Love Always - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Harriet Evans (ч. 5)

‘What, you want money?’ I ask. ‘Is that what this is about?’

‘Octavia! Natasha!’ Louisa hisses. ‘No, of course not.’

‘I’m just saying, I’ve grown up with it. I’ve sat there and watched Mum cleaning up, cooking, spending al summer here, her looking after you –’

she points at me – ‘because you –’ she points at Mum – ‘can’t be bothered to come and see your parents. And no one ever says why, do they?’

Octavia laughs. ‘They never say why we can’t rock the boat. We just al pretend it’s al OK.’

I’ve had enough. ‘Octavia, you don’t know what the hel you’re talking about,’ I say. ‘You’ve got it al wrong! Mum’s not the one who—’

And then something strange happens. The diary is in Mum’s hand, and it suddenly flies out, eddying away on a huge, arching gust of wind, out over the beach, dropping abruptly like a rock into the sea. Louisa cries out, and Octavia scrambles for the steps, but my mother, with an iron grasp, stops her.

‘No. Octavia, don’t. It’s too dangerous.’

She turns them back towards the house. ‘It’s gone,’ I say, looking out at the tiny red exercise book, floating further out to sea. ‘It’s real y gone.’

‘Now we’l never know, I guess,’ Louisa says. She shrugs sadly, and looks up at Mum. ‘Miranda, be honest for once. There wasn’t anything real y horrid in it, was there?’

Mum glances down at her. ‘Absolutely not, Louisa. I promise.’

‘Good.’ Louisa nods. I don’t know whether she believes this or not.

‘And Louisa, you know, that thing with Archie?’ Mum says. ‘Jeremy used to look at me al the time too. He was just better at not getting caught, that’s al .’

‘That’s not true.’

‘It real y is,’ Mum says. ‘Like I say: just because you didn’t see it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Louisa demands.

My mother gives a quick, twisted smile. ‘Who’d have believed me?’ She glances down at the shingley path. ‘Please, trust me. Just this once. It was a long, long time ago, al of it. You don’t hate Archie now, do you? I mean, you don’t like him much, but it’s al so long ago. Al of it. So why don’t we just cal it quits?’

‘You’re bloody crazy,’ Octavia says. ‘Yes, I am,’ my mother says. ‘I know it more than most people. Lousia?’ Lousia smiles her sweet smile.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Let’s.’ Mum’s eyes shine at her for a second, and then she nods at me. ‘Darling, we should go—’

She takes my arm. Octavia storms ahead of us, not saying anything. Louisa cal s after her. ‘Octavia?’ She shakes her head. ‘Oh, dear,’ she says. ‘She’s – wel , a bit unpredictable.’ She smiles. ‘A bit like you, Miranda.’

‘Me?’ My mother looks completely horrified at the suggestion that black-suited, clompy-shod Octavia and she are similar, and I chew my lip, trying not to smile. It’s strange, but she’s right.

The three of us walk back up towards the house in silence. We stand outside on the terrace, and Archie appears.

‘About time,’ he says. ‘Come on, girls.’

‘Let me just brush my hair,’ my mother says. ‘Mum, we real y should hurry –’ I say, looking at my watch. ‘The train leaves in less than an hour.’

‘So . . .’ Louisa fiddles with her bag, peering right inside it as if looking for Aztec gold in there. ‘So . . .’

I lean forward and give her a big hug. ‘Thank you for everything you did today,’ I say. ‘Wel , everything. You should come into town some time.

Come and see me.’

She looks taken aback. ‘Oh, Nat darling, lovely. I’m sure that’d be – er . . .’ She trails off.

‘I’m very near the Geffrye Museum,’ I say. ‘We could go and look at nice almshouses and English furniture. Maybe wander down Columbia Road, there are some lovely places to have coffee there. And you could see where they’re stocking my jewel ery.’ Next to me, Mum looks uncomfortable. ‘I’d love you to see it.’ I feel that if I don’t say it now, I won’t have a reason to see her again. Yes. So I say, ‘I’d love to see you.’

Louisa suddenly goes a bit pink. ‘I’d love that too.’ She pats my arm. ‘I’m so proud of you, Natasha. Your granny would be too . . .’ She bites her lip and looks away. ‘Goodbye,’ she says, and she grips Mum’s arm too.

‘Goodbye, Natasha,’ the Bowler Hat says.

He kisses my cheek and I stare at him. I don’t feel rage, just cold dislike. I want him to suffer for what he’s done but I realise there’s no point, real y. It would only hurt Louisa and that’s not what any of us wants. He’s not worth my time. Hopeful y I won’t ever have anything to do with him.

He doesn’t go near Mum. ‘Bye,’ he says, raising his hand, rather flatly, as if unsure of what comes next.

‘Ready?’ Archie says. He opens the car door for his sister, as he always does. ‘I’l be back soon, Louisa,’ he says. ‘Sort out the rest.’

‘Thanks,’ Louisa says, her voice muffled again; and it’s strange, I’ve never noticed it before, but it’s true, there’s an awkwardness between them. Whereas the Bowler Hat gets to strol around carefree, and what he did that summer was much worse, and half of them – Mum, Archie, Guy –

both my grandparents – know it. I sigh. That sums the whole crazy situation up, real y. I mean, I know Archie can be annoying, but he’s OK. He’s Jay’s dad, after al . He must have only just got back from dropping Arvind off, and here he is, driving us back to almost exactly where he’s just been.

‘Hop in, Natasha.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling a rush of gratitude towards him, and I climb into the back. As we drive off I swivel round in my seat, just as I used to when I was smal , to catch one last glimpse of the house, its white curves set against the sloping green and the sea in the background. In the front, Archie and Mum are chattering about something together, laughing, as if their spirits have been lifted already by going. I realise that, what with everything, I haven’t said goodbye to the house, goodbye to Summercove for ever.

Then it occurs to me that actual y, I have.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Just after seven the next morning, we pul in to Paddington. It is another beautiful spring day. Soft sunshine floods into the old, familiar station as Mum and I get off the train and stand awkwardly on the platform.

We look blearily at each other as the crowds recede. I swing my bag over my shoulder and she smiles at me, and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.

‘Darling Nat,’ she says. ‘My clever girl.’

We’re nodding at each other. We’ve made it. We’ve come out the other side. I feel as though I’ve been fighting my way through the darkness for a long time, the whole of the last year. Perhaps longer, when I think about it, as if my life had gone the wrong direction, with no input from me. The way Mum’s did when Cecily died.

She grips my hand with her long, smooth fingers, so tight she’s almost pinching it. She is sort of wild, her eyes are huge.

I pat her shoulder. ‘Mum,’ I say. ‘Shal we – do you want to go and get some breakfast? I know a nice place not far from here, by the canal.’

She’s nodding. ‘We could . . . talk,’ I say, rol ing my eyes, hoping she knows I don’t like it much either, but that it’d be nice to chat. ‘Just . . .

catch up and stuff.’

Mum opens her mouth, smiling at the same time. And then she says, ‘Oh! . . . Yes. I’d – Yes, wel , I’d love to, darling, but I can’t.’

