimes, watching Cornelius not stand up to her, allowing her to insult people, belittle them, ignore their feelings.

It had always been thus. He could remember disagreements over buying the flat in Hove, a new nanny who he and Caro hated, his being sent away to school at eight, all things he knew his father was against but never opposed. He had tried himself to get his support over school, had gone to him in tears, said he was very unhappy, that he was homesick, wetting the bed, being beaten. He didn’t mention the worst thing, because he couldn’t even find the words, but anyway: ‘Oh, don’t be silly, old chap,’ Cornelius said, ‘I didn’t like my prep school much either at first, but I got used to it. Didn’t do me any harm, I can tell you that.’

‘But will you think about it, Daddy, please? And talk to Mummy?’

His father had said he would, and clearly had, for it was Athina who came to talk to him: what was this nonsense, she said, about leaving St Peter’s? It was such a fine school, the headmaster was a charming man, and Bertie’s housemaster absolutely sweet. ‘He’s not sweet, he’s horrible!’ Bertie shouted at her and burst into tears, and she’d looked at him witheringly and said that if he was a cry baby at school it was no wonder he did so badly, nobody would respect him or have time for him; and so he’d just given up, didn’t say a word about the housemaster and the horrible things he did. For how would she understand anyway?