The House of Memories

by Monica McInerney

  I’m really scared.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I woke up feeling as if I hadn’t slept. I barely had. I’d dreamt of Jess in London. Of Aidan and his letter. I’d relived the dinner with Henrietta. When I rang Charlie in my dream to ask his advice, he’d hung up, laughing. Lucas disappeared. I ran from room to room trying to find him but it didn’t matter how many doors I opened, he was nowhere to be found.

  This house had been my safe haven. It felt different now. I felt different. My heart felt fluttery in my chest. My bedroom suddenly felt too small. It was the beginning of a panic attack. I knew the feeling. I couldn’t let it happen. The key was to do something definite, focus my mind, concentrate on something real, something present, something nearby.

  All I could think of was Aidan’s letter.

  I couldn’t open it now. Not when I was feeling like this.

  I got up. I got dressed. I wanted to run away. Leave London, today, now. But I couldn’t. Not yet. I couldn’t do it to Lucas. He needed my help.

  I was now pacing the room. My mind was racing, leaping from thought to thought. I hated the idea of Lucas leaving London. How could I possibly ask him to sell his house? I hated that Henrietta had asked for my help. If she wanted him to sell, then she could ask him herself. I wanted nothing to do with it. I didn’t want to help her.

  I didn’t have to help her.

  Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Why had I been agonising over how and when to ask him? I didn’t have to obey her. She wasn’t my aunt. Even if they did get married, I could never think of her as my aunt. I would still see Lucas, I would make sure of that, but away from her. Somehow. We could meet in Paris, perhaps, if I was still living in Europe.

  Where would I go next? Where else could I live? I had some savings, enough to do some travelling. That was it. I’d go travelling. The first thing I would do if and when Lucas sold the house and moved to France would be to go and see Charlie in Boston. I hadn’t seen him in almost two years. After that? Could I come back to London? Could I look up some of my old publishing contacts from my time in Bath? Could I even consider taking on an editing project or two in London? I could rent a cheap flat somewhere, not here, not in the same area as this, that would be too hard, but somewhere new. Yes, in a brand-new part of the city —

  I suddenly felt energised. I was making plans. I wanted to be on the move now, today, this morning. Yes. I would go and see Henrietta today. Now. Tell her that I was sorry, but she would have to talk to Lucas about selling his house herself.

  The tutors had already left for the day. Lucas was in his withdrawing room. I knocked on the door, said good morning, kept my voice casual. I made the idea of me dropping over to visit Henrietta sound normal. He was distracted with his work but pleased at my idea, I could see. I mentioned something about a book she’d talked about lending me. What was her address? Her house was within walking distance, wasn’t it?

  ‘Anywhere is within walking distance if you’ve got the time,’ he said, smiling.

  He gave me her address and directions to get there. It was in Kensington, about forty minutes on foot. I decided against ringing first. I’d let fate take over. If she wasn’t home, I’d go another day.

  ‘Everyone’s in tonight, Ella,’ Lucas said as I put on my coat and scarf in the hallway. ‘Would it suit you to prepare dinner for us all?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ I said, surprised at how relaxed I sounded. ‘Will I do my famous Thai curry?’

  ‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Enjoy Henrietta. Give her my love.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  It was a cool, misty day. It felt good to be outside. I walked into Kensington Gardens and followed the path that would take me across to Kensington High Street. I followed Lucas’s directions from there. I walked past long rows of houses with entrances on the street like Lucas’s, many divided into flats, obvious from the number of bells in the doorway. The closer I came to Henrietta’s street, the further back from the footpath the houses went. Steps gave way to small front gardens. I turned into a very grand street, the houses barely visible through large hedges or over tall stone walls. They were mansions now, rather than houses. I saw security cameras. Sculptures visible over walls or through fences. A fountain in one front garden. A gardener sweeping up leaves in another.

  Henrietta’s house was one of the largest on her street. There was a discreetly designed intercom in the wall and on a post nearby, a camera trained on the spot where I was standing.

