A Hopeless Romantic (56 page)

I have always thought Annabel knew there was something between her father and me, before James died. I think she would remember…seeing things. Perhaps not, but I have always felt she knew. And I have always felt guilty about Annabel ever since. We both did. She never mentioned it, all those years. She has never seemed to mind. But I do, and I don’t know why. Lately I do.

My mind is wandering. It is hot, out here on the balcony. I have the photo of Xan in my locket; I am looking at it now, as I write these words to you, Laura. I am very tired these days. Very tired, and cross. I worry, I feel myself starting to worry. I am old, Laura, and my life has been wonderful. This is what I wanted to say to you: You think of me as so resolute, and so proud, and so confident, think I always have been. And what terrifies me is, forty-five years ago, I nearly made a dreadful mistake. I would have stayed with James, I know, because I was afraid to leave. Afraid to leave a man I didn’t love, who beat me, who was a drunk, who didn’t want me or my daughter in his life. That is what terrifies me in the night—that if James hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have had the courage to seize happiness for myself, for Angela, for Annabel. For Xan and me. I took the coward’s way out, and did nothing.

Don’t be the same, Laura. When I think about what you might be missing, it terrifies me on your behalf. I think you might have missed the right person, your true love, because you have spent your life looking too hard for him. You have a great capacity to love, Laura. Don’t run away from it. Use it. Stop wasting it. Throw yourself into it, and don’t be scared. I promise you, with all my heart, that you will never live a day when you regret it.

Don’t be afraid, my darling. I am so proud of you. Remember, I love you. That will never go away.

Granny

A postscript: Did I ever tell you about the summer Xan and I lived in the south of France, in the early eighties? Most interesting. We lived next door to a fascinating couple, Frederick Needham and his wife, Vivienne. I think you know who they are. She left her husband, his own brother, and her three children, and the greatest house in the country to be with him. Oh, you would have thought they were a golden pair, in their lovely house. Flowers everywhere, a riot of bougainvillea, a simply beautiful view of the sea. They could sit there together and look out at it all day, every day.

But they weren’t happy. They were miserable. She ran away rather than face her unhappiness, and she was paying for it. Their love wasn’t strong enough to withstand it. She missed that lovely boy of hers; we often talked of him. She should never have let him go. Vivienne followed her heart, without thinking of the consequences. I think you used to be rather like her, Laura. Not anymore. Now I worry that you think too much about the consequences of things. They are not important, as she had discovered. A society scandal—what is that, compared to a mother’s love for her son? She lost far more than she gained, simply by caring too much about the proprieties, by listening to the outside world’s chatter and clamor. So she never went back to see her children. Never. She decided to be unhappy instead. That is the penance Vivienne decided to pay.

She was so proud of him. I liked her very much. I think she would like you.

Goodbye, my darling.

chapter fifty-two

O
n Thursday at lunchtime, Jo arrived to pick up Laura and Yorky, to take them to the church. Laura was going to meet the rest of the family there. It was a gray day, the sky a uniform blanket of cloud, and Laura was in her room, hunting for her scarf.

“She’s in the car, outside,” Yorky called through the door. “I’ll go down—see you in a minute?”

“Sure,” Laura yelled. “I won’t be long, sorry.”

The scarf usually hung at the end of her shelf. It had fallen on the floor. As she bent to pick it up, she noticed, hanging on the back of the door, Nick’s dinner jacket, the one he had put around her shoulders—was it only six days ago? She had put it on a hanger; she didn’t quite know what to do with it. She stroked the fabric softly. Holding the scarf, she stood up, and realized that Mary’s letter had fallen out of the bag on her shoulder. She scooped it up and stared at it, at the sloping, scratchy writing, the black ink on the cream paper. She patted the necklace around her neck. Jo’s horn beeped tentatively outside, and Laura realized she had been standing there for a minute or so in front of the bookshelf, looking at this letter in her hand. Something clicked inside her and she pulled out one of her old hardbacks and put the letter between the pages. Shutting the book and sliding it back onto the shelf, Laura put her bag over her shoulder and left the room, closing the door behind her. She never read it again.

