The Ashford Affair (3 page)

Addie felt suddenly cold, cold despite the warmth of the day. She looked at Bea, shining in the sun, at Frederick. The mustache he had once sported was gone; he was clean-shaven now, his face tan where it had once been pale. There were lines by his eyes that hadn’t been there before, white in the brown of his face, but they suited him. The circles of dissipation were gone, burned away by sun and work.

From far away, she could hear David’s voice.
Why?

This was why. This had always been why. Addie fought against a blinding wave of despair and desire, all mixed up in sun and sweat, dust and confusion. She wanted to curl into a ball, to cry her frustration out into the dust, to turn, to flee, to run away.

David was right; she should have left well enough alone. She stood have stayed home in the cool of England, in her safe flat with her safe almost fiancé, instead of poking at emotions better left buried.

Frederick held out a hand to her, and there it was, glinting in the sun, the gold ring that marked him as Bea’s.

“We didn’t think you’d come,” he said.

I can still go away again, she wanted to say. Forget that I was here. But that was the coward’s path. There was, as Nanny used to say, no way out but through.

Addie set her bag carefully down by her feet, flexing her sore hand. By the time she had straightened, she had her pleasant social smile fixed firmly on her face.

“Well, here I am,” she said, and took Frederick’s hand. His ring pressed against her palm, a reminder, a warning. “How could I stay away?”

PART ONE

ASHFORD

ONE

New York, 1999

Clemmie hurried beneath the awning of her grandmother’s building, panting a quick hello in response to the doorman’s greeting.

He started to say something, but she kept on going, heels click-click-clacking on the marble floor. She tossed a “hello” over her shoulder, flapping her hand in a wave.

It was Granny Addie’s ninety-ninth birthday party and Clemmie was late.

She steamed through the foyer, loosening her coat and scarf as she went. Despite the November cold, she felt sweaty straight through, clammy with perspiration beneath the layers of bra, blouse, suit jacket, and coat. She’d meant to change into a dress, but there hadn’t been time, so here she was, disheveled and blistered, hair any which way and lipstick a distant memory. Her mother would be appalled, but she wouldn’t say anything. She would just telegraph her distress with tightened lips and raised brows. She was good at that. Clemmie’s mother’s brows were better than sign language, complicated concepts conveyed with a minimum of movement.

Clemmie jabbed at the elevator button and made the mistake of glancing at her watch. Eight fifteen. Cocktails had started forty-five minutes ago. They might, in fact, already be sitting down to dinner. No wonder the doorman had looked at her like that. Her mother had probably been calling down every ten minutes to ask if she had been spotted yet. She was past the realm of acceptably late and well into the kingdom of unpardonably tardy.

Shifting her large Longchamp bag from one shoulder to the other, she mentally mustered her arsenal of excuses, none entirely a lie, but none entirely true either: a meeting at the last minute, the BlackBerry in her bag that wouldn’t stop buzzing, that damn deposition in Dallas that needed to be prepped before she flew off on Thursday. Then there were all the standard-issue disclaimers: no cabs, delayed subways, the impossibility of getting directly from her office, all the way west on 49th and 8th, to Granny Addie’s, safe in the fastness of the Upper East Side, on 85th and 5th. That, at least, was pure, unvarnished truth. Clemmie had wound up walking most of the way, half-speedwalking, half-running, slipping and sliding in her high-heeled pumps as she scanned for cabs, all of which seemed to be full, their occupants smug silhouettes in the backseats, inside while she was out.

Clemmie shifted feet, discreetly easing her left foot out of her black pump. Matte black leather, now slightly scuffed, with a three-inch heel. These shoes looked very nice under a conference table, but they had not been made for walking.

Her stocking clung stickily to her heel. Lovely. Not just a blister, but a burst blister. It was going to hurt like hell tomorrow when she limped into work.

The elevator pinged, the doors opening.

Clemmie jammed her foot back into her shoe and hobbled inside. The elevator was lined in rosewood, the buttons set in polished brass. It hadn’t changed much over the past thirty years. She hit the 8, her finger finding the number by rote, and the elevator began its ascent. As she always did, she glanced at the shield-shaped security mirror in the corner. As a child, she used to entertain herself by moving her head this way, then that, watching as her features moved in and out of focus, like a Barbie head when you took the rubbery features between your fingers and squeezed.

