“The less charitable explanation is that the culture of the city is outperforming the hard facts; that financiers, drunk on years of success, believe they can outrun and outwit reality.”
Wolfe let out a low whistle. “You have a very low opinion of us.”
“I am culpable too. I’ve been part of the system.” She ate some more leaves. “I have always found comfort in numbers but they are letting me down; two plus two no longer equals four. Instead, clever and successful people are doing the same sums and finding out that the answer is actually forty.”
“Have some more.” Wolfe pushed the bowl towards her.
“If only I had the space.” She smiled. “That was the most delicious lunch I have eaten for a long time. Thank you.”
“You have to have some home-made pie and home-produced cream.”
Probably made by Molly, Blaze thought.
Wolfe removed the pie from the warming oven and the kitchen was filled with the smell of pastry and scented apples. Taking two small red plates from the rack, he put one in front of Blaze and fetched a spoon from the drawer.
“Help yourself, please.”
Blaze couldn’t resist. Fetching a small jug from the fridge, he put a dollop of thick cream on the side of her plate before serving himself.
“I know how lonely it can be swimming against the crowd. Perhaps you and I could exchange ideas or even work together.” He hesitated. “On the condition that it would be done independently, away from Kerkyra Capital and Sleet.”
Blaze was startled. “You don’t need me; you regularly outperform my fund by a significant margin.”
“It’s easy making money in bull markets; but when the shit hits the fan—which if you’re right, it will soon—then two brains are better than one.” He hesitated and added, “Maybe I need an excuse to see you.” He leaned towards her. Blaze’s breath caught in her throat; was he flirting with her? How disgraceful, given the other woman, Molly, in his life. She pushed her chair back.
“Would you like some coffee?” Wolfe asked, attempting to bring the conversation round to neutral.
“Thank you.”
He turned his back on her again and, taking a jar from a cupboard, tipped some grounds into a cafetière. Blaze looked around the room at the tired furniture, old television and flagstone floor. There were no obvious accoutrements of wealth; she wondered what he did with his money.
“While it brews, why don’t you put those on?” he said, pointing to the small pile of clothes on a chair. “If you go upstairs, there’s a spare room on the left and a bathroom off that.”
Blaze took the clothes and went up to change. She longed to snoop around the upper floor, but was worried creaking footsteps might give her away. The spare room was decorated in a pretty faded chintz. There was a big brass bed covered with a quilt. Above a small fireplace there was a painting: a pot of cyclamen next to a silver jug. Blaze looked closely at it and saw the signature “William Nicholson”; she smiled, knowing that the artist commanded high prices at auction. She had found one chink in her host’s parsimony. The clothes, though slightly too large, fitted well. She wondered if they belonged to Molly or another woman.
As she came downstairs, he glanced at her and smiled.
“Much better than a black suit.” He handed her a cup of coffee.
They saddled up the two horses and rode out of the yard, leaving the pecking hens and a lazy marmalade-coloured cat sunning herself on the wall. Blaze was relieved that Wolfe had chosen the friskier animal, a gelding who pranced sideways and whinnied at the slightest opportunity. He rode well, like an American cowboy, with long stirrups and reins held in one hand. The sun was high and Blaze tilted her face upwards to catch its warmth. They headed away from the house up a small incline to a long stretch of meadow grazed by sheep and cows.
“Faster?” Wolfe asked.
Blaze nodded, praying she wouldn’t fall off. As a young woman, she had been a fearless and accomplished rider but twenty years had passed since she’d got on a horse.
He set off at a great pace, his animal’s hooves throwing up clods of earth. Blaze urged her mare into an easy canter. She was several lengths behind and, loosening her reins, she squeezed her horse’s flanks. Soon they were galloping side by side through long grass laced with wild daisies and buttercups. Blood pulsing through her veins, Blaze felt an absurd lightness of spirit. This was what she had been missing, cooped up in her ascetic white apartment and her beige office. Leaning down over her horse’s neck, she urged it on. The animal flattened its ears and pushed forward. She and Wolfe were neck and neck. He also leaned forward and for ten strides they raced, flushed with exhilaration. There was a wooden fence in front of them and Wolfe raised his hand in warning. He collected his horse and steadied into a canter. He took the fence well and flew over it. Blaze, glad there hadn’t been time to think, clutched the mare’s mane and only just stayed on. The landscape rose sharply and the horses, blowing hard, slowed to a trot and then a walk, their flanks wet with sweat and their sides heaving. Wolfe jumped off and held out his hand to help Blaze down. His fingers touched hers for a little longer than necessary. They walked side by side, leading their animals, until they reached the top of the hill.
As they looked back over the valley, Blaze thought about an alternative life for herself on a farm, with horses and other animals, living off the land with a man like Wolfe. She dismissed the fantasy immediately; love was the preserve of the young, or of demented optimists, and she was a middle-aged rationalist.
They rode the horses home in silence. The sun lowered in the sky and the afternoon peace was broken by cooing wood pigeons and the sound of their horses’ hooves brushing against the stubble of recently cut corn.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Wolfe asked.
