The Last Summer (37 page)

‘No secrets, I’m afraid,’ Tom said, and then, glancing at me, he added, ‘Unfortunately Clarissa was always out of my league.’

‘Aha! But not now,’ she replied, and then, smiling at Penny, she quickly added, ‘I mean if you were both single and all that.’

I tried to laugh, and so did he.

Later, as we moved through to the dining room, Davina took my arm and whispered, ‘I’ve put you next to Mr Cuthbert, darling. You can reminisce together.’

‘Oh God, no.’

‘Why ever not?’ she whispered. ‘He’s absolutely divine, darling. Take no notice of the fiancée, she’s a little limpet. It won’t last.’

Davina was right. Penelope Grey was a limpet. All through dinner she watched us, Tom and me, as we spoke. It was tricky. We sat side by side and spoke mainly of Deyning and what he
planned to do with it, without ever looking at each other. Marcus Blanch, sitting to my left, at the head of the table, asked Tom if he and Penny would live there once they were married. ‘Grand house for a big family, eh?’ he said, with a wink at Tom.

‘We’ll have to see,’ Tom replied.

‘When is the wedding?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure . . . perhaps . . . next year,’ he replied. And I thought, yes, Davina’s right: there’ll be no wedding.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to be happy. Of course I wanted him to be happy. But it was obvious to me that he wasn’t in love. Why he’d become engaged, I don’t know. Perhaps because he thought he should, thought it was the right thing to do. But he could do so much better than Penelope Grey. Was I jealous that night? No, because he still didn’t belong to anyone. Yes, he was there with someone, but she didn’t own his heart. And though I was no longer sure if I ever had, I knew I’d had more, much more of him than Penelope Grey.

Towards the end of dinner, as Charlie, Marcus and a few others stepped out on to the balcony for a cigar, Tom moved a little closer and asked me, quietly, if I was happy.

‘Yes . . . yes, I suppose so,’ I lied. ‘And you?’

‘I’ve been too busy to know about happiness,’ he said.

‘I can’t believe that you’re going to be living at Deyning. It’s all so strange . . .’ I shook my head. ‘So strange.’

‘To be honest, Clarissa, I’m taking a punt, a bit of a gamble – in more ways than one,’ he added, glancing at me. ‘The place is a mess, a
big
mess.’ Suddenly he sounded so American. ‘It needs a tremendous amount of work –
and
a pile of money, that’s why it went for so little. The Fosters, the people who had it after you, they never lived there, didn’t do anything to it. And you know the state it was in.’ He turned to me and smiled. ‘I don’t imagine your mother would recognise her beautiful interior now.’

Tom
. There he was, once more staring back into my eyes, a
smile playing at one side of his mouth. I wanted to say so much. I wanted to say how wonderful it was to see him again; how much I’d missed him; how often I’d thought of him, dreamt of him. I watched him turn away, lift his cigarette to his lips, and I found myself once again studying that profile: those cherished features etched on to my heart; that line of forehead, nose, mouth and chin. I wanted to raise my hand to his face, trace its outline and memorise it so that I’d never, ever forget.

He turned to me, opened his mouth as though about to say something, then stopped and held my gaze for a moment, an impossible moment, where time unravelled and placed us far beyond that room of strangers. I saw him look to my lips, saw his eyes move over my face, taking in all of me; knowing all of me.

‘Clarissa . . . Clarissa Granville . . .’ he said.

I could hear his thoughts; feel the rhythm of his heart in time with my own, the warmth of his skin against mine. I stared back into his eyes, into the darkness of the lake, and I saw us once more under the sweeping boughs of the chestnut tree in the lower meadow. I saw us walking through the fields, hand in hand, the honey-hued stone of my home glistening in the distance, following a path, dreaming of a future. Together.