‘Oh. I thought you were – never mind, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Jean-Luc rang me early this morning,’ she says, her eyes wide. ‘His wife’s left him and he’s in a terrible state. He just happens to have a booking for the River Café for lunch! So he’s taking me. I real y should get home and make myself presentable.’ Her smile is stil bright, optimistic, sunny and a little scary. ‘But it’s a lovely idea, darling.’ She grasps my hand again. ‘Maybe some other time, hm?’

‘Yes,’ I say, looking at her, into her clear green eyes so like her own mother’s, so like mine. ‘Some other time.’

‘Which way are you . . . ?’ She points towards the main concourse.

‘I’m—’ I point behind me, towards the Hammersmith & City line.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Yes, wel , I’m getting the District . . .’ We are stil pointing in different directions. ‘Wel , I’d better run,’ Mum says. She kisses me on the cheek. ‘Bye, sweetheart,’ she says, and she is dashing off down the platform, and I watch her go, and turn and climb the stairs to the Tube, the same stairs I ran down two months ago to catch this very same train, the one that would take me back to Summercove for Granny’s funeral.

I sit on the Tube as it rattles gently east, away from the station, away from Mum, towards the centre of London and another day. I don’t know when I’m going to see her again; she has made the parameters very clear, and after everything that’s happened, that she’s been through, I know it’s fine. I see Louisa hurrying off . . . Mum, hurrying off . . . I see myself saying goodbye to Arvind, packing up my marriage. And just as I think I’m alone, pretty much alone, apart from Jay, but without the rest of my family, a thought strikes me.

I cannot believe I haven’t seen it before.

I stand up abruptly in the crowded Tube. The doors are opening at King’s Cross. Why didn’t I think of it earlier? Why didn’t I see it? I run through the crowds, the same faceless sea of people hurrying from one place to another, back in to work, vanishing in the distance, like Mum, hurrying towards the exit. I speed up my pace.

Half an hour later, I am standing outside a door of a house in a pretty Georgian terrace. I knock firmly.

A girl answers. ‘Hi?’ she says, looking at me. She is mid-twenties, with long, curly, dark brown hair, a touch of red in it. She is holding a half-finished cereal bowl and a spoon.

‘Hi,’ I say, slightly out of breath, as I have run al the way from the Tube. ‘Hi. I’m Natasha. Is your – is your dad there?’

She looks me curiously up and down. And then she nods, and smiles. ‘Um – OK. Sure. Dad! ’ she bel ows with unexpected ferocity. ‘ Someone called Natasha here to see you! ’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘S’OK,’ she says. She smiles. ‘Yeah – so maybe see you later,’ and she drifts off with the cereal bowl, back down the long corridor.

Guy appears in the hal way. He looks bleary-eyed, grey-faced. He peers, as if to make sure it is me. ‘Natasha?’ he says, shaking his head.

‘When did you get back? What are you doing here?’ It’s not said unkindly.

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ I say. I look steadily at him.

He meets my gaze. And swal ows. ‘OK. Fire away.’

‘Guy,’ I say. ‘Um—’

He stares, and his eyes are kind. ‘Go on, Natasha,’ he says. ‘Ask me.’

I take a deep breath.

‘Are – are you my dad?’

He gives a little jump, and it’s as if some tension within him has been released. He sighs.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, I am.’ And he smiles, slowly. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ve been more than useless. But you’re here. I’m so glad you’re here.’

I put my hand against the front door to steady myself. ‘Why don’t you come in?’ he says. ‘Come on.’

‘Oh,’ I say, thinking of the girl inside, of how tired I am, how I want my breakfast, my bed. ‘Oh . . . wel . . .’

‘Come on,’ he says again. ‘I’ve been waiting for this for a while, you know. You’re here now. Welcome.’

And he puts his arm round me and pul s me gently inside, and he shuts the door behind us and the rest of the world.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Guy’s basement kitchen is a mess. He ushers me downstairs and sits me at the big wooden kitchen table, which is covered in newspapers and empty coffee mugs. He pushes some papers helplessly out of the way and gestures towards the cooker.

‘Do you want some breakfast . . . ?’

I was starving, but now I have no appetite at al . ‘No, thanks. Can I have a coffee?’ I say.

‘Sure, sure.’ He rubs his hands together, as if pleased it’s going wel . He fil s up the kettle cautiously, and I stare at him.

This man is my father. This is my dad. Dad. Daddy. Father. Pa. I’ve never said that to anyone before. I used to practise it at night in my room at Bryant Court, especial y during the height of my Railway Children obsession. My daddy’s away, I’d told myself. He’l come back soon. Mum’s just protecting me, like Bobbie’s mum is. Night after night, but he never came, and then I grew out of pretending. I watch Guy as he shuffles round the kitchen, trying to slot everything into place.

He’s Cecily’s lover. He’s the Bowler Hat’s brother, for God’s sake – oh God, I think to myself. That means the Bowler Hat is my uncle and Octavia and Julius are my actual first cousins, not half distant relatives it didn’t matter that I didn’t like so much. And – he’s my dad. Not much of one so far, I have to say.

The room is spinning; my head hurts. I get up. ‘I’m sorry, I think I have to go,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if I can do this right now.’

Guy turns, his face ful of alarm. ‘No!’ he says loudly. ‘You can’t go.’ He hears himself and then says, ‘Sorry. I mean, please, please don’t go.’

‘I didn’t have any idea . . .’ I say. I shake my head, stil standing there. To my surprise tears are flowing down my cheeks. I dash them away, crossly. ‘Sorry. It’s just a shock—’ I sink back into my chair.

‘I thought she’d have told you,’ Guy says. ‘That’s why I asked you yesterday, to come and see me. She promised she’d tel you. She real y didn’t?’ I shake my head, stifling a sob. He grits his teeth. ‘God, that woman – I’m sorry, I know she’s your mother, but real y.’

There’s a pause while I col ect myself. ‘Don’t be mean about Mum,’ I say. ‘Where were you, when she was bringing me up with no money, completely on her own?’

‘I didn’t know!’ Guy shouts suddenly, and he looks about ten years younger, not this tired, washed-out old man I don’t recognise from Cecily’s diary.

‘You didn’t know?’

‘Of course not, Natasha!’ He looks appal ed. ‘What do you think I am? I had no idea until she turned up completely out of the blue, two weeks ago, the day after I’d seen you at the shop. Out of the blue! First this diary arrives in the post, and then she arrives, no warning, nothing. At first I thought she’d brought another bloody diary for me to read, but it was this!’ He’s practical y shouting. ‘She tel s me this, and then she runs off to God knows where, and I’m left – I didn’t know what to do! Do you understand? Next time she comes I’m not letting her in, I tel you.’

His tone is so outraged, I almost want to laugh, but he’s serious. He lowers his voice a little. ‘Natasha, don’t you think if I’d have known before, I’d have . . .’ He swal ows. ‘I know I was awful when you came round last week, and I’m sorry . . .’ He bangs the teaspoon he’s holding impotently against his baggy cords, like a child with a rattle. ‘I’d only just found out I was your father, and Miranda’s nowhere to be seen, I don’t know if she’s told you or not . . . And it was the anniversary of Hannah’s death . . . it’s always a bad day for me. Then you appear and – I’m so sorry.’ He looks so sad. ‘I just – I wasn’t ready to talk to you properly. To be the person you needed.’

