'You tell me.'
'Darling, I--'
'Here. Now. Right now. I just want to know,' said Suzanna. There was a kind of desperation in her eyes, in her voice a crack of something sadder and stranger than Vivi had ever heard before.
Vivi eased herself carefully along the tea-chest, motioning to her daughter to occupy the empty half. 'All right, Suzanna,' she said. 'You'd better sit down.'
The call had come when he had least expected it, on one of the few occasions that he had returned to the house that he had, for two short years, called home. He had walked into the echoing hall in search of his tweed jacket, trying not to think too hard about his surroundings, when the telephone on the hall table had sprung shrilly into life. He had stared at it for several seconds, then moved tentatively forward. No one else would ring him there. Everyone knew he no longer lived there.
'Douglas?' the voice had said, and at that low, heartbreaking enquiry, he found he had lost the ability to stand.
'Where are you?' he had asked, dropping on to the hall chair.
It was as if he hadn't spoken. 'I've been trying to get you for weeks,' she said. 'You are an impossible gadabout.' As if they had been two people flirting at a party. As if she hadn't broken him, staved in his heart and turned his future, his life, to dust.
He swallowed hard. 'It's hay time. Long days. You know.'
'I thought you must have gone to Italy after all,' she said lightly. 'To escape this rotten English weather.' Her voice sounded odd, offset by traffic, as if she were in a telephone box. 'Isn't it awful? Don't you just hate it?'
He had imagined this moment for so long, had rehearsed so many arguments, apologies, reconciliations in his head, and now she was at the other end of the line. It was as much as he could do to breathe.
'Douglas?'
He noted that his hand was trembling against his leg. 'I've missed you,' he croaked.
There was the briefest pause.
'Douglas, darling, I can't talk long, but I need to meet you.'
'Come home,' he said. 'Come here.' She had replied sweetly that, if he didn't mind, she would really rather not. In London, perhaps? Somewhere they could talk privately?
'Huntley's fish restaurant,' he had suggested, his mind stuttering into life. It had booths, where they could talk virtually unobserved.
'Aren't you clever, darling?' she had said, apparently unconscious of the way a phrase, so easily discarded, could fan the flames of hope. Huntley's it was. Thursday.
Now, four interminable days later, he sat in the booth at the back of the restaurant, the most discreet in the place, he had been assured by a waiter who had winked at him impertinently, as if he were on some assignation. 'It's for my wife,' Douglas had said, coldly, and the waiter had said, 'Of course, sir, of course it is.'
He had got there almost half an hour early, had walked past the restaurant several times, willing himself to resist the temptation to go in, knowing that the builders on the scaffolding above probably thought him unhinged. But there was a part of him that feared he might miss her, that fate would intervene and uncross their paths, so he bought a newspaper and sat there by himself, trying to stop his palms sweating, and wishing he could make the slightest sense of the newsprint in front of him.
Outside, a double-decker bus pulled laboriously away from the kerb, its vibrations making the windows rattle. Girls flashed past in brief skirts, their brightly coloured coats incongruous against the greys of London skies and pavement, incurring muffled catcalls. He felt briefly reassured that she had agreed to meet him here, a place where his suit didn't feel provincial, straight, in modern lingo, a place where he didn't have to feel like an amalgam of all the things she had chafed against.
'Anything to drink, sir, while you're waiting?'
'No. Actually, yes. Just some water, please.' He glanced towards the door, as it opened to allow in yet another slim dark woman. The bloody restaurant seemed to cater for no other kind of customer.
'Ice and lemon, sir?'
Douglas shook his paper with irritation. 'Oh, for goodness sake,' he snapped, 'however it comes . . . will be fine,' he said, collecting himself. He smoothed his hair back from his face, adjusted his tie, and tried to regulate his breathing.
He hadn't told his parents he was coming - he had known what his mother's response would be. She had refused to allow Athene's name to be spoken in the house since the day he had told of her departure. He had moved back home several months previously, leaving the Philmore house like the Marie Celeste, exactly as she had left it, down to the ashtray she had filled with her lipsticked cigarette butts. The staff were on strict instructions not to change a thing.