I saw him look to my hand, resting on the table, and I immediately thought of that day, so long ago, at the station restaurant. We’d shaken hands then, shaken hands this night. I’ll say goodbye and shake his hand, I thought. And I felt a tear, brimming at the very edge of my eyelid, and I knew that if I blinked it would fall, and he would see. Everyone would see. So I struggled to keep my eyes wide open, trying desperately to summon other things, conjuring random images: my engagements for the coming week . . . my diary, lying open on the desk at home . . . the striped wallpaper . . . the old brass lamp that needed fixing . . . and then, out of nowhere, Emily.

Emily.

But I didn’t want her to be there, not now, not at that moment; so I tried to blot her out. I picked up a spoon lying on the table in front of me and studied it as though I wasn’t entirely sure what it was, as though I’d never seen one before. But I was aware of him watching me, so I turned to him and attempted a smile. ‘Isn’t this all rather queer?’ I said, my throat tightening, the room becoming smaller. ‘You and me . . . here together . . .’

‘Queer and wonderful . . . wonderfully queer.’

He moved round in his chair, placing his arm along the back of mine.

I felt his hand graze my dress . . . then a finger – a stroke, a single stroke – at the base of my neck, and a frisson, like a small electric shock: reawakening, reigniting. Then the doors opened in a clatter, and Charlie and Marcus stepped back into the room. Davina called down the table, asking everyone – all of her
darlings
– to please go through to the drawing room. ‘So much more comfortable,’ she said, rising to her feet – with a shimmy and a twirl. I felt his hand move away, his warmth dissipate.

In the drawing room Marcus put on a record, a medley of piano music: George Gershwin, I think. I sat down on the sofa, and for a moment Tom stood about, looking awkward, one hand in his pocket. Then Charlie appeared and sat down next to me. Tom moved to the other side of the room, sat down in an armchair directly opposite us. And as the others filed through – an overly noisy, overly happy tribe – I avoided his gaze. I looked about the room as though it was an Aladdin’s cave of treasure.

And it was. For Davina, like my godmother, Venetia, had an eye for the exotic and unusual, and the room, littered as it was with
souvenirs
– a foible of its owner’s character – appeared a
veritable mish-mash of styles: a cornucopia of the places she had visited, or perhaps longed to. Strangely hypnotic tribal masks and primitive art jostled with English pastoral scenes, and Italian marble, Chinese lacquer and French Empire furniture – as well as what my mother would describe as
bric-a-brac
– all vied for the eye.

When Davina finally danced her way into the room and perched herself upon the arm of Tom’s chair, I felt a sharp twinge. And I could tell she’d taken something. She waved her hands about over animatedly, kept sniffing and touching her nose. I watched her as she laid her head upon his shoulder, then lifted it and whispered something in his ear. And when she smiled over at me, I turned and looked away.

Strange though it may seem, I wasn’t remotely jealous of Penny that night, but Davina’s flirtatious behaviour, her physical proximity to Tom, rankled. She was able to reach out and touch him in a way I could not, for I could never play that game with him. We could never pretend. So I tried to smile, join in the peripheral conversation. I laughed when others laughed, lit a cigarette, and glanced from person to person; I nodded, tapped my hand in time to the music, and all the time the only thing I could
feel
was him: his presence.

And all the while I could hear his voice, hear him talking; talking to Davina about America, and American music; telling her how much he loved it, how exciting the jazz scene, how exciting the whole country. And though I longed to be able to go and sit with him, to hear about his time there, I was jealous of that country too: jealous of America. A place I didn’t know, a place that had taken him and kept him for six years. Suddenly, that loud, brash big continent, with all her money and modern music, was more of a threat than Davina or Penny, or any other woman in England. I hate America, I thought. And how could he
love
it? How could he love it if it was nothing to do with us?

I think everyone in the room heard Davina say, ‘So, Tom, do tell – what was Clarissa like when she was a girl? Were you
in love
with her?’ I looked away, closed my eyes for a moment. She was teasing, playing, I knew, but it was so inappropriate. When I turned back, he was looking straight at me.

‘Of course . . . of course I was, still am,’ he said, without flinching.