‘Look, Guy,’ I say. ‘I don’t need a dad, I’ve got by al these years without one. It’s fine.’

The kettle screeches away on the hob and he turns it off. I look round the sunny kitchen again with photos on the wal s, poetry magnets on the fridge, cream ceramic jars marked Sugar, Flour, Tea, Coffee. In the corner, a cat stretches out in a basket. Radio 4 is on in the background. It’s messy, but lived-in. Cosy. Upstairs, someone is moving about. When I was younger this was something like the sort of family set-up I dreamed of having.

‘Do you believe that I didn’t know?’ Guy says. He comes over and slaps his hands onto the back of one of the chairs. ‘Does it make sense?’

I blink; it stil sounds so strange. ‘You didn’t have any idea? I mean – you knew you’d slept with her, Guy, didn’t you? Are you trying to say she drugged you?’

He smiles. ‘Yep. I suppose this is when it gets a bit complicated. We’d been . . . wel , over the years, after Cecily’s death . . . you could say we sort of saw a lot of each other.’

‘You were fuck buddies,’ I say. His eyes open wide. ‘What on earth did you just say?’

‘Fuck buddies,’ I say cal ously. ‘Bootie cal ers. Friends with benefits.’

‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’ Guy moves back to the kettle, pours water into the cafetière and brings it over with two mugs, sitting down heavily in front of me. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ He stares into nothing. ‘You have to remember, Natasha. She had a bad time growing up, but in the seventies your mother was . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘She was absolutely devastating.’

‘The seventies were terrible for a lot of people, you know,’ Guy says, when we’re sitting more comfortably, I’ve stopped crying, and he’s calmed down. ‘No electricity. Strikes. Mass unemployment. Platform shoes and spotty punks everywhere. But you know, it was your mother’s decade in lots of way.’ He smiles.

‘How do you mean?’ I am fascinated, and I’m just enjoying looking at him, staring at his face, his hands holding the coffee mug. I tuck one leg under me.

‘Oh, you know.’ He smiles. ‘You know. Her own brand of cod-mystical – er – you know, headscarf-wearing hippyness – it al flourished then. I just think she became more comfortable in her own skin.’

I smile, because he’s total y right, and it’s so strange that he knows this. Knows her as wel as he does. I prop my elbows up on the table, my chin in my hands, listening intently.

‘I don’t know what she’d been doing for the rest of the sixties,’ Guy says.

‘She did some fashion courses,’ I say. ‘I know that. She used to try and make dresses years later when I was little, from those Clothkits sets.

They were always awful.’ The burgundy and brown early eighties pinafore where one panel was back to front and the pockets were on the inside, for example. I shake my head, caught between tears and a smile as I think about her in the flat with her sewing machine.

Guy nods. ‘I seem to remember there was an upholstery course somewhere, she was always making cushions. And I know she went travel ing, but I met her again when she was working at this boutique, I think in South Ken.’

I remember her talking about the South Kensington shop. It original y sold awful kaftans and tie-dye prints, which in a few years gave way to Laura Ashley-style rip-off long, flowery dresses. She took it over and rechristened it Miranda. Of course she did. I have a photo of her standing outside the shop in skinny jeans and boots, a bil owing embroidered cheesecloth blouse with huge sleeves, and a Liberty headscarf tied round her hair. She has her hand on her hip, her eyes are made up with black kohl and she is almost scowling. She looks like a sexy pirate. Something completely wild in her eyes. He’s right, she looks devastating. I tel Guy this, and he nods.

‘She was. We met at a party, in about 1973? I hadn’t – I hadn’t seen her for years. I’d been living in the States.’

‘Doing what?’ I say. I’m so curious, I want to know everything. I look at him again. He’s my dad.

He smiles. ‘Oh, not very much, I’m afraid. Writing in a rather desultory way for a paper, living in San Francisco. I was trying to be a journalist.’

‘Wow. Was it fun?’

Guy shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says flatly. ‘I wasn’t very good. And I went away for the wrong reasons. I couldn’t wait to finish at Oxford and . . . I left England immediately after I came down, to forget about Cecily. About what happened that summer.’ He stops, takes a gulp of his coffee. He is breathing fast. He purses his lips and says sadly, ‘I wasn’t even there when Frank married Louisa.’

‘Real y? You missed your brother’s wedding?’

‘It wasn’t such a big deal then,’ he says. ‘Weddings weren’t such a production, you know. Glass of champagne and some salmon mousse in a marquee then home by six.’

He looks away. I don’t believe him. I wrap my fingers round my mug, so that my thumbs are interlocked.

‘Anyway, I was there til ‘73, and then I came back . . . I’d been back a week, it was summer. Terribly hot. I wasn’t sure why I was back, what I was doing . . . I was rather a lost soul. And then I met your mother at this completely crazy house party in Maida Vale one evening. We . . . um.’ He trails off. ‘We had a brief fling. And then I went off again.’

‘Back to the States?’ I ask. I’m not embarrassed. I am desperately curious. After al these years of knowing nothing, suddenly everything is out there, open, within my grasp.

‘I was back and forth for a few years. There was a girl there – in San Francisco – things were rather complicated. I didn’t know what I was doing, to be honest.’

‘So you carried on seeing Mum when you were here? And the girl over there?’

Guy heaves his shoulders up almost to his ears, and then drops them again. ‘Yes. But while it seems pathetic to say “It wasn’t real y like that”, I try to console myself with the thought that it wasn’t.’

‘In what way?’ I take a sip of tea, warming my hands around the mug.

‘Miranda was . . .’ Guy’s eyes light up. ‘She was very clear about what she wanted. And it wasn’t a relationship. She was – you have to understand she was herself for the first time. She was making her own way in the world, she had a life of her own, away from Summercove, from your parents. She was the life and soul of every party. Absolutely beautiful. Coterie of men always around her, gay and straight. No fear. She swung on a giant chandelier once, in a dilapidated mansion off Curzon Street, and it crumbled away from the ceiling, and she fel to the floor.’ He is almost chuckling at the memory. ‘She didn’t care. That was Miranda.’

My skin is prickling, hot, al over. ‘What happened after that?’ I ask. ‘Did you go back to the States?’

‘Oh, yes, then back again to London. Few months here, few months there,’ Guy said. He swal ows. ‘I was being pathetic. My girlfriend wanted me to stay there with her. She’d moved to New York by then. I couldn’t make my mind up. Didn’t want to settle down. Kept thinking . . . what if . . .’

He trails off. ‘What if what?’

‘What if Cecily hadn’t died?’ He looks up. ‘Would we have been together? That’s why I couldn’t settle down with anyone else for years afterwards. I always thought we would.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t say that now, not after my years with Hannah and the children. All my children.’

He smiles, and he reaches out his hand, puts it on top of mine.

I let his fingers rest on mine, feeling his warm dry hand, his flesh, and I stare at him again in wonder.

‘I wouldn’t change that for the world. But I do think about it. I used to, al the time. You see, we never talked about her, none of us, after she died.

I had no one to talk to about – about her. None of my friends had met her. It was so brief. I couldn’t discuss it with my brother, with Louisa.’ He exhales. ‘I’m sorry. I find it very hard, even now. Reading the diary, it brought it al back.’