Now she checked for obvious signs of wear and tear, applying a hasty coat of lip gloss from the blunted stick in her bag. Mascara? There was still more over her eyes than under them. Good enough. The wind had taken the part of blush, pounding her pale cheeks into color. Unfortunately, it had also encouraged her hair to make a desperate bid for liberation, standing up any which way.

She hadn’t had this problem when it was long; then she could just bundle it back, clipping it up with a slide or holding it back with a headband.

It was such a cliché, wasn’t it? End a relationship, cut your hair.

She had had it chopped off last week, ostensibly so it wouldn’t keep getting caught under the strap of her bag, defiantly taking a whole hour away from the office in the middle of the day. Screw it, she had told herself. She had spent the better part of six years in the office, eating meals at her desk, taking personal calls on her office phone, watching the seasons change from behind the thick glass windows. If she wanted to take an hour to go to Fekkai, she had damn well earned it. One hour away wouldn’t cost her the place in the partnership for which she had so desperately worked, the partnership she was so close to achieving; while the stylist clipped away Clemmie had kept her BlackBerry in her lap, typing away with two fingers on the miniature keyboard.

Her hair was supposed to be easier to manage like this, the hairdresser had said, but the short, fine strands seemed to have a mind of their own, sticking up any which way and flying into her eyes. She missed being able to pull it back, the comforting nonsense task of bundling it up and letting it down again. She found herself constantly reaching for hair that wasn’t there anymore.

The elevator doors opened onto the eighth floor, a small landing decorated with burgundy silk flowered paper and a spindly gilded table beneath an equally spindly and gilded mirror. A bronze bucket provided a home for stray umbrellas. Grandpa Frederick’s walking stick still stuck out in pride of place in the middle. Clemmie touched it lightly with her fingers. The head was shaped like a terrier. Grandpa Frederick used to make it yip and bark for her as Clemmie would shy back, alarmed and delighted.

Grandpa Frederick had died when Clemmie was six, but she remembered him, just vaguely, a seamed face and white hair and a lopsided grin and a lifelong smoker’s hacking cough. It was odd to think that he had died that long ago; even gone, he had been a presence throughout Clemmie’s childhood, like Victoria’s Albert, always there in memory. Granny Addie’s apartment was still full of him, even thirty years on. There were pictures of him in grainy black and white, wearing the comical clothes of the 1920s, pictures of him bending over the plants on their coffee plantation in Kenya, and then, later, shiny color photos of a much older Grandpa Frederick, with Granny Addie, with children, with grandchildren, clothes changing to suit the era.

They were, Clemmie had always thought, rather an inspiration. They had met when Granny Addie was still, as they quaintly put it, in the schoolroom, and married when she was in her twenties. Together, they had taken a little farm in Kenya and turned it into a thriving coffee company. The business had been sold back in the seventies, swallowed up by Maxwell House, but the back hallways of Granny Addie’s apartment were hung with old posters, now framed, advertising
KENYAN COFFEE—FOR THE DISCRIMINATING PALATE.
Some even featured a younger-looking Granny Addie, poised and impossibly aristocratic, a coffeepot in one hand, a cup and saucer in the other.

They had been together so long, Granny Addie and Grandpa Frederick.

Even if Clemmie met someone tomorrow, even if by some miracle she stumbled upon her dream man in an elevator or on the subway, she would still never be with anyone as long as Granny Addie had been with Grandpa Frederick. It was an incredibly depressing thought. The idea of starting over, having to go on the same awkward first dates, recite the same tired personal stories, made her want to curl into a little ball and whimper.

Why was it so easy for some people and not for others?

Birthday, she reminded herself. She was meant to be celebratory. She couldn’t go in and mope all over Granny Addie. Not with all the cousins watching, at any rate. Clemmie’s mother was a big believer in Keeping Their End Up, which generally seemed to boil down to smiling whether you wanted to or not and never ever telling Aunt Anna how you really felt about anything.

Mother had a thing about Aunt Anna. Clemmie had never been able to discover any malevolent tendencies on her aunt’s part—yes, she was kind of ditzy and a little phony, but evil?—but Clemmie’s mother remained convinced that Aunt Anna lived to exploit the chinks in her armor. Clemmie tended to think that Aunt Anna lived for Aunt Anna, which was a very different thing.

