‘I thought you loved me.’
‘I do love you. But I don’t want to be your wife.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Because it’s – well, it’s a label. Something close to absurd.’
‘How very charming you are,’ he said and walked out of the room, the house, and she didn’t hear from him for days.
She could see why he was so hurt, so angry, but she had felt it very strongly, had had to explain. Being Theo’s wife seemed to her a great deal less meaningful, less dignified than being his mistress. It seemed to her a public acceptance of submission, of selling out. When finally he took her phone call, agreed to listen, she said, ‘Theo, I love you, I love you so much. I’d love to live with you. Really I would. But – shit, Theo, you’ve degraded marriage, it doesn’t mean anything. Not in your life. I want to be your equal, not your wife,’
‘Well, thanks for nothing,’ he said and rang off.
Slowly, painfully, they came together again, but the rows increased. Wounded by her reaction he became obsessed with the idea of marriage; he asked her again and again, again and again she refused. She offered to live with him, but he was wounded now, savagely hurt. ‘If marriage is such an awful prospect then I must be too,’ he said, and try as she would, she couldn’t convince or persuade him otherwise. And in the end their relationship – still new, after all, fragile, vulnerable – could not sustain the pain, and in a wretchedness of rage and misery they parted, more afraid of ridicule and outrage than of separation and grief.
‘It is absurd, dreadful,’ said Harriet, tears streaming down her face, her body drained, dry with hurt as they finally agreed to part, and ‘That’s what you said when I first told you I loved you,’ said Theo, his own face ravaged with pain, and ‘I know, I know,’ she said, ‘but it can’t, it won’t work, will it?’ and ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I don’t think it will.’
It was a long time before Harriet began to heal, and the agony when she heard Theo was going to marry Sasha was so frightful she seriously doubted if she could stand it; she was unable to sleep without pills for six months, and to contemplate so much as speaking to him for twelve. Indeed their first meeting after his wedding upset her so much she was physically sick. She still found herself unable to meet his eyes, or to be next to him. ‘I actually now know,’ she said to Tilly, who was the only person she had ever confided in about the whole wretched affair, ‘how people can commit murder. I would gladly kill first him and then her, given the opportunity.’
Tilly remarked with her usual clear-sightedness that from what Harriet had told her, the break-up had been as much at her instigation as Theo’s. ‘I know, I know,’ wailed Harriet, ‘but at least I haven’t married some bimbo less than a year later.’
‘Maybe he’s more desperate than you are,’ said Tilly. ‘And what’s the male for bimbo?’
‘Himbo?’ said Harriet, and first shrieked with hysterical laughter and then burst into tears. But just the same Tilly’s words had been oddly comforting.
She decided to go and find her father and Susie, with the tea; they’d seemed to want it so much and they couldn’t be far away. She put two of the cups on a tray and went out of the back door, across the yard and into the garden, but they were not on the lawn or in the rose garden, or by the tennis court; maybe then by the bridge. Cressida was not the only person who liked to be by the bridge. She pushed open the little gate that led into the field; her thoughts (occupied with her problems, with her business, with Theo, with Cressida) distracting her so thoroughly that she had almost forgotten where she was going when she reached the bridge. And she saw then, sitting on the seat, in a position that spoke somehow most clearly of a long intimacy, Susie and her father, Susie’s head on his shoulder, his arm around her, his hand in hers.
It was unmistakable, that pose; it was not one of friendship (despite its lack of passion), nor was he comforting her over the events of the day. These were two people as close, as familiar as if they had been married a long time, the image made the more forceful because her parents never sat like that, nor had she ever seen Susie and Alistair do more than exchange the briefest touch. And as she stood there, staring at them, they sensed her presence and turned round, simultaneously, and saw her, and on Susie’s face at least there was some amusement mixed with her dismay, and she seemed to hear Theo’s voice (and she could remember the precise words and his tone too) in the restaurant that first night. ‘Your father,’ he’d said, ‘is much more of a pragmatist than you might think,’ and she heard Susie’s voice too, much more recently – ‘I’m very good at keeping secrets’ – and in a blinding, white-hot revelation she understood, saw down the years the pleasure, the happiness, the closeness between them, and understood too in the same moment the strange relationship between her parents, her father’s patience, kindness, courtesy, her mother’s coolness, distancing, lack of response, saw it for what it was, part of a complex, well-negotiated deal, and while she wondered exactly, precisely how she felt about it, her father spoke.