‘Did you know about Bowler Hat and – and Granny?’ I ask. ‘Before you read the diary?’

Guy frowns. Two lines appear between his grey brows. He screws his eyes up. ‘I knew in some way,’ he says. ‘I’ve never trusted either of them.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved them both. I always wil . But I – I think I didn’t want to see what was going on. You have to remember how young we were, how naive, real y. She tried it with me, you know.’

‘What? Granny?’

Guy nods. ‘Frances was a woman of many passions. She let it be known that she was available. Not long after we arrived, that summer. A hand here, a stroke on the cheek there. A look over the shoulder.’ He blinks. ‘I was so lily-livered. I’d have gone for it like a shot if I hadn’t been so scared. Good thing I didn’t.’

I shake my head. I don’t know why I’m surprised. ‘Anyway,’ Guy continues. ‘I suppose, I suppose – yes, seeing your mother, it brought it al back again. But in a good way. She was wonderful. She was like Cecily, of course. But she wasn’t like her. They’re not that alike. So it was comforting, to see her again, and to be able to talk about what had happened.’ He looks awkward. ‘Not that she wanted to talk about it much. She was more interested in the present. Not the past. Always has been.’

He shifts in his seat. ‘You know, people always say she’s difficult, she’s crazy – wel , I think they liked the idea that she was. It was easier for them to explain al these other things that didn’t add up about that family. You know. The father never around, not very interested. The mother this great beauty, hugely talented but hasn’t painted for years, the fact that the house used to be this mecca for glamorous young things and not any more, the death of the younger daughter, the atmosphere that something’s just not quite right – I think it was easier for people to look at Miranda and gossip than look any further. Does that make sense?’

That family. He talks about them as if they’re nothing to do with him, or me, as if they’re not my family any more.

‘Anyway . . . it was always very casual. We’d meet at parties, or we’d go out for some pasta when I was in town, catch up, and then she’d come back to my shambolic bachelor pad in Bloomsbury . . .’ He drops his hands into his lap. ‘She was rather wonderful about it.’ He smiles. ‘Then I’d go back to the States, or she’d find some other boyfriend . . . it was never official with us. Only ever a few times a year. There were always others buzzing around, you know?’

‘I know,’ I say, feeling disloyal, but unable to deny it. ‘So you didn’t think it was weird, when you knew she was pregnant?’

‘That’s just it,’ Guy says emphatical y. ‘I never knew she was. I’ve thought it al through, these last few weeks. You see, I came back in ‘77. I was reporting on the Queen’s Jubilee for an American newspaper. Your mother and I saw each other a couple of times that summer. Once or twice, if that, nothing much. We met . . .’ He trails off. ‘Yes. We met at the French House. In Soho. The anniversary of Cecily’s death, 6th August. I remember it real y wel . I was going to Ulster the next day, to report on the Queen’s visit. It was going to be rather hairy, security everywhere. I was supposed to have an early night, but . . . we stayed up drinking, and talking . . . Eventual y we went back to her place . . . I remember . . .’

He glances at me and fal s silent. ‘What?’ I say. ‘Never mind,’ he says gently, and I realise there are some things I don’t want or need to know, and it occurs to me that perhaps I was conceived that night, the anniversary of Cecily’s death.

‘Anyway, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, us meeting up like that. We weren’t in touch otherwise. And then I didn’t see her . . . didn’t see any of them, for another two years.’

‘Real y?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘No idea. I think Louisa mentioned that Miranda had had a baby, but by then I was married, we were having children . . .’

‘What happened to the girl in the States?’

‘I saw sense,’ he says. ‘I married her. That was Hannah.’

‘Your wife?’

He smiles sadly. He has a melancholy smile, my father. ‘Yes. And I’m an idiot. We both were. It just took us a while to realise it. But al those wasted years, that’s what makes me angry.’ He nods seriously, as if remembering something. ‘But we realised in the end. We were married in 1980, and our first daughter was born a year later, and our second in ‘86.’ He says slowly, ‘Hannah died five years ago. Five years ago in April.’

I squeeze his hand gently. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say softly. ‘Thank you.’ Guy clears his throat. ‘What are your daughters cal ed?’ I ask, trying to catch his eye.

‘My daughters.’ His voice is warm. ‘My other daughters, you mean? Hah. Roseanna and Cecily.’

‘Cecily?’

He smiles. ‘You just met her.’

I think of the lovely young woman at the door. ‘That’s my half-sister.’

Guy leans forward. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘She looks like Hannah.’ I have very vague memories of Hannah, who had beautiful long red hair before she lost it al , and who was American and funny and very kind. Guy nods.

‘She does.’ He looks pleased. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen them before but you’l have to meet them, properly. They know about you. Cecily might not have known that was you at the door but she probably did. They know you exist. I told them last week. They’re very excited.’

‘Real y?’ I can’t imagine it, having been an only child my whole life. Siblings are a completely strange entity to me, I have no idea what it’s like, having sisters. Being part of a family. ‘They’re excited? Do they want to meet me?’

‘Al in good time,’ Guy says, non-committal y, and I know he’s being diplomatic.

He stands up again. I look at my watch. It’s ten o’clock. The house is very stil , there’s no noise from the street either.

‘Do you want some toast or something?’ Guy says from the sink. ‘I’ve been a shockingly neglectful host.’

I shake my head, overwhelmed al of a sudden. I don’t know what to say and I am very tired. ‘I’m fine.’

Guy turns and looks at me. He walks over again, and crouches down, slowly – he’s not a young man. He puts his finger under my chin.

‘Did you know, I held you when you were about a year old?’ he says. ‘I rocked you to sleep.’

‘No, real y?’ I look down at him, on the floor. ‘Yes,’ he says. He pats my cheek. ‘It was Arvind’s sixtieth birthday. A lunch, in a big old Italian restaurant near Redcliffe Square, where they stil had their flat, do you remember the flat?’

‘Very vaguely.’

‘Wel , they invited me. Very kind. I admire your grand-father’s work, I always have. So I went, I think I thought it was time to put al of the past with the Kapoors behind me. I was newly married, I was very happy. I went with Frank and Louisa, and yes – there was Miranda, with this little girl. It was the summer of ’79, I think. You were very smal – I wasn’t sure how old you were.’

‘I’d have been about fifteen months,’ I say. ‘What did you do?’

‘Wel , your mother gave you to me to hold,’ he says. ‘You were fal ing asleep, so she chucked you onto my lap and said, “There, sit with Uncle Guy for a while.” And you gave me this big gummy smile and then you closed your eyes and fel asleep.’ There are tears in his eyes. ‘You had very fine black hair, sticking up everywhere. You were quite enchanting.’

And he bows his head, and his shoulders heave, and he says very quietly, ‘I am so sorry, Natasha. So very sorry.’

‘What are you sorry for?’ I ask quietly. ‘For not realising . . . for being so blind. And for everything else . . . for Cecily, you know . . . There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t miss her, wish we could have had one more day together. You know, reading that diary – remembering it al again, these things I’d forgotten, how wonderful she was. And now you – you’re here, standing here—’ His voice breaks.