Clemmie hung her coat on the rack in the hall, shoving it in between a fur-trimmed cashmere cape that could only belong to Aunt Anna and someone else’s well-used Burberry. Someone had left the door to the apartment slightly ajar. Through it, Clemmie could hear the unmistakable noises that denoted a cocktail party: the staccato rhythm of voices, the click of heels against hardwood, the soft-soled shuffle of the waiters bearing crab cakes or smoked salmon squares.

“There you are!” Her mother must have been lying in wait; she pounced as soon as Clemmie opened the door. “You’re the last one here.”

“I had a meeting,” Clemmie began, but her mother was frowning at her left hand.

“You didn’t wear your ring.”

“It’s not mine anymore.” She viewed its continued presence in her apartment as a bailment rather than ownership. It was going back to Dan the next time she saw him, along with his
Star Wars
video, his Penn sweatshirt, and his spare sneakers. The toothbrush she had already thrown out. She had thought of keeping it for cleaning grout, but that seemed just a little too vindictive, a little too voodoo doll–esque. She didn’t want to be vindictive. They had parted friends, at least theoretically.

Could one part friends in such a situation? There had been things said.… She had given as good as she got, but some of Dan’s observations about her character still stung. Like he should talk about being emotionally unavailable. Pots and kettles, Dan, pots and kettles.

Her mother shot a furtive glance over her shoulder, checking to make sure there were no relatives in earshot. “I don’t see why you couldn’t have kept it on just for tonight.”

God forbid the cousins realize that her engagement had imploded, that she was single again at thirty-four, Marjorie’s unwanted spinster daughter. It was like something out of Jane Austen. Weren’t they meant to be past this as a society? It stung even more coming from her mother, the woman who had always given her a hard line on putting career first. Until she hit thirty and the tune suddenly changed.

Clemmie gave her mother a long, hard look. “It’s not like you liked Dan.”

Her mother bristled. Mother did a good line in bristle. “I never said that.”

“How else would you define ‘perhaps it’s time to reconsider your options’?”

“I never meant— Never mind. We’ll discuss this later.”

Mother’s response to everything: deny, deny, deny. If we pretend it’s all okay, it is!

“Fine,” said Clemmie, moving past her mother into the foyer. “Sure. Whatever.”

That was the problem with being a menopause baby; the usual generation gap was multiplied by two. Her mother had been a young woman during the Blitz and the mentality had stuck. Clemmie had been born when her mother was forty-four, the last gasp of a failing marriage. It had been hugely embarrassing for her mother, who had thought her childbearing years were long since over.

It had been even more embarrassing when Clemmie’s father had left, three years later, having had enough of diapering and burping with the first round—that being practically a verbatim quote. He had left her mother for a journalist named Jennifer, twenty years younger, Californian, and blond.

Clemmie didn’t blame him for leaving, but she did blame him for being a cliché.

“Now you’re upset with me,” said her mother with gloomy certainty. Even after fifty years in the States, Clemmie’s mother still clung to her veddy veddy British accent, relic of a childhood spent between Kenya and London. It gave even her most mundane pronouncements a certain ring of authority.

“I’m not upset with you,” Clemmie lied. “Let’s just leave it, okay? It’s Granny Addie’s birthday! Woo-hoo!”

“Hmm,” said Mother. Her face suddenly changed. She stood straighter, almost moving up to her toes in her flat, sensible shoes. “Anna!” she said brightly. “Look who I found.”

Rescued by the cavalry. “Hi, Aunt Anna,” said Clemmie, keeping her left hand behind her. “Long time, no see.”

“Clemmie, sweetie!” Aunt Anna still wore her hair long. It was fair, like Clemmie’s, cunningly cut so that it curved forward in a way that made her seem to be leaning forward in perpetual anticipation. She had to have been seventy, at least, but the good people at Frederic Fekkai had spun silver back into gold, keeping her hair the same pale blond it had been in the wedding photos on Granny Addie’s piano. There were many wedding photos. Aunt Anna had been married no fewer than eight times. Her hair brushed against Clemmie’s cheek as Aunt Anna enveloped her in a Chanel-scented hug. “We were afraid you’d been eaten by wolves!”