“I have a dinner in town.” She didn’t, but was tired and keen to be back in her own surroundings.
“Of course you do.” Wolfe shook his head.
Later he dropped her back at the station. Blaze held out her hand and, with an amused look, he shook it.
“I thoroughly enjoyed myself,” he said, squeezing her fingers in his.
Blaze removed her hand quickly. “A most unconventional meet-ing,” she replied.
“Will you come back? Soon?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t want to impinge on paradise.”
“You’d be adding to it,” he said.
What, Blaze wondered crossly, would Molly make of this flirtatious banter? Maybe the two of them would laugh about it together after she’d gone.
“I hope you’ll consider my offer.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Wolfe,” she replied, “thank you for lunch.” Then, smiling curtly, she turned and headed for the bridge to take her over to the London-bound platform.
8
The Arrival
SUNDAY 7TH SEPTEMBER 2008
Jane stood at the sink, her hands immersed in soapy water. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled with pride and satisfaction at the sight of her family sitting in relative harmony around the kitchen table. It was ten in the morning, and there hadn’t even been a major row, partly as her sons were engaged in a game of FIFA and her daughter was reading a nature magazine.
“I love family time,” she said.
Ambrose, leaning forward, arched his back and let out a large belch.
“Gross,” Arabella said without looking up.
“Better out than in.” Half rising from his chair, he farted loudly. Since starting as an intern for Thomlinson Sleet, Ambrose had become even more entitled. His employer’s sense of self-importance had transferred seamlessly, osmotically, to the younger man.
“Ambrose!” Jane said.
“It’s your cooking,” her son replied, and belched again. “Death by overcooked mince.”
“I hope you die,” Arabella said, waving the noxious sme
ll away with the magazine.
Kitto flicked the outside edge of his Sunday Times. “There are indications that the Americans will bail out Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. What a relief.”
“Are they film stars?” Jane said, making a feeble attempt at a joke. She found her husband’s and son’s recent obsession with all things financial trying.
Ambrose laughed condescendingly. “They are the U.S.’s biggest mortgage brokers.”
“Why do they need rescuing?” Jane asked.
“Sleet says the Fed will never let the system collapse,” Ambrose said without taking his eyes off FIFA.
“Sleet says this and Sleet says that. At this rate we won’t be able to do anything without Sir Thomlinson’s opinions,” Arabella retorted.
“If you say one word against—” Ambrose raised his fist at his sister.
“Stop it, now.” Jane flicked soapy water at her son. The suds missed him and landed on the floor.
“Our investment will be safe,” Kitto said.
“Sleet says CDOs are rock-solid,” Ambrose agreed.
Jane wondered how two men, both new to the world of finance, could be so certain.
“What’s so genius,” Ambrose said, “is that Sleet keeps inventing new things to sell to people. This week he bundled up a whole East Asian debt, mixed in a bit of Detroit housing, topped it off with some oil futures, called it XT129, and there was a stampede to buy it. We laughed ourselves sick and drank champagne.”
“Why would anyone buy something if they didn’t understand what it was?” Arabella asked.
“The Emperor’s new clothes,” Jane suggested.
Kitto and Ambrose looked at each other and rolled their eyes. “Better stick to making wallpaper, Mum,” Ambrose said, scratching his head with a kitchen spoon.
“Mum, tell him not to do that,” Arabella whined. “It’s unhygienic.”
“This whole house is a health hazard,” Ambrose countered and, with one easy swipe, knocked the magazine out of his sister’s hand.
“Don’t do that,” Arabella shouted. Toby took advantage of the hiatus to initiate a sneaky move in the game. The fragile peace accord between the brothers shattered.
“You fuckwit,” Ambrose yelled, snatching the computer away. “That’s cheating.”
Jane put her soapy hands over her ears.
“When you make a good move, it’s skill, but if I do something clever…” Toby leaned back in his chair.
“Boys—I am concentrating on our future,” Kitto said, waving the newspaper at his sons.
The phone rang in the small scullery off the kitchen.
“Can someone answer it?” Jane asked, looking around for something on which to dry her hands.
No one moved.
“One of you!” Jane repeated.
“It’ll be someone wanting money.” Ambrose reluctantly placed the computer back on the table so that his brother could see the screen.
“Or trying to sell us something we can’t afford,” Toby added.
“No one uses landlines any more,” Arabella opined. “It’ll stop soon.”
The phone rang insistently and Jane, wiping her hands on her jeans, went out into the passage to answer it. “Hello, hello,” she said, raising her voice. All she could hear was a wild crackle.
“Told you,” Arabella said. “One of those Bangalore call centres.”
“Shh,” Jane hissed. “Can you speak up, I can’t hear you.” She listened. “Yes, this is Lady Tremayne. Who is it?” She put a finger in the other ear to hear better what the person on the other end of the line was saying.
“Oh, how awful,” Jane said. “When did it happen? I am so sorry.”
She hesitated and listened again. “No! I never said I’d have the child.”
She paused and then spoke very clearly, enunciating each syllable. “I already have three children. I don’t want any more. Do you hear me? I do not want any more children.”