I pul him up so we are both standing, and he puts his arms round me and hugs me, and I hug him back, as tightly as I can. Not because now I’ve found my father, and everything’s al right. More because I don’t know if we can have a close relationship, if there’s too much history already, and that is so sad, but also because he is a sweet, kind man, and I wish he were happier. He is not, and I wish there was something I could do about it.

‘And what about you?’ he says, releasing me from his embrace and stepping back. He takes a huge white handkerchief out of his pocket and blows his nose.

‘What about me?’ I say. ‘Your friends – your life, your jewel ery. I don’t real y know anything about it, though I’ve found out as much as I can.

And,’ he says, drawing himself up with some pride, ‘I dropped by your studio the other day, I remembered you saying it was just at the bottom of Brick Lane. They told me where I could buy some of your pieces, they were ever so helpful.’

‘Real y?’ I say, intrigued. ‘Who was it?’

‘A very sweet girl,’ Guy says. ‘Terribly pretty, blonde hair.’

‘Oh,’ I say grimly. ‘Jamie.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘She was with a chap, hanging round at the desk. A photographer. He said he knew you too. They al seemed very nice.’

‘That’s Ben,’ I say. ‘He’s a . . . yeah, he’s a friend of mine.’ I am real y touched at Guy’s making the effort. Then I think, How I wish I could talk to Ben about it al , and then I realise that’s my fault. I need to stop being stupid about him, and knock this strange coolness between us on the head.

We were friends long before we kissed, and we can be friends again. It was weeks ago. Three weeks ago exactly, in fact. He’s been away a lot, with two big projects on, but I can’t help feeling he’s avoiding me too. I wil cal him tonight, see if he wants to come for a drink with me and Jay.

‘Anyway, they directed me to a shop on Columbia Road,’ says Guy. ‘I bought two necklaces there for the girls.’ He points at Cecily’s ring, as ever on its chain round my neck. ‘They reminded me of this.’ He smiles. ‘Lovely.’

‘I’m glad you like them,’ I say, a glow of pleasure washing over me.

‘They’re beautiful, but it’s more than that,’ Guy says earnestly. ‘It feels a little like it’s come in a circle, in some way.’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to sound mystical, I’m not real y into any of that caper. But – Cecily had that ring the day she died. I remember it, I remember when Frances started wearing it, after she’d gone. And your mother’s right, they al are. You do look like her.’ He smiles. ‘She was beautiful, but you are even more so.’

‘Oh, real y, come off it,’ I say, embarrassed. ‘And the way you’ve grown up, so creative, so wonderful – making things with your hands, those necklaces inspired by Cecily, and now your own half-sisters are wearing them. And they love them.’ He squeezes his hands, he looks so pleased and I can’t help smiling. ‘Your grandmother was very proud of you.’

‘I’m not sure I want her to be proud of me,’ I say. ‘I don’t real y know who she was, any more. I don’t know how she could have done al that.’

Guy says, ‘No. That’s not fair, Natasha. I can see why, you’re right. But she suffered every day for it. She gave up the one thing that made her happy, her painting. That was her penance, her punishment.’ He puts his hands in his pockets. ‘She was like Icarus, you know. She thought she could get away with what she was doing, and she flew too close to the sun. She didn’t kil Cecily, you know.’

‘No, but she was happy enough to let everyone think Mum did, in some way,’ I say coldly. ‘She didn’t care about her other daughter, about screwing her life up, about carrying on screwing it up. Not at al .’

‘You’re right,’ he says, bowing his head. ‘You’re right. But stil – I don’t think she was evil.’ He stops. ‘Just – she was a great artist. That’s what they’re like, I suppose. And she saw in you something special. I think, if it’s any consolation, you gave her real pleasure, something to live for. And I think she knew I was your father.’

‘Real y?’ I say.

He nods. ‘Oh, I think it now. Didn’t before. But the way she organised this whole foundation, the fact that you, your mother and I were on the committee – I’m sure she was trying to make amends, as soon as she died. So that when she’d gone we’d be thrown together, start afresh, as it were.’ Guy nods. ‘Start afresh, yes. Al three of us, in fact.’ He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘She was proud of you. And I am too. And so is your mother.’

‘Hah,’ I say. ‘Wel .’

‘She is,’ Guy persists. ‘She’s just never been able to say it. Give her time.’

There’s another pause. ‘Look, Guy,’ I say. ‘I am going to go now – just want to be on my own for a bit. Think this al through.’ I squeeze his hand.

‘Are you around this weekend? Maybe we could have a coffee?’

‘Sure, either’s good for me,’ he says. He holds my hand. ‘I’d love to meet Oli too, if that’s OK?’ He reads my face and says, ‘Oh. Oh, no, Natasha. I’m sorry. Have I put my foot in it?’

‘No, not at al .’ I am impressed by his intuition, and then I think, Wel , he is my father, I’ve got half his genes, and my mind is blown again by how strange this is, and yet how total y, almost unremarkably right it feels. I swing his hand in mine. ‘It’s over with me and Oli, it real y is this time.’ His face fal s. ‘But honestly, it’s for the best. I think I was looking for something, a family of my own, and it was a mistake.’

‘You don’t need to look any more,’ Guy says. ‘You’ve got me.’ He puts his arm on my shoulder. ‘I’m your family, Natasha. And soon Roseanna and Cecily wil be too. We can take it slowly, you don’t have to see me at al if you want. But from this moment on, for the rest of your life, that’s a fact. I’m your family. OK?’

‘OK,’ I say. He nods firmly. ‘Shake on it? Wil you trust me?’

I give him my hand again and we shake hands, smiling at each other in the sunny kitchen.

Epilogue

‘Hey, someone’s looking for you,’ Sara, the girl at the next stal , says to me when I come back from a coffee run. ‘Said he’d come back.’

I am vaguely apprehensive today, and I don’t know why. Something at the back of my mind is worrying me, which normal y means I’ve been spending too much time on my own and I need to go down the corridor of the studio and find Lily or even Les, the leader of the writers’ col ective, if I’m feeling real y desperate. Ben has been away in Turkey for ages for work, doing an upscale holiday brochure, so I can’t even cal on him. I keep going to knock on his door, or thinking of something funny to tel him, and he’s never there. I text him, but he hardly ever replies. I miss him, I realise that now. He’s always been there, and I thought it was great to have someone, anyone, next door. Now I know it was the fact that it was him next door that was great. I wish he’d come today. I’m sel ing some new pieces on the stal , and I’ve emailed a whole bunch of people, friends, contacts, asking them to drop by. It’s my new range. Perhaps that’s why I’m nervous.

I sit back on my stool by the stal , stroking the dul pink velvet cushions I have put the new bracelets I’ve made on.

They are silver bangles each with a single charm, a fat enamel ed star with an initial, and the pre-orders are already fantastic. I’ve taken Maya on part-time, I’m paying her a wage, and I’m actual y going in to meet someone from Liberty next week. I can hardly believe it.

Down here on Brick Lane, my stal inside at the Sunday Upmarket is busier than ever these days, since I sorted myself out, since spring came, and since I got Cecily’s ring to inspire me. It turns out that Granny left me and Jay money in her wil , £20,000 each, to be exact, and I need to spend it wisely. I can pay Oli everything back that I owed him, and clear my debts. I’ve bought some more stock, and I’ve spent some money tarting up the stal , having some business cards printed.