Not till he knew.
Not till he knew for sure.
'Actually,' he said to the waiter, as he arrived bearing a glass of water on a silver tray, 'get me a brandy, would you? A large one.'
The waiter had looked at him for a second longer than suggested completely deferential service. 'Whatever you say, sir,' he had said, and was gone.
She had been late, as he had known she would be. He had finished that brandy and another in the half-hour that crept by after their allotted meeting time. When he looked up from the newspaper to see her before him, the alcohol had already started to blur the edges of his anxiety.
'Douglas,' she had said, and he had stared at her for several minutes, not quite able to cope with the reality of her, the fleshed-out version of the spectre that had, for almost a year, haunted his dreams. 'Don't you look smart?'
He had glanced down at his suit, fearful that he might have spilt something on it. And then he stared at her, aware that he was overstepping some invisible boundary but unable to stop himself.
'Do let's sit down,' she said, with a nervous, teasing smile. 'People are beginning to stare.'
'Of course,' he had muttered, and shuffled back into the booth.
She looked altered, too, although it was impossible to say whether this was because the Athene of his memory, his imagination, was a perfect creature. This woman opposite, although beautiful, although irrefutably his Athene, was not quite the goddess he had become used to picturing. She looked tired, her skin a little less polished, a little more strained than it had once been; her hair was swept into a haphazard chignon. She was wearing, he noted with a jolt, a suit she had bought on their honeymoon, which she had decided after one wearing was 'an abomination', and sworn to throw away. Next to the brightly coloured creations of the girls out on the street, it looked old-fashioned. She had lit a cigarette. He noticed, with some relief, that her hands were trembling.
'Can I have a drink, darling?' she said. 'You know, I'm absolutely gasping.' He waved over the waiter, who looked at her with mild interest. It was when he caught the man staring ostentatiously at her left hand that Douglas realised, with a lurch, that she no longer sported her wedding ring. He took a sip of his own drink, trying not to think about what that might mean.
The important thing was that she was there.
'Are you . . . are you well?' he asked.
'Fabulous. Apart from this awful weather.'
He tried to glean some clue from her appearance, to muster the courage to ask the questions that revolved remorselessly around his head. 'Do you come up to London much?'
'Oh, you know me, Douglas. Theatre, the odd nightclub. Can't keep me away from the old Smoke.' Behind her voice was a brittle gaiety.
'I went to Tommy Gardner's wedding. Thought I might see you there.'
'Tommy Gardner?' She blew smoke dismissively through painted lips. 'Ugh. Couldn't stand either of them.'
'I suppose you must have been busy.'
'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, I was.'
The waiter brought Athene's drink, and two leatherbound menus. She had ordered a gin and tonic but, when it arrived, appeared to lose interest in it.
'Would you like to eat?' he said, praying she wouldn't want to leave immediately, that he hadn't already disappointed her.
'You order for me, darlin
g. I can't be bothered to read my way through all those choices.'
'I'll have the sole,' he told the waiter, reluctantly tearing his glance from his wife long enough to hand back the menus. 'Two soles. Thank you.'
There was a strange disquiet about her, he noted. Even though she was perfectly still, as languid as she ever had been, there was a visible tension in her, as if she were strung between two taut wires. Perhaps she is as nervous as me, he thought, and attempted to quell the leap of hope prompted by this thought.
There was a painful silence as they sat opposite each other, occasionally catching each other's eye and raising tight, awkward smiles. In the booth beside them a group of businessmen burst into raucous laughter, and he caught the faint raising of Athene's eyebrows, the look that said they were simply too ridiculous for words.
'You didn't even talk to me,' he said, trying to say it lightly, as if it were a mild reproach. 'You just left a note.'
There was a faint clenching of her jaw. 'I know, darling. I've always been useless at those sorts of conversations.'
'Those sorts of conversations?'
'Let's not, Douglas. Not today.'
'Why didn't we meet at Dere? I would have gone to your parents' house, if you'd wanted.'