  I pressed the button. A moment later, a voice. A male voice. Henrietta’s husband? I hadn’t expected that.

  ‘Yes?’ So much came across in that one word. Confidence. Intelligence. Impatience.

  ‘Hello. My name is Ella.’ Did Henrietta know me as Ella Fox, Ella Baum or Ella O’Hanlon? I didn’t know. I left it at that. ‘Is Henrietta in, please?’

  ‘Are you one of her students?’

  ‘No.’ How did I describe myself? I wasn’t her student or her friend. ‘I’m Lucas Fox’s niece.’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  I waited for the gate to open. It didn’t. I stood there, unsure. A minute later, Henrietta’s voice sounded down the intercom. ‘Ella? What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have rung first? I’m busy.’ She sighed, the sound noisy through the small speaker. ‘Come in, then. Go to the side door. The front door’s just been painted.’

  The gate slowly opened, revealing a landscaped front garden, white gravel, two cars and stone steps going up to, yes, a freshly painted yellow door. I made my way around to the side of the house. Henrietta was there waiting for me. I’d expected a maid or a housekeeper.

  ‘Why didn’t you ring?’ she said again. There was no greeting.

  ‘Is it a bad time?’

  ‘Yes. Come in anyway.’

  She took me through the kitchen, a long room with gleaming appliances and uncluttered shelves, through a kind of scullery and up a flight of stairs into a living room on the first floor. The walls were painted a soft cream. The carpet was a deep blue. The furniture was highly polished. The contrast between her house and Lucas’s was striking.

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Tea, please.’ I didn’t really want it, but I was glad of a chance to gather my thoughts. Now I was here, on her territory, in the shadow of her strong personality, my nerves were failing me. I expected her to ring for someone to make the tea, but she went downstairs.

  I heard a phone ring. A minute later, she was back. ‘Ella, you’ll have to wait for the tea. I need to deal with this call. I’ll be at least fifteen minutes. Do you want to stay or come back?’

  If I left now, I knew I’d never come back again. ‘I’ll stay,’ I said.

  I took a seat at the large bay window. It was a beautiful room. The furniture was antique. There were china ornaments on the marble fireplace. The walls were covered in portraits and landscapes, arranged by someone with an eye for colour and symmetry. I mentally compared it to Lucas’s house again, with his books piled ten high in the hall, dozens of unframed prints and paintings leaning against walls —

  How could the two of them ever live together? They were so different in every way. Perhaps that worked well in an affair – clearly it had worked for them – but as a permanent arrangement? Lucas couldn’t make her happy. He would drive her mad. It would never work between them. I hoped it wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part.

  ‘You’re Lucas Fox’s niece, did you say?’

  I jumped at the sound of the voice. A man in his sixties was standing in the doorway. I didn’t know what I had expected Henrietta’s husband to look like but it wasn’t this. He was as tall as she was short, and very thin. He was bald. His clothes were crisp, tailored. He might have been handsome in his youth but now he was florid. His eyes were sharp. He struck me immediately as the male equivalent of Henrietta – clever, confident and not to be crossed. I had a split-screen moment, imagining Lucas standin
g beside him, all dishevelled curls, warm smile and baggy clothes. I had to blink it away.

  ‘I am, yes,’ I said. I held out my hand. ‘Ella Fox.’ I surprised myself with my surname. I hadn’t been called Ella Fox since I was a child.

  ‘Dr Samson,’ he said, briskly. He didn’t tell me his first name. ‘You’re Australian?’

  I nodded. ‘Lucas’s brother married my mother. She’s Australian. I grew up there.’

  ‘I see. Do you tutor as well?’

  He knew about Lucas’s tutors? Of course he did, I realised. Henrietta’s work appraising Lucas’s tutors had been their cover story for years.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m an editor, but at the moment I’m working as Lucas’s hou—’

  ‘What kind of editor? Which publishing houses?’