‘Harriet,’ he said, ‘Harriet, I think we should – talk.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t think we should, I really haven’t got time. I – brought you some tea. It’s a bit strong, and a bit cold now. I’m sorry.’ And she set the tray down on the grass and turned and walked very swiftly towards the house, wondering why it should have disturbed her so much, when she was grown-up, quite grown-up, sophisticated, experienced, that her father had a mistress (even if she was supposed to be a great family friend) and realized it was because, quite simply, all the security, the absolute knowledge of her childhood that her parents loved one another, had been faithful to one another, was lost to her, wiped out in a single moment, and that Theo, whom she’d loved so much, been so close to, had clearly known all along and had not told her.
She found it hard to see as she walked back into the kitchen; it seemed somehow dim. Maybe it was getting dark, she thought irrelevantly, looking at her watch, but that was blurred too, and she realized she was crying. Furious, she brushed the tears away, picked up the cup of tea she had made and sat down at the table, sipping at it, wondering what she should do. And then she saw that there was a letter on the table, propped against the toast rack, a white envelope with what was – couldn’t be, couldn’t possibly be, but yes it was, Cressida’s rather neat writing on it. ‘The Forrests’ it said, ‘Urgent.’
Harriet reached out and picked it up, cautiously, as if it might be hot, might burn her, and sat staring at it, turning it over without opening it. Then she got up and walked over to the door, called gently into the hall, ‘Cress? Are you there?’
There was no answer, as she had expected, of course, nothing, so she went back to the table, sat down and with immense difficulty opened the envelope and took out the sheet of paper inside.
‘Mummy, Daddy and Harriet’ (it said), ‘I’m very sorry about today. Please believe me. I seemed to have no choice. I’m fine, and not in any danger. I’ll phone you when I can. Much love, Cressida.’
Chapter 14
James 5pm
‘Daddy, don’t talk to me like that.’ Harriet was flushed, breathing heavily. She was clearly very upset, near to frightened. ‘I told you, the fucking letter wasn’t there before.’
He knew why she was using language like that; it was not about the letter, it was about him and Susie, about betrayal. Just the same he hated it.
‘Harriet, darling, there’s no need for that.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, and her tone made it clear she wasn’t, not in the least. ‘It was horrible, you know. Like seeing – hearing – a ghost.’
‘Yes, of course.’ James sighed; he felt terribly tired, drained of sympathy, patience, understanding. Even for Susie. He had had too much, too much of all of them. He just wanted to go away, leave them, do something nice and straightforward that he could control, like play tennis, or take out his boat or even deliver a baby. To a sensible mother who had been to all her antenatal check-ups and wanted
an epidural, with a midwife in attendance who thought he was wonderful. The thought was so ridiculous he smiled in spite of himself.
‘I’m glad you think it’s funny,’ said Harriet. She sounded extraordinarily angry.
‘Darling, I don’t think it’s funny. I – well, I was thinking about something else.’
‘I wish I could. Incidentally Susie thinks we should tell the police about the passport business. And I think she’s right.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, because if she has got a duplicate passport, she can get abroad. It’s obvious.’
‘Yes. Yes of course you’re right,’ said James. He sounded very vague. ‘I’ll call them very soon. Let’s try and get this letter business sorted first.’
‘Well,’ Susie said, her tone forcedly bright, ‘obviously someone put it there. None of us actually believes in ghosts. Someone must have come in. It hasn’t been through the post. Is it dated, Harriet?’
Harriet shook her head. ‘No. But it says today.’
‘It still could have been written yesterday.’
‘Now that is really unbelievable,’ said James. ‘She couldn’t have planned this, couldn’t have been so deliberately – cruel.’
