Sex with the Ex (11 page)

Reading Henrietta's book,
Hold Your Glass Like a Poem,
one is often left feeling uneasy. For at no time does she hint at her adultery. In fact, she gives every impression that the great love and devotion she speaks of is for her own husband. There is no suggestion in her husband's private correspondence that he thought differently. Perhaps while resigned to his wife's adultery he held a vain belief that his beloved wife loved him as he loved her, or at least in her own way.

 

Certainly through her correspondence to her sister it might be gleaned that Edward's dissipation was felt more keenly by Hen as time wore on. Perhaps her feelings for her husband deepened through her awareness of his gentle steadfast patience.

 

Secret Passage to the Past:
A Biography of Lady Henrietta Posche
By Michael Carpendum

T
hat afternoon Jean and I went down to stay with Kitty and Richard at Aunt Camilla's small cottage in Surrey. Although my aunt was a wealthy woman, she had always lived in a small but pretty wisteria-covered cottage in the village of Dumblesham. More recently, she had employed the services of a full-time nurse, a rather dreary middle-aged woman called Ms. Durram. Apart from Ms. Durram, though, my aunt had lived alone for most of her life, and perhaps because of this she had thrown herself enthusiastically into village life.

Driving into the picture-postcard community, I remembered coming to stay with my aunt just before I married Richard. She wasn't very well then, but as ever she insisted on looking after me as if I was still in short socks and pigtails.

She was actually my father's aunt, a very wealthy, very elegant old-fashioned woman in the best possible sense. Mar
tin called her the last of the Grand Old Edwardians. I remember finding her formal-dining habits exotic, growing up as I had with parents who preferred dining out. When we did eat at home, it was always something from the delicatessen, like quails' eggs, carpaccio, fois gras, caviar or fresh oysters and lobster.

Aunt Camilla, on the other hand, always dined at table with napkins and three courses. The most extraordinary thing about her for me, though, was that while I'm sure she was quite fond of Kitty, she wasn't mesmerized by her the way everyone else was.

When my mother said her nutty things about spinsters and “the breathtaking tragedy of a life lived without passion,” Aunt Camilla would either smile serenely, secretly wink at me or feign deafness. During divorces when we didn't “speak to that man's family,” Aunt Camilla was always the exception. I think Kitty actually admired her ability to not enter the fray.

Kitty and Martin opened the door at the sound of my cab as if they'd been anxiously awaiting my arrival like parents in movies. I couldn't help thinking how sweet they looked standing on the doorstep. Kitty, tall and slender in her trademark mouse-pink chiffon and marabou: Martin, in his favorite tatty cardigan, which Kitty had knitted for him. Actually, Kitty had Joanna knit it, but it amounted to the same thing in Kitty's mind.

I'd always enjoyed the quiet sanctuary of my aunt's cottage, especially when my parents were going through some of their more traumatic stages of divorce or reconciliation. I don't know what was worse, the screaming (sorry, passionate) rows or the public displays of love that followed. During the divorces, I would inevitably be used as a weapon by Kitty to punish Martin, so it always came as a great relief
when they'd pack me off to stay with Aunt Camilla. She never mentioned my parents' relationship and how it was affecting me, which was marvelous because back at home, Kitty and Martin spoke of little else—speaking about me as if I wasn't in the room.

I paid the cabdriver, and my parents wrapped me up in a group hug on the front porch. It felt rather odd but strangely nice. I imagined that any passerby might think we looked the picture of the average English family—with the exception of Jean, who had attached herself to Martin's trouser leg.

Once inside the cottage, all my childhood visits came to life in my mind, all the memories of memories; of baking sponge cakes and gingerbread men and eating them with glasses of homemade lemonade or freshly squeezed juice.

I had brought Richard here to visit Aunt Camilla after we married and he'd made a rude joke about the place smelling of camphor and digestive biscuits. Nor did he appreciate the way poor old Aunt Camilla kept referring to him as Oliver. The worst thing, though, was that Aunt Camilla didn't drink (I don't think she really approved of it) and so there was no alcohol in her house. Despite the fact we were only there for a Sunday lunch, Richard became quite animated about this lack of alcohol on the drive back.

“Who doesn't offer a guest a blasted drink?” he'd railed as we raced round the tight bends of the hedge-lined country lanes in our Ferrari. I was quite relieved by her alcohol-etiquette personally, as he was driving like a maniac anyway. I'd reminded him that she was quite elderly and a little bit potty, but he wasn't to be mollified.

