The Debutante (20 page)

She looked across at him. ‘I was a mistress.’

She’d never said it out loud before. It sounded overblown; distinctly eighteenth century.

He laughed. ‘Pardon?’

She said it clearer this time. ‘A mistress.’

He stopped laughing. His eyes changed, the warmth retreating.

‘You don’t approve,’ she deduced, looking down at the space between her feet. ‘That’s all right. Neither do I.’

‘So why did you do it then?’ He tried to keep his tone neutral, but the very fact that he was asking sounded judgemental, like a schoolteacher.

She looked up, suddenly small, out of her depth. ‘I don’t know.’

He felt unreal, slightly numb. ‘Do you love him?’

‘I’m sorry?’ She blinked back at him, unseeing.

‘Let’s leave it.’

She was afraid to talk about it. She was afraid not to talk about it. And now she’d gone too far.

‘It’s not love.’

‘What is it then?’

‘Some sort of soul sickness.’

Her answer unnerved him. This was not the history he had in mind for her; not the romantic, seductive end to the evening he had been looking forward to. He felt cheated. Instead he sat, staring out across Primrose Hill, blind to the view, unable to summon the necessary social dexterity to say anything mitigating, yet unwilling to leave the subject alone.

‘Is he rich?’ It was a sordid question; instantly he regretted it.

‘Richer than some.’

‘A client?’

She stared at him, hard. His questions were intrusive, yet compulsive.

‘We don’t have to talk about it,’ he relented.

‘No, you’re right: we don’t need to discuss it. I’m sorry.’

‘I didn’t mean it that way …’

‘Of course not.’ She stood up. ‘Look, I can make my own way home.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He got up too.

‘I’d rather go on my own.’

‘Katie…’

The look she shot him was fierce.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he gave up trying to talk to her, staring into the darkness instead.

‘We’re headed in different directions.’ She picked up her bag, flung it over her shoulder. ‘Besides, it’s late. Far too late now.’

He stepped back, let her go.

And as she passed in front of him, he bowed his head slightly; a strange, formal gesture from another age; an acknowledgement, perhaps, however awkward, of the privileged, if unwelcome, nature of her confidence.

If Cate registered it, she gave no sign; walking on, back straight, chin held high, into the night.

5 St James’s Square
London

12th August, 1935

My dearest,
I am so sorry.

So sorry, my love, for your loss. I long to comfort you but don’t know how. Perhaps if it had lived it would’ve been ill. The truth is, I don’t understand God at all. Perhaps Anne is right and He doesn’t exist. Still yet another part of me screams, have faith, believe. But I don’t know what in and I don’t know why. And yet, against all reason, I do believe. We must. You are only young. Please don’t give up hope.

I am on my way.

Yours always,

Dxxxx

In the dream she wasn’t running. She should’ve been, but she wasn’t. She could feel the danger, a swell of sickening adrenalin in her stomach. Around her the air changed, cooling, quickening.

She looked around. The landscape was shadowy; she’d arrived here all of a sudden, like coming to from a powerful narcotic. What was this place? A house? Was that the sound of the sea? On the floor a doll, naked, hair matted, limbs twisted, stared up at her, its blue eyes unseeing. She bent but couldn’t reach it. How did it get so damaged?

Somewhere, at the end of the corridor, the thing approached.

She wanted to move but her legs didn’t work. She tried to scream — her throat tearing at notes that couldn’t be heard.

It was coming, black, slippery, shifting. Nearer, nearer … limping, panting, running at speed across the bare wooden floor.

Cate woke covered in cold sweat, heart racing and disorientated. The room was pitch black and close. Where was she? What country?

Getting up, she felt in the dark for the light switch, then stumbled to the bathroom, sitting on Rachel’s avocado-green toilet, staring at the balding patches between the bath tiles.

What made her tell him? Did she imagine he would understand? Or that he might console her, smoothing over her self-contempt?

Now he knew her true character. And he was repulsed.

Standing up, she splashed her face with water.

Why shouldn’t he be?

Her reflection blinked back at her, pale, swollen.

Wasn’t that the way she felt about herself?

She went back to her room and turned on the bedside lamp. Propping the pillow behind her, she lay back, closed her eyes.

Her mind turned again to the restaurant, holding his hand. She’d never held a man’s hand before. Or rather, she’d never
just
held a man’s hand. There was no context for the experience in her history; she didn’t understand what it meant or didn’t mean. All she knew was it felt unusual. Comforting; tender; frightening.

Reaching into her handbag she took out and lit a cigarette.

She wanted to hide now. How was she ever going to be able to look him in the eye again? At the same time, she wanted to be back at that table, with his fingers firmly wrapped around hers.

She got up, opened the window wider. It was a still, airless night.

He probably still loved his wife. It was clear that he’d been devoted to her. She was most likely a wonderful woman. Beautiful, accomplished, kind. The sort of girl you would scour London for in search of the perfect mirror.

Her head ached.

She took another drag. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep now.