‘Why not?’ said Harriet, and her voice was even harsher. ‘Why do you say that? She took her dress, she seems to have got a second passport organized –’
‘I suppose so,’ said James. ‘I suppose so. I’m just still trying to resist the idea, that’s all. And of course there was what Oliver said this morning when I – well, when I told him what had happened.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Harriet sharply. ‘And why didn’t you tell us before?’
‘Because I honestly didn’t – still don’t – think it was important. But he said, “She hasn’t actually gone, has she?” Or something like that?’
‘James, how can you not think that was important?’ Susie’s voice was shocked. ‘How could you have kept that to yourself? If Oliver knew –’
‘Susie, Oliver didn’t know anything. Do you think I’d have kept quiet about it if he had? But he did say that she’d had a bad panic attack about three or four days ago, and said she felt like running away. She’d been very tearful apparently. But that was all. I’m sure there aren’t many brides who haven’t threatened to run away, a few days before the wedding.’
He hoped he sounded convincing, as convinced as he wanted to be; he was still thoughtful about Oliver’s response, but the subsequent conversation had been too distressing to allow for cross-questioning. And then there’d been the dress business and the passport–
‘It sounds to me,’ said Susie slowly, looking up from the letter, ‘as if she was under some appalling pressure. Something she couldn’t escape from.’
‘Well, she has escaped,’ said Harriet. ‘Very nicely. As usual.’
‘Darling, why are you sounding so hostile? You’ve never talked about Cressida like this before.’
‘Yes, well, it always seemed best to keep quiet before,’ said Harriet. ‘It never did me any good to say anything. I just got sent away to school or out of the room.’
She sounded suddenly like the small hurt child he had left at St Madeleine’s all those years ago; looked like her too, with a white face and hard, desperate eyes.
‘Harriet, what are you saying?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ said Harriet wearily. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’ She sighed, rubbed her eyes. ‘I want a drink.’
‘It’s a little early for that, isn’t it?’ said James. He looked at his watch: five past five. Christ Almighty. Cressida had been missing for almost twelve hours.
‘I don’t care if it’s early,’ said Harriet. ‘I want one. Just because you never drink, you never think other people might want to.’ She walked over to the fridge. ‘Susie, how about you? Glass of wine?’
‘Yes, I think it might be nice,’ said Susie.
Harriet poured two glasses of wine, handed her one. They stood there, sipping slightly awkwardly. ‘This is very nice wine,’ said Susie.
‘Isn’t it?’ said Harriet. ‘Lovely and fruity.’
James looked at them, thought how absurd it all was and laughed suddenly.
‘You seem to be finding this whole thing very funny,’ said Harriet irritably.
‘It’s so ridiculous, that’s all. Here we are, a missing bride, a banquet for three hundred slowly going off, flowers wilting, the police alerted, a letter appearing as if from the ether, and you’re suddenly discussing the merits of Californian chardonnay.’
‘Yes, well, we didn’t seem to be getting far discussing anything else,’ said Harriet.
‘Look,’ said Susie suddenly, ‘look, Harriet, perhaps we should – well, what you saw just now. Your father and me. It doesn’t – didn’t mean –’
‘Susie, please. I’m not stupid,’ said Harriet briskly. ‘I could see what it meant. Thank you. I really don’t think we should talk about it. What we have to decide is what to do about this note. Do we tell the police? Or try and find out if anyone came in? What? We can’t just stand here drinking.’
‘It was your idea to drink,’ said James mildly.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ said Harriet. ‘Can we just –’
The door opened and Maggie came in. She looked very pale and her fair hair was slightly damp around her face, but she smiled almost cheerfully at them.
‘I just woke up. I feel – much calmer. I’m sorry I – well, is there any news?’
Harriet and Susie were silent; they both looked at James.
‘What is it?’ asked Maggie. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing – really,’ said James. He felt almost inclined to hide the letter, not tell Maggie, he so dreaded the descent back into hysteria.
‘Yes, it has,’ said Harriet. She stared at him stony-eyed. ‘Of course it has. Mummy, there’s a letter. Look, from Cressida.’