“That's no excuse, bad manners are bad manners. Whoever heard of inviting people to Sunday lunch and not serv
ing wine, let alone offering a restorative? For God's sake, we'd just driven all the bloody way from London. It's disgusting!”

It was the first time I'd ever seen my new husband so angry, and I really didn't want to fight, but she had offered us tea and homemade biscuits on our arrival, of which I gently reminded him. Hence, the “whole place smells of digestive biscuits” tirade.

“It smells just the same as it did when I was little,” I told Kitty and Martin as I settled Jean down.

Kitty squeezed my hand. “I know, lavender water and old books,” she sighed sadly. “We will miss her.”

“Last of the Grand Old Edwardians,” Martin declared.

“He's been saying that since we arrived,” Kitty mocked with an eye roll, but she was smiling as she said it. “I think he's going through clock withdrawal.”

We went into the kitchen where a deli feast was already laid out on a platter. Kitty bustled around with plates and napkins while Martin made tea. It seemed strange seeing them in this domestic environment, strange because they seemed so at home, so familiar with the rituals of tea making and food preparation.

“She never married,” Martin remarked, lathering fois gras on his toast.

“Poor old Cam-Cam,” Kitty added. “What an empty, soulless, pointless life.”

“Well, she had her friends,” I added, picking at my food. “She had Ms. What's-her-name the nurse.”

“Ms. What's-her-name who packed up and left the moment she found poor Cam-Cam? Can you imagine the callousness of the woman? You simply can't get good help these days. The world is full of soulless people with no poetry in their hearts.” Kitty shook her head and sipped her tea daintily. “It wears me out so.”

 

After our supper, I washed up with Martin. My aunt didn't believe in modern contraptions like dishwashers. I washed, he dried, as if we'd done it together a thousand times before.

“She was very beautiful when she was younger,” he began, placing a plate in the cupboard. “She was still a great beauty when I was a boy. I was quite enraptured by her.”

I paused and looked at my father, shocked that he could ever have had eyes for anyone other than Kitty, but he was looking off into the middle distance, deep in his own thoughts.

“Apparently, when I was three I announced I was going to marry her.”

“Oh bless.”

He chuckled at the precociousness of his romantic notions as Kitty entered the room. It wasn't the first time I'd heard the story, but I laughed as I always did.

My father seemed to be in another place and time as he added, “And do you know, I stuck to my guns when they told me I couldn't marry my aunt. I told them, ‘Well, if I can't marry her, I shall find someone just like Aunt Cam to marry!' And I did. Same long thin frame, hair like spun gold, just like a screen goddess,” he continued. I wasn't sure if he was talking about Aunt Camilla or Kitty now.

Kitty ruffled his hair affectionately. “Oh, Martin, stop. You know it's a sign of impending madness when you repeat stories of your childhood over and over again.”

“I expect it is,” my father agreed, putting the last plate away. “I shall still miss the old thing, though.”

“Last of the Grand Old Edwardians,” Kitty teased, but she seemed pensive too. Later, as she curled up on the living-room sofa with some papers of Aunt Camilla's, I watched
her and thought I'd never seen her so quietly still. Normally when Kitty did “still,” it was in a languid, feline way—you could almost hear her purr. Now she was simply absorbed; her eyes veiled by her flamboyant reading glasses, poring over a file of papers.

Finally she looked up at me. “You know, her funeral arrangements are madly elaborate. Are you sure you didn't help arrange all this for her, Lola?” she asked. “It seems every last detail is taken care of, all the insurances, all the bookings. Absolutely fascinating. I'm really impressed.”

I was stunned by the compliment. I was never really convinced that Kitty knew exactly what it was I did for a living, as she always seemed to go into one of her “despairs” whenever I spoke about my career.

“Here, take a look at these papers and see what you think, Lola. Even the guest list is drawn up as if for a celebration.”

I read the hand-written pages with interest. Titled,
The Funeral Fete & Ball of Lady Camilla Dawne,
every detail was laid out, complete with contingency plans. The funeral itself was to take place on the Friday morning a week after her death, her cremation to take place the same day. The fete was to commence on the Saturday after her funeral, at 11:00 a.m. on the village green. She'd paid a premium so that her booking superseded any other bookings. She'd even set aside a further amount to reimburse any inconvenienced parties. She was such a loved member of the community that I couldn't imagine anyone minding in the least putting their occasion off.