Angela had said quite firmly that they should meet at the church, which was around the corner from Crecy Court. It was as if they were merely meeting at Mary’s flat, she said. She didn’t want them turning up in a grave, solemn column. Laura agreed to her request, rather surprised; but she was glad of it, glad to have Jo and Yorky to walk down the aisle with, through the light, airy church crammed full with people. Mary had many friends, and it seemed they had all turned out—of course. Laura scanned the crowd.

“I don’t know who half these people are,” she muttered to Jo as they made their way down the aisle.

“Well, they obviously wanted to come, didn’t they?” Jo patted her arm. “They loved her. I think that’s really nice.”

Jo and Yorky escorted her to her seat at the front of the church, then found seats themselves farther back. Laura sat down next to Simon, and leaned over to kiss her parents. George patted her knee. Across the aisle sat the Sandersons. Annabel was rigid, dressed entirely in black, wearing a small black hat with—

“Is that a
veil
Annabel’s wearing?” Laura whispered to Simon.

“Yes,” said Simon. “She’s got gloves on, too—look.”

Sure enough, Annabel was decked out in white kid gloves, completing the impression that she was, in fact, a schoolmistress from the 1930s. Or, Laura thought with a smile, a living, breathing version of Mrs. Danvers. She sat there, expressionless; and then, as if aware of Laura’s eyes on her, turned slowly and gave her niece a smile of great sweetness. Laura looked at her, and thought how like Angela she was; and an idea took root in her head, a small idea, but one that, when she thought about it, made perfect sense. And then they stood up, because the coffin was arriving.

The service was short, only two hymns and one reading. Jasper gave the address. He said, looking down at Mary’s extended family, that she had been all things to all people, and so he didn’t have much to say, because they should not be sad, they should be happy. “That is why we do this today—to celebrate someone’s life. In Mary’s case, it truly is a celebration. We will not be sad,” he said, rather theatrically wiping a tear from his cheek. “Rather, we will celebrate and imagine her welcoming us at her flat, or at Seavale, or before that, for those many of you who knew her when Xan was alive. The way she would say hello, with that sparkling look in her eyes that we all knew so well. The way you knew when she was enjoying herself or, alas, when she was terribly bored by what you were saying.” The congregation laughed. “I shall miss her,” he said simply. “That’s why I’m sad. But I think she’s happy, now she’s with Xan.”

Cedric, magnificently attired in a purple floral cravat, did the reading. Laura was amused to note, even through her distress, that his appearance caused a frisson of excitement in the church. This was exactly his crowd, she thought. If, at my funeral in fifty years’ time, Jude Law got up and gave a reading, there’d be the same reaction. Half the congregation going, “Oh, my goodness! Is that Jude Law? My Lord! My dear, isn’t he handsome?” and the other half going, “Who’s that bloke?”

He read John Donne’s “A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning,” and he wasn’t theatrical—for once. He was quiet and dignified, and as his voice rang through the church, the thick cloud outside seemed to lighten just a little, and it was bright inside; and as Laura looked up and down at her family, all of them, she thought about things that had gone before, things that were happening now, and about her grandmother’s letter, how life was for the taking.

It was not sad, she knew it wasn’t, and yet she kept crying throughout. But it didn’t matter. She knew she was crying for the right reasons; looking at her mother and her brother, she knew they were thinking the same. She wished she could see Mary one more time, just once, to tell her all the things she wanted to, to ask her so many more things. But she couldn’t. Mary had known it was her time to go. She wanted to be with Xan, not with them, and now she was.

As they filed out of the church, toward the cold white London light, Annabel took her niece’s arm. “How are you, Laura dear?” she said.

“I’m okay,” said Laura. “How are you, Annabel? That was a beautiful service, thank you.”

“Well, I think we did her proud,” said Annabel. “I know your mother was worried it’d be like a Russian Orthodox Easter service—about five hours long. But, in the end, I thought about what your grandmother would have wanted. I think she would have wanted that.”

“You’re right,” said Laura, smiling at her.

“Very hard woman to really know that well,” said Annabel. “And I knew her almost as long as your mother.” She frowned, and they stopped in the porch of the church as the coffin was loaded into the hearse. Angela and George were the only ones going on to the crematorium; the rest of the party was gathering back at Crecy Court for refreshments. Angela stepped back a little and stood next to her stepsister, and Laura saw them look at each other and smile, so very alike.