Maggie sat down heavily and took the letter. She read it slowly several times, and then said, ‘Where was it?’
‘On the kitchen table. It just appeared.’
‘It can’t have just appeared. Don’t be ridiculous. She must be here, Cressida must have brought it. Have you looked for her, called her –’
‘Maggie, of course we have,’ said James, realizing suddenly that they’d done nothing of the sort, not really. ‘She isn’t here. Nobody’s here.’
‘They must be. Janine’s here, for a start. Where is she? Maybe she saw Cressida –’
‘She’s lying down,’ said Harriet. ‘She’s exhausted.’
‘She’s exhausted!’ said Maggie. She sounded angry. ‘I really can’t imagine why Janine should be exhausted. She hasn’t done anything. Anything at all.’
‘Maggie, of course she has. She’s lived through this whole thing with us, she’s been a tower of strength, she only arrived from Paris yesterday and besides she’s quite an old lady now –’
‘Yes, all right, all right,’ said Maggie. ‘Well, we must get her up, talk to her. She might have heard, seen someone –’
‘Maggie, I really don’t think –’
‘Jamie, I don’t care what you really don’t think. I really do think. Harriet, could you go and get Janine, please? And who else is in the house?’
‘No one. Everyone’s gone. No cars, nothing.’
‘Leaving the sinking ship,’ said Maggie. ‘Susie, give me a glass of that wine would you? Is Alistair here?’
‘No,’ said Susie, quickly. ‘No, he’s gone back to London.’
‘Ah,’ said Maggie. ‘Ah yes, of course.’
James looked at her sharply, but her face was blank, stony.
Harriet came in, looked at them both, went to sit near her mother. It was an oddly symbolic gesture. ‘Janine’s just washing her face,’ she said, ‘then she’ll be down. But she really hasn’t heard anything.’
‘We should have let her be,’ said James. He felt irritated, upset on Janine’s behalf.
‘Yes, that’s what you alwa
ys like to do, isn’t it?’ said Maggie. ‘Leave things be. Carefully covered, so they aren’t any trouble. To you at least.’
James felt the familiar pang of sheer, icy panic, and at the same time the equally familiar flash of hope, of relief. Christ Almighty, was she going to say something now, confront him, confront them both? All his life, all their lives, he’d been waiting for it, waiting for the confrontation, and it never came; she sat there, like a great fat cat, toying with him, with the knowledge she must surely have, and made him wait. Often he almost wanted her to face him with it, yearned for the end of the sham, the games they all had to play, wished he could start it off himself, say something, force her to say something back. But he never did and he never would. He liked to think it was his alter ego, his better self, doing that, sparing Maggie, allowing her some kind of dignity, of status at least; but he knew that actually it was nothing of the sort. James had a great talent for self-deception, but it did not extend quite this far. He played the game Maggie’s way to buy her silence, her acceptance of what he had done to her; he simply could not face the ugliness of a scandal, of divorce. It was not perfect, of course, the situation; he would have been much happier married neatly, respectably to Susie, but the opportunity for that had been lost to him thirty years earlier, and in the event it had all turned out very satisfactorily. He saw Susie almost as much as he wanted to, he had plenty of freedom, he had a fair amount of money (but it was only money, only salary, not wealth, and it would diminish quite painfully, supporting two households). But now, with Susie, with the promise he had made her – Christ, how was he going to get out of that one? A great deal of very skilful talking and manoeuvring would be necessary. He had no intention of actually setting up house with her, it was an absurd, romantic notion, but she hadn’t thought it through, hadn’t seen that it would cause great grief and stress to herself as well as her family, would quite possibly exacerbate her condition. When she was feeling less shocked, when they had a clearer idea of what her prospects were, then he could put that to her, make her see it wasn’t such a good idea. God in heaven, it was a hideous thought. He was genuinely and deeply shocked himself; he loved Susie very much, had loved her all his life. The thought of her dying, lost to him, no longer there for him was ghastly. He looked at her now, so lovely still, her face strangely serene. She had great courage, Susie, always had. Well, she was going to need it, every last final shred of it. He must not completely fail her, must do all that he possibly could.
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