  He was Henrietta’s equal when it came to blunt questions too. I named the publishers I had worked for in Australia and England. He asked for more details. I named some of my authors, the titles of their books – some fiction but mostly non-fiction. I was talking too fast, saying too much, but he had that effect on me.

  He nodded. ‘I’m looking for an editor. What do you charge?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not an ed—’ I stopped. I was still an editor, wasn’t I? I still had the skills. I still had my experience. I could soon be leaving Lucas’s house. I would need a new job.

  ‘It’s difficult to quote a fee without knowing more about the project,’ I said, noticing my accent become more refined. ‘Could you give me some more details?’

  ‘I’m drowning in details. I’ve been working on this for twenty years.’ He smiled and took a seat in the armchair opposite me. He was instantly less intimidating.

  I didn’t feel like Ella the housekeeper now. I was Ella the editor. I reached into my bag for my notebook and uncapped my pen. It felt strange, yet so familiar. I’d had introductory meetings like this with many authors over the years.

  He leaned forward, clasping his hands, his expression different now, less imperious – eager even. He told me the project was a history of his family. A memoir told over three generations. It was an absolutely fascinating story, he told me.

  I stayed quiet. Family histories were notoriously dull for everyone except the family in question. But as he continued, I became interested. His father had been a renowned biologist. His grandfather had also been a doctor. They had both kept detailed diaries throughout their careers. Henrietta’s husband – I still didn’t know his first name – planned to use extracts from both. The final book would be part family story, part social history, part scientific journal, a record of the changes in medical knowledge in England over a century.

  ‘It sounds fascinating,’ I said. I meant it.

  ‘It’s a bloody nightmare,’ he said. ‘I’ve got boxes of material, diaries, letters, old editions of the British Medical Journal, photographs, patients’ records —’

  ‘Is it catalogued?’

  ‘Perfectly. Indexed, too. My section is written. My father and grandfather’s diaries are transcribed. All I need now is someone to pull it together, give it shape, structure, a narrative.’

  To my own surprise, I was suddenly interested. ‘When would you need that someone to start?’

  ‘Whenever that someone was able to start. Do you have references?’

  ‘Many, yes.’ It would only take me an email or two to gather them. The hardest thing would be composing the emails. My publishing colleagues hadn’t heard from me in nearly two years.

  ‘I’d need to see those. And examples of your work, of course.’

  ‘I have copies of everything here in London.’ Lucas had shelves full of the books I’d edited. I’d always sent him a copy at the end of each project.

  ‘I’d pay an hourly rate.’ He named a figure. It was three times what I’d been paid in Australia. ‘You’d work for it. It will be a long job. I’d also need you to sign a contract promising you won’t leave mid-stream if the going gets too hard.’ He was talking as if I had already accepted the offer. ‘You’d also have to work from here. The material is too precious to leave the house. You could use Henrietta’s office. She won’t be needing it any more, after all.’

  He’d raised the subject of her leaving. I had to acknowledge it. ‘No. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry? Why?’

  I felt myself go red. But I couldn’t stop now, not when he was looking at me in that imperious way again. I apologised once more. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  ‘I’m intrigued now. Why are you sorry, Miss Fox?’

  I felt like I was six and in the headmaster’s office. I stammered my answer. ‘Because you’re getting divorced, aren’t you? She’s going to live in France with Lucas —’

  ‘Really? And there I was thinking she was simply retiring.’ He stood up, walked to the door and shouted – literally shouted – Henrietta’s name. I didn’t move. I couldn’t speak. He stood by the door and waited.

  After several minutes of excruciating silence, she appeared.

  ‘For God’s sake, Claude. I was on the phone. What do you want?’

