The Wildflowers

by Harriet Evans

  It wasn’t at all how he had imagined, it was kind, and sweet, and moving . . . Julia was, for all her am-dram quality, entirely natural.

  ‘Don’t go. Stay a while. Please,’ he said.

  Her fingers deftly fastened the straps on her sandals. ‘Be awfully sophisticated to sit here watching the last of the sunset with you, but I promised Daddy I’d boil up the bones from the duck carcass. Duck soup. Don’t know if that’s bathos or pathos or something like it – we learned it in school last term.’ She pulled her cloche straw hat on and looked down at him, blinking heavily. ‘I liked it awfully today. Tomorrow?’

  Anthony put his fingers around her smooth ankle and nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Julia, and her smile was brilliant. ‘What a summer it’ll be.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  London, August 1990

  Oh, the lovely newness of the carpet! And the curtains: a peacock-feather pattern in gorgeous purple, turquoise and pale green, in a heavy printed silk bought from Liberty in a rash splashing of cash she’d received for an album, and so expensive but there they were, in the wide bay windows of her beautiful new flat, and they looked gorgeous. ‘Last you a lifetime, those will,’ the curtain fitter had observed as he packed away his things. ‘I guarantee you’ll still be drawing these when you’re seventy.’

  Cord was amused that he thought she’d still be drawing the same curtains in the same flat in forty-five years’ time. Yet, as she looked around the place on the night before she left for the Bosky, she had to admit she rather liked the idea. She was in love with her home of six months and now, when she was away, she longed to be back there playing house: being a grown-up and listening to the (new glossy black stereo) radio in her (brand new blue velvet) dressing gown, smelling the fresh air through the open French windows mingling with the faintly delicious smell of paint. The place had been thoroughly redecorated before she took up residence, having previously been the home for many years of a housebound old lady who had eventually died there. Cord had kept the Arts and Crafts touches – the leaded windows with curlicue latches, the curving door handles, the fireplace with its sunflower tiles – but had rid herself of everything else and any associations with the previous owner. She had the whole place painted in light colours, creams, fawns, blues and yellows. She wanted it to be sunny, and warm, and safe, like the Bosky had been when she was little, only this was her place, earned with her money. When her friend Amanda, a fellow singer, had seen it she’d said, ‘Cord, you could have a new career doing up flats.’

  ‘Oh, I absolutely loved it.’ Cord had rubbed her hands and smiled. ‘If the singing lark fails, maybe I should.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ Amanda, fresh from another failed audition, had said drily. ‘Cordelia Wilde, fallen on hard times, becomes an interior decorator. Highly likely.’

  It was a fresh slate, empty and waiting for her to make it into a home. She would have musical evenings. Crowd the walls with photos, fill the shelves with books. She would invite her family round: Mumma would come now the sitcom had ended, they’d go to galleries together and come back here for tea. Mads and Ben’s children, if they ever materialised, should know the place as well as their own home. There was a dear cupboard in the hall with a heart cut out of it, where she’d keep her new little suitcase, ready to be picked up or dumped when she got back from trips abroad. There were heart-shaped hooks on the door for coats, and a turn-of-the-century hall table for her new telephone and a beautiful art nouveau mirror above it, which she’d found at an estate sale in Glasgow before a recital – it had been in a Charles Rennie Mackintosh house. There was a fridge in which she always kept a spare bottle of champagne, and tins of pâté and biscuits in the little cupboard above. On the newly painted mantelpiece only one housewarming card had been allowed to remain, from Ben. A picture of Agnetha in silk knickerbockers, cut out from a newspaper or a book, glued on to card.

  Dearest Cordy, you Super Trouper, Ben had written inside in his difficult hand. Wishing you many happy years in your beautiful new flat. With all our love B&M. The postmark was Los Angeles.