The book of Beaton photographs she’d taken out of the library was on her bedside table. Reaching across, she opened it, leafing slowly through the pages; sedating herself with image after glossy image.

Katie. He’d called her Katie. She’d liked the way it sounded.

She continued to turn the pages.

Here were the now familiar photos she’d seen at the National Portrait Gallery. And one new one of Baby Blythe, taken on a lawn: a close-up of her lying flat, golden curls spread out in a halo around her head. A little spaniel was curled possessively into the crook of her arm, a shimmering diamond-studded collar round its neck. Diana was laughing; it was a portrait of unrestrained joy, rare among Beaton’s work for its spontaneous, unstudied nature. ‘Diana “Baby” Blythe and her dog, 1931.’

Searching for something to flick her ash into, she found an old glass. The embers fizzed as they hit the dregs of water at the bottom.

Then something caught her eye.

‘Lord and Lady Rothermere at Wooton Lodge, Leicestershire, 1931.’

She sat forward.

Stiff and formal, the powerful figure of Lord Rothermere stared out; an intense, formidable gaze. Next to him sat a gaunt, dark-haired woman in her mid-forties;
a woman of undistinguished features and vaguely maternal bearing, her mouth drawn into a tense little smile. She gave the impression of someone who was horrified by the prospect of being photographed; who would’ve sprinted away given half the chance but who’d been caught off guard. They were sitting at a tea table set up on a lawn at the back of a strange Gothic house. Her face was partially hidden under the shadow of a large sun hat; his hands were folded stiffly in his lap. Cate was struck by his huge, overbearing physicality and how old he seemed. Suddenly she shared Sam’s amazement that he’d ever touched Baby Blythe. There was something incomprehensible, revolting even, about the pairing.

Behind the Rothermeres, a wide terrace led to French windows opening into the dark, shadowy recesses of the house beyond. There was a curious black blur near one of the doors; flashes of light reflecting off the windowpanes.

Cate leaned in, squinting to see better. Then she remembered a pair of Rachel’s reading glasses sitting on the side of the bathroom sink.

Padding along the hallway, she got them and returned, pushing the magnifying frames back on her nose.

Her eyes adjusted. The blur solidified.

It was the running figure of a small dog.

A jewelled collar glinting around its neck.

5 St James’s Square
London

2 April 1936

My darling,
Yes, I saw Malcolm for lunch. And just as I predicted it was a chastising monologue of epic proportions — he didn’t draw breath from soup till Sauternes. In the end I gave up trying to get a word in edgeways and amused myself instead by thinking of various ways I could kill him using only the objects found on the table. Once you get past the obvious ones — knifing someone, forking them to death, hanging them by noose fashioned from the tablecloth — things get considerably more challenging. I’m particularly proud of asphyxiation through excessive amounts of mint jelly, dowsing them in brandy then setting them on fire, and the forceful ramming of a napkin down the throat. (I spent a long time imagining that one.) Of course all the methods rely on your victim being either very drunk or really tremendously obliging. I failed to come up with anything viable involving a spoon.

Why do you do it to me, my darling? I cannot understand what you hope to gain by throwing us together all the time! He hates me and thinks I’m a fool. No amount of time spent picking at lobster thermidor at the Dorchester will make the slightest bit of difference. Now you, on the other hand, I’d be only too happy to meet for lunch — at any time or any place!

Please, please don’t make me dine with your husband again. I may not have come up with anything wicked to do with a spoon yet but it’s only a matter of time …

Yours,

Baby xxx

Jack sat on his roof terrace, drinking red wine. The heat, like a giant sweaty palm, wrapped around him. He pushed his hair off his face.

A mistress. Was that the same as a lover?

A mistress was colder, more calculated. It usually involved finance. And, more importantly, betrayal.

A sick feeling flooded him, followed quickly by frustration.

She was right, he didn’t approve of her.

But neither could he prevent himself from thinking about her. His psyche, his whole body was already in play, inclining towards her, in conflict with his better judgement. His reason was useless; no match for the reality of her, no matter how contradictory.

Forcing down another swallow, he filled up his glass again.

He couldn’t sleep; didn’t even try.

This time of year was difficult anyway. It was the buildup. And the heat didn’t help. It reminded him of those first awful weeks … just after the accident.

He remembered all too well walking through the days after his wife’s death, numb, devastated. Now the feeling was back; the same terrifying loss of control.

He shifted, as if changing his position would ease the internal discomfort. It didn’t.

It was the stupid things that had overwhelmed him, then, grinding his whole being to a halt, like what kind of flower arrangements there should be at the service, the
wording of the obituary, the endless sympathy cards. What to do with all her clothes and personal belongings.

He took another sip.

Her personal belongings.

For a while he’d lived with them. He couldn’t grasp that she wouldn’t need them. There was a lingering feeling that she’d be upset if she came back and he’d thrown them away. So he did nothing for over a year. It was all he could do to get up, get dressed, go to work.