'I don't want to see them. I don't want to see anyone.' She lit a second cigarette from the first, and crumpled the now empty packet in her hand. 'Douglas, you wouldn't be a darling and order me some more ciggies, would you? I seem to be out of change.'
He had done so without demur.
'You are a dear,' she murmured, and he was not sure if she was even aware what she was saying.
The food arrived, but neither of them had the appetite to eat. The two fish sat balefully in congealing butter until Athene pushed away her plate and lit another cigarette.
Douglas feared that this suggested her imminent departure. He couldn't wait any longer. He had nothing left to lose. 'Why did you call?' he said, his voice cracking.
Her eyes met his and widened slightly. 'Aren't I allowed to speak to you any more?' she said. Her attempt at coquettishness was hampered by the strain round her eyes, the fleeting glances she kept casting towards the front of the restaurant.
'Are you waiting for someone?' he said, suddenly filled with fear that He might be there too. That this might all be some elaborate ploy to make a further fool of him.
'Don't be silly, darling.'
'Don't "darling" me, Athene. I can't do this. I really can't. I need to know why you're here.'
'You know, it's lovely to see you looking so well. You always did look marvellous in that suit.'
'Athene!' he protested.
A woman had arrived at their table, the cloakroom attendant. He wondered, briefly, whether she was about to tell them that there was a call for Athene, and what he would do if she did. It would be Him, of course. Should he snatch the phone ? Demand that the other man leave his wife alone? Or what?
'I'm sorry, madam, but your baby's crying. You'll have to come and get her.'
It was several seconds before he had taken in what the woman had said.
Athene stared at him, something raw and unguarded in her face. Then, composed, she turned back to the woman, her smile perfectly poised. 'I'm so sorry,' she said. 'Could you be a dear and bring her to me? I won't stay long.'
The girl disappeared.
Athene took a long drag of her cigarette. Her eyes were glittering and unreadable. 'Douglas, I need you to do something for me,' she said coolly.
'A baby?' he said, one hand clamped to the top of his head.
'I need you to look after Suzanna for me.'
'What? A baby? You never--'
'I really can't discuss it. But she's a good baby. I know she'll adore you.'
The girl arrived with the child, almost concealed by blankets, whimpering as if in the aftermath of some terrible storm. Athene stubbed out her cigarette and reached for her, not looking at her face. She jiggled her absently, watching Douglas. 'Her pram is at the front of the restaurant. It's got everything she needs for a little while. She's no trouble, Douglas, really.'
He was incredulous. 'Is this - is this some kind of a joke? I don't know what to do with a baby.' The child had started to fret again, and Athene patted her back, still not looking at her face.
'Athene, I can't believe you--'
She stood up, thrust the baby over the table so that he had little choice but to take the bundle. Her voice was urgent, insistent. 'Please, please, Douglas, dear. I can't explain. Really.' Her pleading eyes were an echo of a time before. 'She'll be much better off with you.'
'You can't just leave me with a baby--'
'You'll love her.'
'Athene, I can't just--'
Her cool hand was on his arm. 'Douglas, darling, have I ever asked you for anything? Really?'
He could hardly speak. He was dimly aware of the occupants of the next booth staring at them. 'But what about you?' He was babbling, unsure even of what he was saying. 'What about you and I? I can't just go home with a baby.'
But she had already turned from him, was packing her bag, fiddling with something inside it, a compact perhaps. 'I've really got to go. I'll be in touch, Douglas. Thank you so much.'
'Athene, you can't just leave me with--'
'I know you'll be wonderful with her. A wonderful daddy. Much better than me at that sort of thing.'
He was staring into the folds of the blankets at the innocent face in front of him. She had managed to find her thumb, and was sucking furiously, an expression of rapt concentration on her face. She had Athene's jet-black eyelashes, her Cupid's-bow lips. 'Don't you even want to say goodbye?' he asked.
But she was half-way out of the restaurant, her high-heeled shoes clacking like pins over the tiled floor, her shoulders straight in the abominable suit.