  The little suitcase stood by the door now, all packed, but this time she was going away to the Bosky, early the following morning. Cord couldn’t wait. Summer in the city, even in her quiet, leafy part of West Hampstead, was still torture, every year, for a girl who had grown up spending July and August in jelly shoes, running in and out of the sea. Lately, for the first time she could remember, she had been feeling tired after performances, her throat hurting. She was twenty-six; she had been performing non-stop for six years. Her diary was booked up as far ahead as 1993, with engagements at concert halls and opera houses around the world. The previous week, she had sung the role of Countess Almaviva for the fortieth time – she kept a record of every performance in a black leather notebook, true to the Cordy of old who loved lists and order. She wasn’t bored – never that, she could never be bored of singing. But lately, she was bored of herself. Of talking about herself all the time, of thinking about her own voice. Being the star gave you an inflated view of your own importance. She told herself it’d be good to get to the Bosky, be one of a crowd again. See Mads, have a proper chat with her, find out how she was – the last time she’d seen her, too long ago now, Cord had known things weren’t quite right.

  She was heading for the kitchen to treat herself to a single glass of wine when the phone rang and she answered, wondering who it could be – it was nine-thirty, a little late for a call.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ben?’ came the voice. ‘Hello, is that Mads?’

  The response was instant: Cord felt her body tense, stiffen.

  ‘Who is this?’ she said, sliding one finger into the phone cord, staring at herself in the new mirror. She wasn’t used to it and saw herself then as a stranger: free for once of stage make-up; her flushed high cheekbones, mouth partly open in surprise, the hair, wild, thick, dark, down her shoulders, her back. I am slim, she found herself thinking. I am not a stocky ten-year-old. I am that willowy girl in the mirror. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong Wilde. This isn’t Ben’s—’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Oh, God. Cord. I’m so sorry. Of course, I know you’re not your brother. I looked his number up in the phone book – I must have dialled you by mistake.’

  She said, ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘You know it’s me?’

  ‘Yes, Hamish,’ she said, trying to sound chirpy. ‘Of course I knew it was you.’

  ‘This is wonderful.’ His voice was warm, soft, liquid. She pressed the phone closer to her ear. ‘How are you, Cordy?’

  The front door buzzer sounded – she pressed it, swiftly. ‘Absolutely fine. Great,’ she amended. ‘I’ve just moved. Enjoying summer. Trying to avoid catching a cold, oh, and mad cow disease of course . . . Got some new flip-flops. Um—’ She flushed.

  ‘Still singing?’ There was a silence. ‘Jesus, what a stupid question. I’m sorry. I’m flustered. You’ve made me flustered, Cordelia, but you know, you always did.’

  She laughed – she couldn’t help it.

  Was he still as blonde as ever? With the smattering of freckles, and the pale grey eyes? And the dimple in his chin, and the smile, that smile . . . Footsteps thundered up the stairs towards her, and Cord cleared her throat. ‘Oh, you flirt.’ But that wasn’t fair – he wasn’t, hadn’t ever been; he wasn’t a player, hadn’t ever been. ‘How are you? How’s – is it Sunita?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. She’s fine, thank you. We’re back in the UK now. Our daughter is almost one, Cordy, one year old.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Lovely. What her name?’

  ‘Amabel,’ he said.

  ‘Annabel?’

  ‘Amah. Amabel.’

  ‘I heard you. Annabel. How lovely.’

  ‘No. Ah-muh for mother. Amabel. Amabel Hester Chaudri-Lowther.’

  Cord found she was almost glad to feel that this was ridiculous. She wanted to snigger, to say, What kind of
a name is Amabel? She wanted to find him silly, stupid, not her kind of person. Before, he’d been her kind of person, the one who was entirely good. ‘Um – lovely,’ she said dumbly again, and she turned away from the mirror.

  ‘Her – Sunita chose Amabel. She wanted something Scottish.’

  ‘Amabel is a beautiful name.’

  ‘Yes. Cordy . . .’ He trailed off. ‘Why are we saying Amabel over and over? I’ve now lost all meaning of it. You’ve made me lose all sense of my own daughter’s name. Good grief.’

  ‘Honey?’ came a loud, deep voice behind her. ‘I got fish and chips. Is that right? I went to a place near Marylebone. This guy, the guy in the shop put vinegar on it, I told him I wasn’t sure. But he did and—’

  Jay, beautiful, barely out of breath after four flights of steps, standing in front of her, holding aloft a white plastic bag taut with takeaway food. He grimaced when he saw her on the phone and whispered.