It’s over two months since I turned up on Guy’s doorstep. Three months since I kissed Ben. Nearly four months since Granny died and Oli moved out. It is starting to feel as if at some point these things might one day be part of the past, an archaeological layer of my life I can look back on. But of course the roots are deeper than that. I was with Oli for five years, and though he and Chloe aren’t top of my dinner party list at the moment, I can see a time when we wil meet, at Jason’s birthday drinks, for example, and it’l be fine. More than fine. I like him. I always did. We just shouldn’t have been married. It’s not an escape from the real problems in your life. It doesn’t wipe the slate clean.

I sip my coffee, looking round the sunny room, swinging my legs.

‘Hey,’ a voice says. ‘You’re here.’

I look up. ‘Ben,’ I say. I leap up and smile at him. ‘You’re back!’

It seems like ages since I saw him. It’s nearly a month, but it seems longer. His hair has grown back a little, not back to where it was when he was shaggy and comfortable-looking, like an old jumper, but it’s not quite as skul -grazing as it was.

He is tanned and lean, and there are red apples on his cheeks. His teeth are very white – I’ve always liked that about him.

Ah, it’s good to see him, after so long. We’ve been funny with each other these past few months, and I wish we hadn’t. And now he’s here, and it’s lovely. He’s smiling widely and holding out his arms. I walk towards him and he hugs me.

‘It’s great to see you, Nat,’ he says. I look up and smile, and realise I am staring right at Jamie, who has been standing behind him. I step back.

‘Hey, Jamie,’ I say. ‘It’s great to see you too. Two of you, too. Both of you! Hah!’ I finish lamely, sounding insane. ‘Come on over! Check out my

. . . stuff.’ I trail off, and they look at me politely.

Over at the next stal , Sara shakes her head at me, and then her attention is diverted. ‘Natasha?’ I hear her say. ‘She’s right here.’

‘Hel o, darling,’ says a low voice in my ear. ‘Isn’t this wonderful?’

‘Mum?’ I turn in surprise. ‘Hi – I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘You invited me, didn’t you?’ She leans forward and kisses me, and I smel her familiar scent, sandalwood and something spicy. My mother is channel ing her favourite era today, in a beautiful cerise and turquoise silk maxi-dress and cardigan, and gold sandals. She looks younger than I do.

I run my hands through my hair, awkwardly.

‘Mum, you know Ben and –’ I begin, but she interrupts. ‘Ben! Hel o, darling!’ she says, throwing her arms round him, and I cannot help but rol my eyes at Jamie, who is standing off to the side, slightly self-conscious. I beckon her forward, and she shakes her head, smiling.

‘How are you?’ my mother is asking Ben. ‘I’m wel , how are you? You look amazing, Miranda.’

At this point my mother actual y nudges him. I expect her to say, ‘Oh, get away!’ and lightly tap his hand. ‘I can’t stay long,’ she says, smiling broadly. ‘Jean-Luc’s taking me to lunch! At Galvin!’

‘Jean-Luc?’

‘Oh, you remember, darling, he’s a special friend of mine. Poor chap’s had a terrible time, but he’s left his wife for good now, and it’s going marvel ously.’

I look at her and she does seem to be glowing, but perhaps that’s just the bronzer and the new diamond earrings she appears to be sporting.

Whatever it is, the coat of armour is firmly back on my mother, for better or worse. ‘Where is he?’ I ask.

‘Oh,’ she says, with devastating candour. ‘He hates this kind of thing. He’s in a cheese shop somewhere.’

‘Charming,’ I hear Ben murmur, and I want to laugh, and I realise laughing is the only way to deal with it, because it real y is kind of funny.

My mother leans forward. ‘These are pretty,’ she says, her gaze sliding over my pieces. She strokes one of the necklaces with two fingers.

‘Cecily’s ring, darling, it looks beautiful.’ She looks up. ‘These must be sel ing wel , hm?’

‘I’ve sold a hundred and fifty so far.’

‘Gosh.’ She nods. ‘And these are nice,’ she says, picking up the bangles. I forget how good she was at her job, with her eye for beautiful things and a sense of business that came from God knows where, and I think again about al the things she could have been if she hadn’t been screwed up – or screwed herself up. She slips a bangle onto her slim wrist. The blue enamel glints in the sunny hal . ‘I love it,’ she says. ‘I’l take one.’ She pauses. ‘And the necklace too.’

As I reach for some tissue paper to wrap them, Jamie taps me on the arm. ‘I just wanted to say hi,’ she says. Her blonde hair glows in the bright sun.

‘Hi,’ I say, slightly confused, and I look around for Ben. ‘I’m going, I mean, sorry. It al looks gorgeous, Natasha, I real y love your stuff. I’m going to come by the studio tomorrow if that’s OK and buy some things for my sisters.’

‘Sure—’ I am pleased but a little bewildered. ‘Ben, I’l see you tomorrow then too?’

Ben and Jamie look at each other. ‘Bye then,’ Jamie says, and she scurries off, her head bowed.

Ben stares at me. ‘Nat, what—’

Someone taps my arm. ‘Oh. Look who’s here.’

The actual reality of sending out an email to al my friends and family becomes apparent as I stop hunting for tissue paper and look up to see Guy, Roseanna and Cecily, walking slowly towards the stal . They look apprehensive, as wel they might.

My mother’s face gives nothing away. I clutch Ben’s hand, not meaning to, and then release it instantly.

‘Hel o, Miranda,’ Guy says, and he kisses her on the cheek and sinks his hands into the pockets of his baggy cords. She kisses him back.

‘Hi,’ she says.

I put the necklaces down and step forward. ‘Hi, there,’ I say. We’ve met quite a few times, but Roseanna and Cecily are stil quite awkward with me, and I with them. We raise our hands to each other. They are both holding paper cups of coffee, and I feel a pang of tenderness towards them, with their skinny jeans and flats, long hair with jewel ed clips, their stripy tops like a summer uniform. I don’t know yet if they’re anything like me. I find them fascinating.

My mother stares at them and points a finger at Cecily. ‘I recognise that necklace,’ and she smiles. ‘I’m just buying one too. So you’re Guy’s daughters,’ she says.

‘Yes,’ Roseanna, the elder, replies. She gives a shy half-grin.

Then Mum turns to me. ‘You’re Guy’s daughter too, I suppose,’ she says, and she smiles, as though it’s a little social joke, and we al smile, and Guy and I look at each other.

Ben steps forward. ‘I’l leave you to it.’

‘Oh don’t –’ I begin. ‘Hey, I should leave you guys alone. I’m meeting Jay for a drink at the Pride of Spitalfields,’ he says. ‘We’re – yeah, I’l see you later, Nat.’ He pats my back and he is gone before I can say anything.

So we are left, my mother, my father, my two sisters, standing around my creaking old stal , as people mil around us, and it looks total y normal, except it is anything but normal.

The two girls look down at the ground, and Mum and Guy smile at each other awkwardly.

