The Debutante

But in truth, it was terrifying to feel anything again.

He was used to being on his own. It was safe. And he had a routine now. He sat at the same tables in the same cafes, ordered the same food. The waitress remembered how he took his coffee, the owner chatted about the book he was reading. (They knew how to treat a regular customer.) And there were things you could do, if not happily, at least peacefully, quietly – wander around galleries, listen to concerts, sit in the cinema on your own, in the dark. This was his life.

But now, for a moment at least, the seat next to him had been taken. He could still smell her perfume.

Don’t be seduced by the romance of the setting, he reminded himself. It’s about sex, pure and simple. It always was, always would be. It came dressed up as love, passion and romantic obsession, but sooner or later the gilding wore off and the coin underneath was always plain old sex.

Suddenly a memory seeped through his defences. He winced inwardly but couldn’t stop it. He was reaching across to touch his wife, when he saw her face, her large, dark eyes. They were full of sadness and, worse, resignation. He pushed it away but the feeling lingered.

Sex had been unsatisfactory. That was the truth. Reduced to a kind of shorthand, pornographic role play. The act itself wasn’t faked but the connection was, which was worse.

And he hadn’t wanted to discuss it or fix it. That was the awful thing. There’d been a part of him that had found it easier; that wanted to let go. It was as if he’d wished her away.

He was guilty of the crime of withdrawing. She’d seen it and let him go.

That haunted him too.

Jack turned away from the bucolic view.

It was a massive bedroom, practically the size of his entire flat. That’s what you got when you moved out of London – space, beauty, freedom.

He ought to move. He ought to start again somewhere new.

Sinking down on the bed, he yawned, rubbing his eyes.

He ought to do a lot of things.

It wasn’t a long-distance car, his Triumph. His back was stiff from driving. Lying flat, he closed his eyes.

Still, those hours driving across the countryside with Cate by his side were the happiest he’d had in a long time. The sun, the speed, the exuberance of Mozart contrasting with her calm, cool presence. It was exhilarating. He’d felt the hope of happiness; its possibility glimmering on the horizon, like a destination. He hadn’t realised how long he’d lived without the hope of anything, dragging himself mechanically through days, months, years. Now there was an aching in his chest, an animal desire to touch and be touched; to punch his way through the inertia of loss and grief.

He sat up, forced his fingers roughly through his hair.

It was insane to be so taken with this girl. He didn’t even know her.

He was just tired, lonely. Bored.

Still, there were laws of physics, of nature; mysterious, inconvenient gravitational pulls which couldn’t be denied.

At the opposite end of the house, a woman, a complete stranger, was drawing closer all the time.

17, Rue de MonceauParis

24 June 1926

My darling Bird,

You will be pleased to know that I have finally perfected the art of pressing myself up alluringly against a man while dancing and at the same time maintaining an expression of complete and utter indifference verging on contempt. Anne says it is essential and we have been practising it all week. Now all we need are some men.

How is that dashing Baronet of yours? I’m certain his shyness only masks an ardour that will soon make itself known to you (again, details of all carnal encounters kindly requested).

You are probably right that this business of coming out is more difficult and exhausting than I imagine and perhaps, as you say, I would benefit from taking a more serious view of the entire task. But as we both well know, seriousness is not my strong suit. I am, alas, not gifted with your natural good sense but rather destined to be somewhat ridiculous by comparison. I console myself that you have gone before me, made innumerable social contacts and charmed everyone so completely that when I arrive they will simply indulge me as an oddity before packing me off to a remote corner of the Empire with some ageing, palsy-ridden husband in tow.

And yes, I suppose my remarks about our mother are a little cruel. I should be more kind. Especially to Her Consort, the Benefactor of so much Good in our lives.

I know we are lucky, Irene. We certainly have a great deal more than we have ever had. And yet I miss Fa and, if truth be known, I hate Paris and all who sail in her. I am not like you, darling. I am not naturally good or calm or sensible. And I have the feeling of being a fake, everywhere I go–like an actress wandering around onstage in a play she hasn’t read, who can’t recall any of her lines. You seem to understand everything perfectly–why am I such a dolt?

Yours, as always,

The Idiot Child

She tried to nap, but still Cate was restless. She sat up on the bed. It was a vast room, as big as most flats in New York. An entire wall of windows looked out onto a vista of rolling hills, curving dramatically down to the sea.

Who had lived here? Who had chosen these primrose walls, this chintz curtain fabric with its design of blue wisteria and green ivy? This elegant walnut Empire bed? She ran her fingers lightly across the cool linen pillowcase. Its edges were monogrammed, ‘I A’, in pearly silken thread. Was it a wedding gift?

She opened the drawer of the bedside table; it shuddered slightly in protest. Two neatly folded cotton handkerchiefs, a tube of E45 eczema cream, half empty, a few stray buttons, a receipt from Peter Jones in Sloane Square for wool, dated 1989.

Cate closed it and picked up a well-worn volume from the top of a pile of books, The Poems of Thomas Moore, and opened it. On the flyleaf, in a bold flamboyant hand, was written ‘Benedict Blythe, Tir Non Og, Ireland’. It fell open to a page marked by a frayed crimson silk ribbon.

‘Sail On, Sail On’

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark –

Where’er blows the welcome wind,

It cannot lead to scenes more dark,

More sad than those we leave behind.

Each wave that passes seems to say,

‘Though death beneath our smile may be,

Less cold we are, less false than they,

Whose smiling wreck’d thy hopes and thee.’

Sail on, sail on – through endless space –

Through calm – through tempest – stop no more.

The stormiest sea’s a resting-place

To him who leaves such hearts on shore.

Or – if some desert land we meet,

Where never yet false-hearted men