  ‘I’ll wait in there.’ He pointed.

  ‘Thanks,’ Cord mouthed.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, and as she turned back to the phone he came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her neck, his skin against hers. She saw the two of them in the reflection, his dark skin pressed against her pale body. ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘I ought to go,’ said Cord, into the phone, as Jay applied himself to kissing her neck.

  ‘Yes, you’ve someone round. He’s rather hungry by the sounds of it,’ said Hamish and Cord smiled, and her heart ached, and she shifted her weight from one foot to another, pushing Jay away.

  ‘Did you want me to give Ben a message? I’m seeing him tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s only about the script. I wanted to talk to him – tell him I’m not sure how I’ll climb that scaffolding in heels.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m joking. It was a joke.’

  ‘Oh – I – sorry,’ Cord apologised. ‘I—’

  ‘I’m nervous,’ he said. ‘So stupid.’

  They were both silent, neither sure what to say next. In the kitchen, Jay whistled as he took the food out of the bag. She watched his coffee-coloured arms lift, move, his muscles work as he opened cupboards, removed plates. Later, she would have Jay on the new bed with the new blue-and-yellow patterned duvet, peeling his clothes off slowly, revelling in his body, his hands, his difference to her. She would leave him behind in bed tomorrow morning as she left for the Bosky, and she wouldn’t know when she’d see him next. That was how it worked.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said quietly. ‘Hamish – it was lovely to talk to you again.’

  She could hear, at his end, a little voice, chirping in the background, something about a puppy. She strained to hear more, but he simply said, ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you again. Take care, sweet girl. Take care of yourself.’

  And the line went dead.

  ‘Hey. Come and eat,’ Jay called. Cord said nothing, and he repeated himself, his voice louder, till she shook herself, smiling up at him.

  ‘Sorry.’

  They’d been on and off for over two years now. She had met him in Chicago when they appeared opposite each other in La Traviata. Professor Mazzi, always pessimistic, had warned her against him. ‘Jay Washington. No! He will steal the show from you.’ But her agent and the Chicago opera were both incredibly keen and they had been right, Professor Mazzi wrong, and she was glad to ignore him, glad to be able to say, I know what I’m doing, just butt out for once. He always knew best, and it annoyed her, sometimes.

  The chemistry between her and Jay was electric, the revival of an old, old touring production acclaimed to the rafters. Jay was from Detroit, and the combination of the local boy and the English star had been potent. They queued round the block for returns.

  And he was like her – he didn’t want anything more than sex, which he took immensely seriously, and the added benefit of companionship. When he was in Europe, he’d come over, or she’d fly out to see him, if she felt like it, and wasn’t sick of flying, of never being home. That was before the new flat. Now, she could no more see Jay on the sofa next to her in ten years’ time than she could her and the Prince of Wales. The two of them, watching TV, pushing a trolley around Waitrose – no.

  She watched him humming something lightly to himself – he was always singing, like she was. He’d never met her family. She knew he had a sister in Oakland and a mother still in Detroit. He sent her money every month and Jay claimed she’d promised him she’d up and die if he ever brought a white girl home. She knew he’d lost his dad in an accident when he was five. That he liked steak dinners, and English football, and walking in city parks – he loved open spaces. Wherever they were he’d make her go with him to the local park, and they’d walk through the Borghese Gardens together in autumn, or Hyde Park in Sydney when they were together in Tosca, and most of all he loved Regent’s Park.

  ‘It’s so English.’ ‘It’s hilarious, it’s so British.’ ‘It’s like Mary Poppins.’

  He said something like this every time and every time it annoyed Cord, and he’d laugh at her.

  Now, Jay looked up as she watched him, watched the new curtains stir faintly in the breeze. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. That was . . .’ She trailed off.

  ‘Old boyfriend, right?’

  ‘Actually, yes, it was.’ She came in and put the plates down on the table.