Pause.
“Call Blaze Scott. She doesn’t have any.” Jane’s voice rose an octave. “And no, I don’t have a number for her.”
By now all three children were on their feet and crowding around their mother, trying to work out what and who she was talking about.
“You can give me as many flight details as you like. I won’t be meeting any of them.” Jane put her hand over the receiver. “Someone pass me a pen, quickly quickly.”
Toby ran over to the dresser and found an old pencil and a used envelope and took them to his mother.
“BA 4712. Lands Heathrow at 11:40 p.m. on Thursday the 11th of September,” Jane said out loud and wrote down the information.
“I want to make it quite clear. This child is not my responsibility. Thank you, goodbye.” Slowly she replaced the receiver and leaned back against the wall.
“What’s happened?” Kitto asked, putting the paper down and getting up from his chair. When Jane didn’t say anything, he took her by the arms and shook her slightly.
“Anastasia’s dead,” she said.
Kitto looked at his wife then shouted, “No, no, she can’t be.”
“Who is Anastasia?” Ambrose asked.
“Some friend of Mum’s,” Toby said. All three children looked nervously from one parent to another.
Kitto tried to make sense of the news, but could only hear the noise of his own blood whooshing in his ears. The idea of life without Anastasia was unbearable. Her physical absence had made her emotional presence in his life even stronger; he thought of her constantly. They hadn’t met for nearly twenty years but she was his mirage, the point on the horizon that he aimed for and dreamed of. He knew his redemption lay in their eventual reunion. He started to agitate and shout.
Jane looked back at him in astonishment. His reaction—flailing his arms, keening, grabbing at chairs—was frightening. Had her husband and Anastasia been more than friends?
She refound her voice. “There’s more. Anastasia had a child and it’s got nowhere to go.”
“What kind of child?” Arabella asked.
“How old is it?” Toby shook his head. Rations were already sparse.
“It’s a girl, but I forgot to ask anything else.”
“It can’t come here,” Ambrose said.
Kitto banged his forehead on the wall, over and over again. “We can’t abandon her child.”
“Dad’s upset,” Arabella observed.
“I can see that,” Jane replied tersely.
The fate of the child precipitated a tremendous argument between husband and wife.
Jane: It’s unreasonable for a man who eats business lunches and dinners in London during the week to foist another person on his wife.
Kitto: You should be charitable.
Jane: I’ve sunk everything I owned—all my money, all my parents’ hard work and my own prospects—into this place; don’t talk to me about charity.
Kitto: I thought you did it for love?
Jane: I thought you married me for love; now I’m beginning to think it was just for my money.
Kitto: When your money ran out, I didn’t.
Jane: You had nowhere to go.
Kitto: Why didn’t you leave then?
Jane: I ask myself daily.
Kitto: Unlike Anastasia, you always lacked imagination.
Jane: Perhaps you should have married her.
Kitto didn’t answer.
Jane ran from the room and spent the night working in her studio.
* * *
Kitto left for London the following morning without saying goodbye. He didn’t, as he usually did, call from the train or to say he’d arrived. Jane was relieved, wanting only to erase the argument from the record, to rescind the hurtful things they had said to each other. After much agonising, she decided to meet the plane. The child was d
estitute; Jane didn’t feel able to ignore her plight. As the hours before the arrival loomed, so did Jane’s anxiety; she hadn’t been to London for five years. Her life had been gradually eroded into smaller and smaller pieces. She was a virtual prisoner of Trelawney, hardly venturing outside the castle’s grounds. If she went to a shop, it was the supermarket on the outskirts of St. Austell: the local fishmonger, butcher and baker were too expensive. Most days, aside from cursory exchanges with her family, she spoke to no one. She was years away from the last decent conversation. The struggle to save Trelawney was so all-encompassing that it had eclipsed Jane’s independence.
* * *
The morning before her trip to Heathrow, Jane fainted; clutching the washing machine for support, she slid to the floor, gasping for breath. Mrs. Sparrow found her and put her into bed with a cup of sweet tea.
“It’s bound to be the change. It gets us all,” the older woman said.
Please, dear God, don’t let things change, Jane thought miserably.
She arrived at the newly opened Terminal 5 with a few hours to spare. In the harsh neon-lit arrivals hall so far from Trelawney and all things familiar, she felt shipwrecked, an insignificant vessel adrift on a foreign sea. The only comfort was that the child, bereft of her mother and wider family, would feel worse; and Jane, though unqualified for many things, could provide a loving and dependable ballast. She foresaw the younger woman bundled up in a sari and colourful shawls, shivering with cold in Britain’s weak autumn sun. She imagined wrapping her arms around Anastasia’s daughter and explaining all things British, their idiosyncrasies and mores. Jane, cheered up by the thought of being useful, bought herself a cup of coffee and, sitting at a fluorescent-orange table, made a list of things to show and tell Ayesha, about local plants and landmarks. Maybe the young woman’s innocence and sweetness would rub off on Arabella; the three of them might go shopping or cook together. After the Indian food even mince would be a delicacy.
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