‘How’s the shop?’ Mum asks. ‘Good, good,’ Guy replies. ‘The trip to Morocco sounds wonderful, are you off anywhere else?’

‘Oh, Jean-Luc and I might be going to La Rochel e later in the summer,’ Mum says carelessly. ‘He has a house there.’ She waves her hand expressively to indicate something, whether Jean-Luc’s presence nearby or the existence of La Rochel e, I’m not sure. ‘How – how about you?’

She bites a nail then, and I see it. She’s nervous. She is nervous.

‘Hannah’s sister has a place on Martha’s Vineyard,’ Guy says. ‘We’ve always gone there for a week in the summer. It’s beautiful there.’

‘Of course,’ Mum says. ‘How lovely.’ She looks at the girls. ‘You’l go too, um – I’m sorry, I don’t know your names. How awful.’

‘I’m Roseanna,’ says Roseanna. ‘And this is Cecily.’

My mother is completely stil , a half-smile on her face, as if she’s been turned to stone. Then she nods, and shakes their hands. ‘Those are lovely names,’ she says. ‘My sister was cal ed Cecily.’

‘I know.’ Cecily speaks for the first time. ‘Daddy used to tel me you were the most exciting girls he’d ever met. He’s always talked about you two. We’ve got a photo of both of you in the sitting room.’

Mum looks completely at a loss. ‘Both of us?’ She sounds unsure.

‘Yes,’ Guy says. ‘Of course both of you. I took it, that summer.’

‘That’s – that’s lovely,’ she says. ‘Wel ,’ Guy says after a moment’s pause. ‘We should be off. Just popped by to say hel o real y, and to check you’re stil on for supper tonight, Natasha?’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Jay would like to come, if he’s stil welcome.’

‘Of course,’ Guy says. Roseanna blushes. I frown. Jay has a thing for my half-sister. I am not at al keen on this idea.

They make their goodbyes and leave. Guy says, as he kisses Mum again, ‘It was great to see you. I’l see you soon, I’m sure.’

He holds her hand briefly and then they are gone. Watching them go, I turn to my mother, and I see she is watching them too, and her eyes are shining with unshed tears.

‘Mum—?’ I begin, not sure what to say. ‘Yes?’ She drums her fingers on the stal . ‘What did he mean, see you soon?’

‘He doesn’t mean anything. That’s Guy al over. Very sweet, but constitutional y incapable of making up his mind about anything. Not the boy he was al those years ago, that’s for sure.’ Her eyes fol ow him as he leaves.

I know she’l leave in a moment, and be off again, and so I take my chance once more. ‘Were you in love with him?’ I ask. ‘Is that it?’

Mum puts her bag over her shoulder and faces me. ‘Yes,’ she says. She nods.

I hadn’t expected her to be so blunt. After al these years of half-truths and secrets. My permanently evasive, slippery mother. ‘Right,’ I say, shocked. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Of course you didn’t. Wel , I was. Not at first, but when we met again – yes. I spent most of the seventies in love with him, waiting for him to come back after another breakup with Hannah, desperately hoping he’d see how fantastic everyone else thought I was. I’d get friends to throw amazing parties in crumbling mansions just so I could show off and he’d pick me. Yes. And he always ran away again. I couldn’t keep him.’ She says it perfectly matter-of-factly. ‘I knew I was losing him, I knew he wasn’t real y interested, I mean he was dazzled, but he didn’t love me the way I think you have to love someone to be with them. I knew he’d go back to the States, patch it up with that bloody American girl again.’

Then she holds out her hand for the necklace and bracelet, and I put them on her palm, wrapped in their paper sachet. ‘Oh, it’s al ancient history now, darling.’ Her green eyes are snapping, phosphorescent in the light, and I know she’s lying. ‘But you have to believe this, this one thing.

When I found out I was pregnant with his baby, it was the happiest day of my life. That’s who you are, darling. Half of each of us.’

I nod. ‘He’s lovely.’

She swal ows and shakes her head, as if she disagrees, but with a catch in her voice she says, ‘He is a lovely man. I’l love him. Always.

Anyway,’ she says. ‘Off I go to find Jean-Luc.’

‘Mum –!’ I say, light dawning. ‘But that’s sil y, can’t you . . . he’s very lonely. I know he’d love to find someone again. Why not you?’

Mum takes the necklace out of the bag and puts it round her neck, adjusting it a little so it sits right, on the cerise and blue silk of her dress, the gold chain settling on her smooth, caramel-coloured skin. ‘Darling, I used to think that, you know. But it’s too late for us. Far, far too late. Like I say, too much history. My whole life’s been about history. It’s nice to start again with someone else, that’s the sad truth. But I’l never stop loving him.’ She opens her eyes wide. ‘He’s your father, apart from anything else.’ And then she says, ‘That’s the only advice I’l ever give you. Don’t leave it too late.

Don’t wish you’d done something about it in ten years’ time. Do something about it now.’

‘Now?’

‘Now,’ she says firmly. ‘I real y am going. Goodbye. I’m very proud of you.’

Without a kiss, without any other farewel , she walks off. I stare, my mouth open, and sit back wearily on the stool, as if I’ve been awake for a week. I can see her leave, the bright colours of her dress like a peacock strutting through the sun.

‘She’s lovely, is that your mum?’ Sara says from the stal next to me, where she’s been watching everything, curiously. ‘You’ve got a big enough family, haven’t you?’ she laughs. I stare at her, and then I laugh too.

‘I suppose I have. How about you?’

‘Massive,’ Sara sighs. ‘But I don’t tel them where my stal is, that’s for sure. First time I had it? I had my two sisters come and tel me I was putting al the stuff in the wrong place. Nearly kil ed them, I did. That’s families for you, eh?’

I laugh shortly. ‘You’re tel ing me.’ I stand up. ‘Saz, can you do me a favour, can you mind the stal for five minutes?’

She nods. ‘OK, but you do me when you’re back.’

‘Of course.’ I wave to her, setting off at a run. ‘I have to go somewhere.’

I run out of the hal and downstairs past the stal holders, out into Brick Lane, bobbing and weaving my way through the crowds of people moving slowly down the road laden down with plants, bric-a-brac, drinks. It is hot, nearly midday. I dart around them, dodge down the back of people’s stal s, inhaling the smel of burritos, coffee, weed, spices and pol ution that is in the heart of the city, a world, a lifetime away from Cornwal . As I run past Princelet Street I glance to my right at my old home, and I nearly stumble across an old Bengali man.

I turn into Heneage Street, only two blocks along. I am out of breath with ducking and diving and I stop to col ect myself. There is the Pride of Spitalfields, tucked neatly away, with a knot of drinkers standing outside in the sun. One of them looks up at me, squinting.

‘Nat?’ It’s Jay. ‘Did you finish early?’

I shake my head. ‘Can you give me a minute?’ I say to him, stil panting.

His companion is standing with his back to me. It is Ben. He turns to look at me. ‘Give her a minute,’ he says. ‘She’s very unfit.’

‘No. You, Jay,’ I say in short bursts. ‘Give me a minute. I mean. Go away.’

I gesture for him to buzz off.

Jay looks at me like I’m mad. ‘I’l get us another pint,’ he says. ‘What do you want?’