  ‘Hah!’ Jay clapped his hands. ‘I knew it. So he’s been down to your place by the seaside, I bet. I bet you took him to meet your parents. I bet you let him screw you down there.’

  She shook her head, smiling. ‘He knew my father. I met him down there. And yes, I let him screw me down there.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jay was fascinated by her family, the fact that her father was Anthony Wilde, that he was a sir. He opened the fish from its paper bag. ‘Oh, OK.’

  ‘Daddy invited him down. They were into that, picking people up, bringing them into the circle. Hamish’s fiancée ran off with someone. Daddy felt sorry for him.’

  Jay shrugged. ‘The guy kinda sounds like a sap.’

  ‘He’s not.’ She smiled. ‘He’s nice. The nicest man I ever knew.’

  ‘That’s so fucking rude when I’m right here,’ said Jay, unperturbed, and she grinned at him. He piled chips into his mouth. ‘You guys. Your French fries are gross, but they’re incredible at the same time. You British are so weird with your food, you make something called pease pudding that looks like yellow diarrhoea and yet you also make this. This – it’s amazing. So, what went wrong then? You and Sap Guy, I mean.’

  ‘He wanted to make me happy,’ Cord said, almost to herself. ‘That’s what went wrong. He wanted to look after me and I was too young, and he was older, and it wasn’t right.’ She sat down at the little dinner table, and poured them both some wine. Jay shook his head, and pushed his glass away, but she drank from hers, feeling the ache in her voice numb a little as the alcohol slid down her throat.

  ‘That’s a cop-out, honey,’ said Jay, wolfing down more fish. ‘He just wasn’t right for you, that’s all.’

  Cord stared out of the window. ‘No. I wasn’t right for him.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘Ha, ha! Are you honest?’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Are you fair?’

  ‘What means your lordship?’

  ‘That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.’

  ‘Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?’

  ‘Ay, truly— Hm, Althea.’

  ‘Yes, darling?’ Althea’s tone was slightly acid. Tony put his hand on her arm.

  ‘Wonderful, it’s really wonderful.’

  ‘But . . .?’

  ‘A little more coquettish. She’s hard, Ophelia.’

  ‘She’s being driven mad by Hamlet, Tony. She’s not hard.’

  Tony was nodding seriously, not listening. ‘Yes, yes. If you could just try it my way—’

  Althea gave a small, pointed sigh. �
��I’ll add more, if you really feel – But Delia should do it herself, in rehearsal.’

  Tony nodded absently and bent over to write a note. Althea left the sentence unfinished, and let the paperback of the play drop on to the swinging chair. She ran a hand along the back of her neck, up and over the orange-and-black scarf tied around her shining hair. Tony glanced up then at his wife, and Cord saw with a start how his eyes rested on her with something like annoyance – perhaps even indifference. She might have been a stranger, invited in to read the part with him.

  It’s all fake, all of this. The black-and-white photographs lining the walls of the Bosky seemed to have multiplied in size the last few times she’d been down. A tapestry showing how wonderful it had once been: a young Mumma and Daddy hand in hand on the beach, the children on the steps of the hut, Olivia and Guy and Bertie sitting on the porch with Martinis, Mads and Ben on their wedding day – all so relaxed, so casual, you had to look ever so closely to see the careful way they’d been staged, how Tony and Althea were always perfectly groomed, looking gorgeous. There weren’t any photographs up there of Althea late at night with smudged eyeliner, or Tony kissing the hired singing teacher, or Ben’s left hand with the missing fingers . . . It was rather wretched sitting here pretending everything was all right. Ben’s face was blank and tired and Mads was stranger than ever, wired tight and impossible to talk sensibly to.

  She had arrived after lunch. Madeleine had gone into Swanage in the morning and bought crabs. They’d eaten them that evening with mayonnaise she’d made herself. ‘So in case you were wondering, no, I’m not,’ she’d said with her strained, sad smile. Cord hadn’t understood.

  ‘What did she mean about “No, I’m not?”’ she asked her mother as they washed up later, when Mads and her father were outside on the porch making desultory conversation, and Ben had gone off to bed for an early night.