Kitty was right, the proposed schedule was professional. I couldn't have done better myself. She'd covered everything with the attention to detail that I would have; there were plans in place so that anything that could go wrong would immediately be put to rights.

The fete was to last all day and included rides and festivities for children. In the evening there was to be a ball in a marquee. A deposit had already been placed with the caterers and the band. The guest list was vast and looked as if it had recently been updated. The finale was to be a fireworks display at midnight, with Aunt Camilla's ashes being fired off into the sky. Everything right down to the appropriate insurance had been accounted for.

“Talk about going out in a blaze of light,” I remarked as I passed back the file.

“I'm just staggered at the vast organization involved with hosting an event like this,” Kitty mused, putting on her glasses and looking through the documents again.

“Is it called ‘hosting' when the host is dead?” Martin inquired.

Kitty ignored him as she looked up at me. “Is your job as complicated as this, Lola?”

“It depends. Yes, I suppose…”

“When you think about all the things that can go wrong.” She shook her elegant head and looked at me carefully. “I simply had no idea how elaborate these sorts of events were to organize. You are a clever girl, aren't you, Lola?”

I blushed at the compliment, which was repeated about ten minutes later as the sun set over the village green opposite. I tried to imagine my aunt planning this celebration for her friends and family on evenings like this. I could see her now, sitting where Kitty was sitting, going over the details of the fete and the ball in her head, picturing how it would all look. I could imagine her, imagining her guests laughing and partying, while she burst into the sky in a flaming wheel of fireworks. I could imagine her getting quotes from cater
ers and auditioning bands and trying to imagine all the things that could go wrong and then making B plans to cover them.

“She was in love once, you know,” Martin remarked, breaking our comfortable family silence.

Kitty took off her glasses and stared at him as if he was an interloper. “What's this? You never told me anything about her romantic soul.”

“No?”

The mood of quiet contemplation was shattered. “No. Never.” Kitty looked extremely pissed off.

“No. Well, I suppose I didn't. It was a bit of a sore point with the family.”

“
We
are your family, Martin,” she told him, her violet eyes flashing. “We three in this room.” She looked to me for support as I prayed for the chintz sofa to swallow me up. “And as we knew nothing of this romance, how could it be a sore point with us?”

Poor Martin realized then what a tight corner he was in. Aunt Camilla's funeral file was set aside along with Kitty's glasses. He was holding a shovel and standing in a hole and he knew it. He had that look about him of a man who has suddenly realized he doesn't have the ability to climb out on his own. He looked at me to throw him a rope, but Kitty's accusatory gaze was tightly fixed. She was twitching now, like a tiger flexing its muscles before thrusting itself on its prey.

Martin coughed before beginning his explanation. “Quite. Well, there was talk of some fellow. Oliver, I think he was called. I don't think old Cam ever really recovered.” He pressed his thumbs to the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. “There was even talk of marriage, I believe, but no formal announcement was ever made. I was only a young lad, four or five, maybe even younger, when I first heard my
father mention it. I might have got it wrong, I suppose,” he suggested hopefully.

“And you never mentioned her broken nuptials to me, your own wife, because…?” I could tell by her controlled tone that Kitty was wildly annoyed. I thought of all the times she had bemoaned my aunt's spinster status, frequently comparing me to her, berating me in front of her, holding her up as an example of what happens to those that lead the unromantic life. I think Kitty was thinking the same thing. My mother can be insensitive but she doesn't set out to be. I am certain of that. Now she was feeling that she'd misjudged Camilla and she was blaming Martin.

My father blustered, “I don't know that I felt certain of my facts. As I said, I heard rumors, whispers in the nursery. It had all happened long before I was born, even. Once I saw a photograph when I was visiting her as a boy. It's not here now, I noticed that as soon as we arrived. It used to sit on her bedside. His name was Oliver, I only know that because it was written on the photograph. I remember reading it out loud. She became very cross. I asked my father about it but he wasn't disposed to discuss the issue. Bit of a dipso by all accounts. Couldn't say no to a drink. We might have a hunt round here for the photograph,” he suggested, as if finding the snapshot of Oliver might mitigate his crime.