“Everyone can walk to Mum’s flat while we’re at the crematorium, that’s okay isn’t it, Annabel?” said Angela, appealing to her to organize things. Annabel seized the mantle of team leader.

“Cedric and Jasper will lead you all to Mary’s flat, where there are refreshments,” she boomed in a loud voice. Laura turned around, only to find Fran and Lulu cringing behind her. She smiled at them, recognizing their embarrassment.

“Walk with us,” said Fran solemnly.

Laura hadn’t seen Fran since her flight back from Singapore with Jo, when she’d spilled the beans about her seeing Nick. Funny, how bothered Laura had been by that, how she had cursed the universe for letting it happen.

“Yes, of course,” said Laura. “I wanted to ask you, anyway—”

She was casting about in her mind for something else to ask Lulu and Fran, something easy and conversational, when Cedric appeared beside her.

“Hello, old girl,” he said, squeezing her waist. He shot Lulu and Fran a blank look; they shrank back, darted out of the way, and hurried on.

The other mourners followed them, led by Jasper and Annabel, and Laura took one last look inside the church as the doors were closing.

“Walk you back to your grandmother’s, eh?” said Cedric, and they set off, Laura’s arm through his, bringing up the rear.

“You read beautifully, Cedric,” Laura said. She leaned against him.

“What? Oh, thank you. Thank you,” said Cedric, batting his eyelashes. “Well, you know. I loved her, your grandmother.”

“I know,” said Laura.

“Asked her to marry me about four times,” said Cedric conversationally. He looked up at the sky, around at the narrow town houses lining the road down to Baker Street.

“Really?” Laura wasn’t that surprised; she knew Cedric worshipped Mary.

“Yes, but she always turned me down flat. Said she would never marry anyone after Xan, and I should go away and find someone else. Quite rude sometimes, actually.” He ruffled his own hair. “Women.”

“I can imagine.” Laura smiled. “She was quite…scary sometimes, wasn’t she?”

“Oh-ho, yes,” said Cedric. “Very much so. Did I ever tell you about the time—”

Jasper appeared. “Come on, old boy. You’ve got the keys. Stop messing around and hurry up.”

“Well,” said Cedric crossly, “I…excuse me, Laura,” and he strode off, leaving Laura smiling after him, watching the procession disappear down the road.

“Excuse me?” came a tentative voice behind her.

She turned round. There on the pavement was a woman in a headscarf, an ancient Burberry tightly belted around her tiny waist, holding a long black umbrella in her tiny gloved hands. She looked about seventy, possibly younger. She looked at Laura expectantly, her huge dark eyes full of concern.

“Have I missed Mary Fielding’s funeral?” she asked. “I only flew in this morning, and then my train was late, I…”

Laura gazed at her, and then at the others, disappearing down the road. Suddenly she recognized her, and she knew who she was talking to. “I’m afraid so,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, dear,” said the woman. She caught Laura’s hand impulsively. “I did want to say goodbye. She was so wonderful, you know, so wonderful. I haven’t seen her for—golly, it must be twenty years.”

Laura couldn’t stop looking at her, fascinated not just by her extreme beauty but because of who she was. “You’re—Vivienne Lash, aren’t you?” she said.

“Yes, yes,” said the woman, a lovely smile breaking out over her face. “How did you know that? Most of the people who recognize me these days are extremely decrepit.”

“I just do,” said Laura, smiling at her.

Vivienne Lash glanced at her, then up and down the road. “Oh, I’m so cross with myself for being late. I wanted to say goodbye to her.” Her eyes were sparkling with tears, but she blinked rapidly, looked around. “Goodness,” she said, her eyes flitting ahead of her, “isn’t that Cedric Forsythe ahead of us?”

Cedric had stopped to marshal his flock across a street, his walking stick waving in the air. Laura said, “Yes, it is.”

“What a small world, how funny. He was so kind to me. I should go and—” She dug her hands into her pockets, a curiously familiar gesture, then shook her head. “No,” she said after a minute. “I’ll let you all get on, darling.” She looked at Laura curiously. “Were you her granddaughter? Are you…Laura?”