'Her pram's with the hatcheck girl,' she called. And without a backward glance she was gone.
He never saw her again.
He had told this story to Vivi some months after it had happened. Until then, she said, Douglas's family had simply told everyone that Athene was 'staying abroad' for a little while, but that she thought the English climate better for the baby. They said 'the baby' offhandedly, as if everyone should have known there was one. Some believed they must have been told and somehow forgotten. If anyone had not accepted this version of events, they had said nothing. The poor man had been humiliated enough.
He had told Vivi steadily, not looking at her, a short while after they had heard about Athene's death. And she had held him while he cried tears of anger, humiliation and loss. Afterwards she realised he'd never asked if the baby was his.
Suzanna, sitting frozen on the tea-chest, was paler, if possible, than she had been when she arrived. She sat there for some time, and Vivi said nothing, allowing her time to digest the story. 'So she didn't die giving birth to me?' she said eventually.
Vivi reached out a hand. 'No, darling, she--'
'She ran away from me? She just handed me over? In a bloody fish restaurant?'
Vivi swallowed, wanting Douglas to be there. 'I just think maybe she knew she wasn't going to be the mother you needed. I knew her a little in her youth, and she was a pretty wild character. She'd had a hard time with her parents. And it's possible the man she ran off with might have pushed her . . . Some men are rather resentful of children, especially if - if they aren't theirs. Douglas always thought he might have been rather cruel to her. So, you see, you shouldn't judge her too harshly.' She wished the words sounded more convincing than they had. 'Things were different then.'
As soon as Athene had left Vivi had returned to Dere. Not in the hope of snaring him: she had always known that he wanted Athene back, that he would never countenance anyone else while the possibility remained. But she had adored him since they were children, and felt that at least she could be something of a support.
'I had to listen to a lot of stories of how much he loved your mother,' she said matter-of-factly, 'but he needed help.
He couldn't look after a baby. Not with everything he had to do. And, to begin with, his parents weren't terribly . . .' she was trying to find an appropriate word '. . . helpful.' Two months after Athene's death, he had asked Vivi to marry him.
She pushed her hair off her face.
'I'm sorry we didn't tell you the truth earlier. For a long time we all believed we were protecting your father. He had suffered so much humiliation, and so much pain. And then - I don't know - perhaps we thought we were protecting you. There wasn't the same emphasis then on everyone knowing everything as there is now.' She shrugged. 'We just did what we thought was best.'
Suzanna was crying, had been for several minutes.
Tentatively Vivi lifted a hand towards her. 'I'm so sorry.'
'But you must have hated me,' Suzanna said, sobbing.
'What?'
'All that time I was in the way, always a reminder of her.'
Vivi, filled finally with a kind of courage, put her arms round her and held her tight. 'Don't be silly, darling,' she said. 'I loved you. Almost more than my own children.'
Suzanna's eyes were bleary with tears. 'I don't understand.'
Vivi held her daughter's too-thin shoulders, and tried to impart something of what she felt. Her voice, when it came, was determined, uncharacteristically certain: 'I loved you because you were the most beautiful baby I'd ever seen,' she said, and hugged her fiercely. 'I loved you because none of this was ever your fault. I loved you because from the moment I set eyes on you I couldn't not love you.' She paused, her own eyes now filled with tears. 'And in some small way, Suzanna, I loved you because without you, dearest, dearest child, I would never have had him.'
Later, when she had extricated herself from Suzanna's arms, Vivi told her how her mother had really died, and Suzanna cried again, for Emma, for Alejandro and, most of all, for Athene, for whose death she hadn't been responsible after all.
Twenty-Four
The first night that Suzanna Fairley-Hulme spent with her family was the scene of huge upheaval on the Dere estate, of high emotion and sleeplessness, of anxiety, restlessness and barely hidden fear. Transported from the surroundings in which she had spent her first months, from everything and everyone she had known, one might have expected her to have been rather unsettled, but she slept peacefully from dusk until almost seven thirty the following morning. It was the new adults in her life who achieved only a few moments' sleep.