I laughed, and so did Charlie. And then Marcus appeared, handing me another glass of champagne, and said, ‘You do realise, we’re
all
in love with you, Clarissa,’ and pulled me up on to my feet to dance. I was embarrassed, no one else was dancing, and as he led me across the floor he held on to me a little too tightly.

‘Really, darling, we need something with a bit more life to it!’ Davina called out, and then she rose to her feet and disappeared from the room. I looked over at Tom, watching me – in contemplative pose, his index finger tapping upon his lips. I raised my eyebrows, smiled at him.

Take me away from here . . .

He stood up, took hold of Penny’s hand, and led her across to where Marcus and I were dancing. And for few minutes he danced with Penny as I moved with Marcus. Then he turned to Marcus. ‘All change!’ He passed Penny’s hand to Marcus, took mine, and pulled me to him. I remember the warmth of his hand in mine, the smell of him – his cologne. But then the music changed: louder, faster. Davina had found what she was looking for. As everyone rose to their feet – to
Charleston
– we continued our slow dance, out of time with the music, estranged from the room. He whispered something in my ear. I looked back at him, shook my head. He leant forward, spoke again, but still I couldn’t hear his words. And then Charlie appeared at my side. He smiled at Tom, looked at me and pointed to his wristwatch. It was time to leave. Unable to dance, Charlie couldn’t stand to watch others
do the things he once enjoyed. So I shrugged at Tom, attempted a smile, released his hand and moved away.

And after bidding our hosts goodnight, I picked up my bag and followed Charlie across the room. I paused at the doorway and turned. He was dancing with Davina, looking back at me.

Thank you. Thank you for reminding me.

That night, after Davina’s dinner party, Charlie had been in a foul mood. En route home he’d accused me of dancing only to upset and annoy him. He said I was without compassion, had no sensitivity, and that even Tom Cuthbert must have felt sorry for him: having a wife who rubbed her husband’s nose in his disability. I didn’t say much at all. I apologised, told him that I hadn’t meant to upset him, hadn’t thought.

‘But that’s just it. You never think!’

When we reached the house, he went straight to his study, and I to my room. I locked the door and sat down upon the bed. I never quite knew what to expect, how he would be, especially late in the evening. His mood swings had become increasingly erratic, and his anger – always there, just beneath the surface – exacerbated by alcohol.

And that night, coming home, I’d recognised the signs: the tugging at his collar, the fidgeting and overly bright look in his eyes. I could hear him below me, shouting to himself, slamming doors; and I was frightened. We’d never spoken about that night, the night of the charity dance at the Park Lane Hotel, never
acknowledged what had happened. But a few weeks later it had happened again. That time, the second time, I’d put up a fight, or had tried. He didn’t strike me, but he was rougher, angrier, more violent, and had held me down by my wrists, which I’d had to keep covered up for days afterwards. The third time, as I’d tried to escape from him, out of my room, he’d struck me across my back with his stick. Not as hard as he perhaps could have done, but hard enough. After that, I’d had the broken lock on my bedroom door mended. And now I spent most of my evenings there, behind a locked door.

As I sat on the bed listening to his movements downstairs, I wondered what he’d do if he came up to my room and discovered that locked door. Would he break it down? Was he capable? I thought of our cook and maid, both asleep at the top of the house . . . they’d hear, surely they’d hear. Then, at last, I heard the front door slam shut. And I lay back on my bed and cried.

The following morning I realised I’d left my shawl at Davina’s, and I telephoned her to ask if I could call in and collect it later that day. Yes, she said, do come over; she had a monstrous headache but would love
a bit of a chat
. I knew immediately that she’d probably want to quiz me about Tom and, sure enough, minutes after I’d arrived there, she said to me, ‘So . . . come along, darling, do tell.’

‘About what?’

‘Ha! You know! About him, about Tom Cuthbert!’

‘Nothing to tell,’ I replied.

‘Oh, come on, I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s perfectly obvious that you and Tom Cuthbert have had – or even
are
having – an affair . . .’

‘We are not having an affair, Davina,’ I said, and laughed. ‘I can assure you of that. We had a . . . a friendship . . . a childish infatuation, but it was years ago.’