‘She’l have a vodka, lime and soda,’ Ben says immediately. ‘And some water, by the looks of her.’

I nod grateful y at him, and Jay disappears into the dark pub.

‘Hey, Nat,’ Ben says, his voice friendly but a little guarded. ‘It’s nice to see you again. Where’s your mum gone?’

‘Lunch with boyfriend,’ I say. I stand up straight, final y having got my breath back. ‘She said something to me. I thought I should come and say it to you. Because—’ I breathe in, and then out. ‘Because it’s important.’

‘Right,’ Ben says. He moves a little way away from the drinkers, so we are standing in the shadow of the houses. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean – oh, wel . Here goes.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Look. I know you’re seeing Jamie. I saw you two together, one night.’

‘Hold on.’ Ben holds up his hand. ‘We’re not together.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘No, we’re not. I snogged her, a couple of months ago, we were both a bit drunk. You saw us?’ He blinks.

I feel like a stalker. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I came back to the studio and you two were there. In the dark . . .’

‘Les had that reading in the basement, do you remember? You couldn’t go. Jamie and I went, it was . . .’ He shudders. ‘It was pretty hard work.

Al about a boy growing up with no fingers in Chatham and joining a gang. Jamie let me drink out of her hipflask.’

Damn Jamie with her cool hipflask-toting ways, I think. ‘There were drinks afterwards . . .’ He is staring at me. ‘We’re not together, Nat. You of al people should know that.’

‘But you were there today! Together!’

‘No, we bloody weren’t!’ His voice is rising in exasperation. ‘Is this why you were so weird, before I went away, the last few weeks? Man!’ He looks furious. ‘Listen. I arrive, I look round, she’s arrived! It’s not out of the realms of comprehension we’d al bump into each other at midday at an event to which you specifical y asked us to arrive at midday, is it?’

‘Fine, fine, I get it.’ I clear my throat. ‘Oh. OK. So – you’re not with her?’

‘Believe me, it’s at times like these that I wish I was,’ Ben says slowly. ‘But no, I’m not.’

‘Oh,’ I say again. ‘What did you want to ask me?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ I wipe my hand along my forehead. ‘Look – I’d better go back to the stal . . .’

He catches my hand in his. He’s smiling. ‘Nat, I’m joking. I don’t want to be with Jamie. I mean, she’s real y sweet, but we’re not at al right for each other. She doesn’t like Morecambe and Wise, for starters. Now, again please. What did you want to ask me?’

I take a deep breath. I’m feeling completely light-headed, with the running, the sunshine, the events of the last hour.

‘Wel ,’ I say. ‘Mum said I should go for it. So I real y wil now. Ben – I was wondering. Do you want to go out for a drink some time?’

His expression freezes. I watch him, my heart thumping. ‘Are you serious?’ he says. ‘Are you real y, real y asking me out?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Why, don’t you—’

He turns his back on me, and my heart sinks, but he’s putting his pint on the ground. ‘Come here,’ he says, drawing me into his arms. He kisses my hair, and then he bends his head and I raise mine to his, and we kiss.

‘Yes,’ he says, after a moment. ‘I’d love to go out for a drink some time. When? Tonight?’

I stroke his cheek, his lovely lips, trace around the edge of his gorgeous, kind eyes. ‘I’ve got to have dinner with my new dad and half-sisters and watch while Jay tries to crack on to them,’ I say. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘No,’ Ben says, kissing me again. ‘It’s very simple. So I’l see you tomorrow.’

‘Great,’ I say, a sil y smile on my face. I can’t stop smiling. ‘And the day after that?’

‘And then maybe the day after that.’ Ben steps away and looks serious for a moment, then he smiles again. ‘I don’t believe this, you know. I’ve been mad about you for such a long time. But I didn’t know how to help you. I thought you’d never sort it out, get out of the life you were in.’

I can feel his muscles under his shirt as he moves towards me and hugs me again. I think of Cecily’s diary, where it is now, lying at the bottom of the sea, or perhaps washed up on another shore. ‘Cecily helped me,’ I say. ‘It’s al because of her.’

The door to the pub swings open again and Jay emerges, carrying a tray of drinks. He looks at us without any surprise, holding on to each other as if we’ve just found one another, and then gives us a smal , pleased grin.

Ben and I kiss again, and I look up at the sky, opening out, blue and endless, above the narrow old streets, where Mum is having her smart lunch, where Guy and his daughters are making their way back to the tal white house in the Angel, where we are al , al of us, just trying to be part of one big happy family, whatever on earth that is, trying and often failing, and sometimes succeeding. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper, my face warmed by the sunshine. ‘Thank you.’

Acknowledgements

For jewel ery and business advice, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Sarah Lawrence of the fabulous www.girlgang.co.uk : do check it out. For East London ways a big shoutout to Maura Brickel for her local tours and amaze times. Also thanks to the East London ladies, Cat Cobain, Leah Woodburn and Claire Baldwin, and Thomas Wilson and Pamela Casey, as ever, for the same and much more. Big thanks to Rebecca Fol and for seeing me through the dark times, Anita Ahuja for help with Indian names, Nicole Vanderbilt and Maria Rodriguez for tel ing me to write it so very long ago (‘Listen, chica . . .’), al at Curtis Brown (especial y Liz Iveson and Carol Jackson) and of course Jonathan Lloyd (with special thanks to Marion).

Particular thanks to my parents, Phil and Linda, for their memories, support and advice.

As ever, massive thanks to everyone at HarperCol ins, in particular Lynne Drew for her editorial guidance throughout.

A special shoutout to the members of Sleazy Velvet and a big HIYA to my nephew Jake.

Final y, my biggest thanks to Chris, for making me bread and for making me so happy.

Bibliography

There were various books I read during the writing of this one which were of great help and interest and for that reason I list them below, though I should of course make it clear that any mistakes are of course my own:

The Denning Report: John Profumo & Christine Keeler (Uncovered Editions, 1999) The Pendulum Years: Britain in the Sixties Bernard Levin

(Jonathan Cape, 1970)

That Was Satire That Was: Beyond the Fringe, The Establishment Club, Private Eye and That Was The Week That Was Humphrey Carpenter (Victor Gol ancz, 2000)

Bringing the House Down David Profumo (John Murray, 2006) The Duleep Singhs: The Photograph Album of Queen Victoria’s Maharajah Peter Bance (Sutton Publishing, 2004)

The Maharajah’s Box Christy Campbel (HarperCol ins, 2000) Daphne Justine Picardie (Bloomsbury, 2008) Soho Night & Day Frank Norman & Jeffrey Bernard (Secker &

Warburg, 1966)

Cornwall: A Shell Guide John Betjeman (Faber, 1964)

Liberty & Co. in the Fifties and Sixties Anna Buruma (ACC Editions, 2008) The 1940s Home Paul Evans (Shire Library, 2009)

The 1950s Home Sophie Leighton (Shire Library, 2009)

By the same author:

Going Home

A Hopeless Romantic

The Love of Her Life

I Remember You

Harriet Evans asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work Extract from Rebecca reproduced with permission of Curtis Brown Group Ltd, London on behalf of the Estate of Daphne du Maurier Copyright © Daphne du Maurier 1938

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-00-735022-3

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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