  He nodded towards me. ‘This young lady has just informed me you and I are getting a divorce because you and Lucas Fox are going to live in France together. How marvellous for you both. Were you planning on telling me at any stage?’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  From: Charlie Baum

  To: Walter Baum

  Subject: Jess

  No luck yet. I couldn’t find out any more than you did. Hotel manager said she had checked out, all paid up. Don’t worry about her not using bank card. Could be very simple explanation. And no, don’t ask Lucas for help. He’s busy with Ella. I’ll look into flights to London today myself. I can be there in seven hours. Stay where you are for now. Try not to worry. Tell Meredith not to worry either. Jess has probably landed a big role and is out celebrating.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Dear Diary,

  Something terrible’s happened. I don’t know what to do.

  I can’t write it down.

  I want my mum.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  I ran out of Henrietta’s house. I had trouble opening the gate.

  ‘You stupid, stupid, idiot girl,’ Henrietta had said to me. ‘You’ve ruined everything.’

  I’d tried to find my voice. ‘But you told me, you said —’

  ‘That’s enough, Miss Fox, thank you,’ Dr Samson added. ‘You’ve done your dirty work on behalf of your uncle. Leave us now, would you?’

  ‘I didn’t realise. I’m sor—’

  ‘Get out, Ella,’ Henrietta said. ‘Now!’

  I finally got out onto the street, and stood there, disoriented, on the verge of tears. I hadn’t imagined Henrietta telling me they were getting divorced, had I? She had asked me to convince Lucas to sell the house, hadn’t she? I was suddenly unsure. My mind had been racing so fast this morning, my brain still full of the troubling dreams. Had I somehow managed to imagine it all?

  No, I hadn’t. Henrietta had told me that she was getting divorced. That her husband had asked for the divorce, that he’d confessed he’d been having an affair. I’d heard her talking to the solicitor in the back of the taxi. I hadn’t imagined that. I’d heard her discussing financial arrangements.

  I felt sick inside. What would Lucas do when he heard what I’d done? I had to get back to his house as quickly as possible. I ran to the nearest main road, praying for a taxi to appear. Like a miracle, one did. I hailed it, climbed in, gave Lucas’s address and sat back, my heart beating fast. I knew Henrietta would ring him as soon as she stopped arguing with her husband. I’d have to try to ring him first.

  I reached into my bag for my phone. It was then I realised I’d left my notebook in Henrietta’s house. My notebook containing not just all my memories of Felix, but also Aidan’s letter.

  I leaned forward, urgently. ‘Can you stop the cab please?’

  The driver pulled over.

  I
didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t go back there. I had to see Lucas. But I couldn’t leave my notebook behind. It was too precious. It had —

  My phone rang. It was Lucas. Henrietta must have already rung him.

  I answered. ‘Lucas, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve done something terrible —’

  ‘Where are you, Ella?’

  ‘In a taxi. On my way home.’

  ‘Good. See you soon.’

  My decision was made. I asked the driver to keep going.

  I had never been frightened of Lucas. I had never dreaded visiting him. I had walked up those steps hundreds of times in my life, always sure of my welcome, sure that I could knock on that door, call out his name and he would greet me with a smile, with warmth, with love. Not now. I had ruined it. I had ruined his life, his plans, his relationship with Henrietta.

  The door to the house opened as I got out of the taxi. Lucas stood there.

  I wouldn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. ‘I’m so sorry, Lucas.’

  ‘Come and tell me what happened, Ella.’

  We went into his withdrawing room. The fire was lit. The photos of Felix were on the wall. It was all so familiar and now it was all so forbidding. I told him everything. From my conversation with Henrietta over dinner, what she had asked me to do on her behalf. Why I had gone to see her this morning. What had happened with her husband, how he had come in, our conversation about the editing. And then, what I had said about the divorce, about him and Henrietta going to live in France.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Lucas. She’s so angry with me. I can’t blame her.’

  ‘She is a little upset, yes.’

  ‘But she is going to leave him, isn’t she? She told me. She wants to go and live in France with you. She wants you to sell this house —’

  ‘She’s been asking me to do that for years, Ella. I’ve always said no. I said no this time too.’

  I stared at him. ‘You don’t want to sell the house?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You’re not moving to France?’