The Last Summer (36 page)

‘And he asked after you, dear,’ he said. ‘He said, “And how is your
wife
, Charlie, how is Clarissa?”’

‘Oh, really . . . and what did you say?’

He turned to me with a queer, sad sort of smile. ‘That you were well, of course.’

For a few minutes we sat in silence. Charlie lost in his impressions, me in my memories.

‘I do wonder where all his money’s come from,’ I said, at last, rising to my feet.

‘Haven’t the foggiest. Done very well for himself though . . . made a pile and bought a pile, ha!’

‘He was always destined to go far,’ I said, as I left the room.

Of course I wasn’t really surprised to hear how well Tom had done for himself. Even before the War, when he was still
studying, he had been determined to succeed, driven by something neither my brothers nor most other young men I knew possessed: ambition. I’d heard mention of him only once of late, from Jimmy Cooper once more. He’d recently attended a college reunion dinner at Oxford and had heard from a mutual acquaintance that Tom was
doing very well
in New York, and making ‘a packet’. The mention of his name at that time had rocked me, and for a while I’d had vivid dreams about him. In those dreams I was always searching for him, always in a crowd trying to find him. I’d wake up and feel that same desperate longing, as though I’d only just left him. Eventually, but for the odd occasion, I’d stopped dreaming of him, and I concluded that it was probably for the best that an ocean separated us.

But now the circle was closing: Tom Cuthbert was in my orbit once more.

That night, after Charlie had come home and told me about Tom buying Deyning, I couldn’t sleep. And when I did, when I finally fell into an exhausted, nervous sleep, just before dawn, I dreamt of him once more: him and me back at Deyning – together. The following morning I awoke long after Charlie had left the house and gone to work, and I lay in my bed for quite some time pondering on the evening ahead. I contemplated falling ill: feigning a headache or the symptoms of a mysterious virus. I hadn’t seen him since our last night together at Deyning, just after the War, and I wasn’t sure what to expect, or even if I’d cope. Would he be the same? Would we be the same?

Later, over coffee with my mother, I wondered whether to tell her the news. The names Deyning and Tom Cuthbert had for so long been synonymous in my mind but, I knew, were mutually exclusive in hers. Occasionally she’d mention Deyning, referring back to that time when all of us were together, but such memories only brought pain. Our lives had changed, and Tom’s name – no longer uttered by either one of us.

That day, as she spoke, I imagined her reaction, the look upon her face: first, the horror at the mention of the name, Tom Cuthbert; that I could still utter these three syllables after so many years; and then, as the news sank in, the realisation of a new order. For where did that leave us? And where did that place her judgement? Tom Cuthbert, who had not been good enough for her daughter to look at, let alone marry, now presided over all that had once been hers, all that she’d once held dear. Like a stain burnished on our souls, his name was in our lives for ever.

I decided not to tell her. She’d know soon enough.

. . . No one is able to tell us anything, or give us any answers. We have tried, interviewed everyone we can think of, but it really is as though he’s evaporated into the ether. C assures me that he will turn up – eventually, she tells me that he may well have taken on ‘another name’, a new identity, & that this might actually be something good (for him, at least). What perilous & decidedly queer times we live in.

After much deliberation I chose to wear a new silver-blue silk chiffon dress, one I’d had made that season. It was short, daringly short, and sleeveless too, with an asymmetrical hem just below the knee, a broad sash at the hips and a deep V neckline.

The fashion continued for a boyish shape and I had taken to wearing one of the new-style brassieres, which laced up at the sides to flatten one’s chest. It was a look quite the opposite of my mother’s and Venetia’s day, when curves had been accentuated, even worshipped, when women had been held in by whalebone, heavily upholstered like an item of furniture. Now it was all the rage to look shapeless, and
bare
, with uncovered
arms, and legs revealed in flesh-coloured silk stockings. It was a bold modern look for a bold modern world. But it was a step too far for Mama, who loathed the new fashions, and considered them hideously unfeminine and quite immoral. She blamed alcohol, cocktails, the new jazz music, the craze for dancing – particularly the Charleston – and even the suffragettes, for what she perceived to be an unstoppable moral decline. The day she’d spotted a lady
wearing trousers
outside her home in Berkeley Square, she’d used the telephone – which she insisted should only ever be used in emergencies – to call me up and tell me. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to,’ she said. ‘And where will it all end? With gentlemen in tea gowns?’

That evening, Charlie and I arrived at the Blanchs’ late. After handing our coats to the butler we made our way up the staircase to the first-floor drawing room. I was nervous, more nervous than I could remember ever having been, and it was my fault we were late. I’d had something of a panic attack before we’d left home, and had locked myself in the bathroom with a large brandy, telling Charlie – through the door – that I had what I thought was the onset of a migraine. Even in his ignorance he’d not made my ordeal any easier, and had simply lectured me on punctuality and the importance of timekeeping – in what I now thought of as his
army voice
. I’d sat perched on the edge of my bathtub, listening to him as he paced about the room, waiting for me to emerge, giving minute-by-minute time checks as though we had an appointment with the King. When, eventually, I opened the door, ready for him to continue his diatribe about my hideously sloppy timekeeping, he’d simply stared at me and smiled, as though he’d suddenly recognised a long-lost friend; as though he hadn’t seen me in years.

‘Good God, Clarissa . . .’ he said, ‘are you out to break hearts tonight?’

As we entered the Blanchs’ drawing room I was determined
not to look about the room for him, but when I walked in, there he was: unmissable, unmistakable; a dark, smouldering presence that caught in my throat, took my breath away.

He stood by the fireplace, directly in my line of vision, and we saw each other – eyes locked – instantaneously. I turned away, moved towards our hosts, Davina and Marcus. I took a glass of champagne from a maid holding a tray, stood with my back to him and tried to make conversation, my heart pounding so violently I thought the whole room might feel its rhythm. Then I heard Charlie call out, ‘Clarissa! Clarissa! Do come over and say hello to Tom . . . here he is, my dear.’

As I crossed the room he watched me, but he didn’t smile.

I held out my hand, ‘Tom . . . how lovely to see you.’

His flesh was warm and smooth.

‘Clarissa . . . small world.’

Charlie laughed, slightly nervously, I thought, and then said, ‘By Jove, you’re right, Tom, it is a small world too. Uncanny really.’

He looked the same, and yet different: a little older, more . . . polished, I suppose, and impeccably groomed. His dark hair was slicked back, and I’d forgotten, perhaps intentionally, how handsome he was, how penetrating his gaze, and that in itself threw me. He was smoking, a crystal tumbler in his hand, and when he smiled, lowered his eyes and looked down into his glass for a moment, I realised that he, too, was nervous. But when he raised his eyes and stared back into mine, it was my turn to look away. For there was something about him – his face – that dazzled me, quite literally dazzled me: as though he were a light much too bright to gaze upon directly. And
in
that light I was naked; every sensation amplified; each thought audible.

‘You don’t look a day older,’ he said, and I turned to Charlie and smiled, rather than look back into his eyes.

I noticed the girl standing to his side, looking rather uncomfortable, staring at me. ‘Oh, and this is Penny . . . Penelope Grey, my fiancée. Penny, this is Clarissa Granville, I’m sorry . . . Clarissa
Boyd
. Clarissa grew up at Deyning.’

‘It’s a stunning place,’ she said, taking my hand, glancing at the diamonds on my neck. ‘You must have had a heavenly childhood, growing up there.’

‘Yes, it was . . . idyllic really.’

‘And Tom lived there too,’ she added, as though I needed reminding.

I smiled at her. ‘Yes, yes, he did.’

‘We were only out on the lake last Sunday,’ she went on, and I glanced at Tom:
how could you? How could you take someone else out on the lake?
‘And Tom said it’s simply sublime there on a hot summer’s day. Oh, but I imagine you have some wonderful memories!’

‘Yes, wonderful memories . . .’

‘Well, once Tom’s restored the place, once the renovations are complete, you and your husband must come down and visit, mustn’t they, Tom?’

I turned to him. He’d been watching me, watching me intently, but as I turned he looked away. And for a moment I thought he was ignoring her, pretending he hadn’t heard her. Then he looked at me and said, ‘Yes, yes . . . you must come down. Both of you.’

‘So, is there a great deal of work to be done?’ I asked.

‘Good Lord, yes. I don’t suppose I’ll be in until next year – at the earliest.’

‘Oh, so you’re planning on living there?’

‘As opposed to?’

‘Well, an investment. I hear you got the place for a song.’

‘You’re right. I bought it at a ridiculous price. The days of those big places are over, I’m afraid.’

‘Apparently not for some,’ I said, smiling.

He pulled out his lighter, lit another cigarette, glancing up at me through thick dark lashes.

‘No, well, I intend to use it as somewhere to entertain clients. It doesn’t need a full-time staff that way, so the costs of running the place will be kept to a minimum. And yes, to be honest, it’s an investment as well.’

‘And I hear you’ve a place here in London now too.’

He smiled. ‘Yes, I’ve been fortunate, Clarissa; it’s been a good time to be in my line of business.’

I still wasn’t altogether sure what his
line of business
was, exactly. He’d made money in America, on the stock market, Charlie said, and he seemed to have quickly invested in property in London.

I watched him glance across the room; lift his glass to his mouth. And, already, I wanted to reach out and touch his face. Just to know he was there; that he was real.

‘He has a beautiful place down the road, Clarissa,’ Penny said.

‘Oh, really. Where, exactly?’

She replied quickly, ‘Hyde Park Gate.’

‘Gosh, not far then,’ I said, looking back at Tom. ‘Strange that our paths have never crossed . . . but I suppose you haven’t been back here long.’

‘No, not long,’ he replied.

‘And London’s like that, isn’t it? You could be living next door to your own family and not even know it,’ Penny said, taking hold of his hand. She had a slight Irish accent and I wondered where they’d met, how long they had known each other.

‘And so . . . are you back for good?’

‘I’m not altogether sure,’ he said, enigmatically. ‘What I mean is . . . I’m sure I’ll be going back to America – at some stage – but I’m not sure when, or for how long.’

I glanced at Penny, wondering how she felt about a transatlantic engagement; she blinked and smiled back at me.

I’d already had a drink before leaving home, and now I felt quite giddy. But it wasn’t the alcohol. I’d just discovered that not only did Tom Cuthbert own Deyning, the place that would forever be home to me, but that he was also, for the time being at least, living quite close to me in London. And right at that moment it was too much. I looked for Charlie, who’d moved away and was speaking with Marcus Blanch and another couple, and I wished he’d come and talk to Penny, talk to Tom, rescue me.

‘So, you two have already met . . . known each other before,’ Davina said, appearing at my side, putting her arm around me as though she sensed my discomfort.

‘Yes, but quite a few years ago, Davina,’ I replied.

‘How fabulous. I do so love it when paths cross over once again, particularly if there are
old secrets
to be told,’ she said. And I felt her pinch me.