‘I can’t do this right now, Julia,’ he says. ‘Like you say, I’ve got a lot to sort out.’
I watch him walking away from me and up the stairs towards his office. When he’s gone, I stand there for a moment deflated, staring at the stairs. Eventually I turn around and walk back out towards Hyde Park.
*
As I walk down Knightsbridge, avoiding Kensington Palace Gardens, my phone rings.
‘Julia, where are you and why are there more journalists on your doorstep?’ Pen shouts in my ear.
‘You’re here early,’ I reply.
‘I told them they were trespassing and managed to shift them on, but I’d give it a while before you go home. They’re persistent aren’t they?’
‘Have you not seen the tabloids this morning?’
‘No not yet, why?’
‘Go and buy yourself a paper, catch up on the gossip and meet me for a coffee somewhere?’
‘Shall we go to that nice Italian at the end of your road?’
‘No.’ I’m tempted – Marco’s coffee is excellent – but I’ve managed to avoid Marco since the wedding. He’s bound to have so many opinions on everything that I just can’t face it. For all I know he’s the ‘source close the family’ although I don’t really believe that. Edwin’s probably right that there isn’t a source at all. I bet it’s all made up. ‘Meet me in the café in Kensington High Street tube station,’ I say to Pen.
She’s already there when I arrive, coffee cup gripped in one hand, eyes glued to the paper.
‘Bloody hell,’ she says, looking up at me as I sit down. ‘This is all bollocks though surely?’
‘There must be some truth in it. I don’t think they’re allowed to just make up anything.’
She makes a derogatory snorting noise and gets up to buy me a coffee.
‘What does Edwin say?’ she asks as she bangs a latte down in front of me. You wouldn’t think she served coffee for a living.
‘Not much. He’s furious and upset and I think I made everything worse.’ I realise I haven’t had a chance to talk to her properly since before Mum’s wedding. I tell her about the wedding, about how Edwin nearly kissed me. And then I tell her what happened at his office.
She shrugs. ‘Sounds like you’re both just tired and overwhelmed. This is huge, Julia, for both of you. Your story, which you’ve only just found out, has been splashed all over the newspapers and now his past has been dragged up too. You’re just going to have to be patient and let the dust settle.’
I rest my head on my arms and groan.
‘It’s been quite a summer hasn’t it?’ Pen says quietly.
‘It’s not over yet,’ I say. ‘We’ve still got this Art Salon to launch.’
‘And your new business.’ Pen grins.
‘I don’t know if I can do it.’
‘Of course you can. You don’t think you can now, but you just need a bit of space and some sleep and then you need to talk to Edwin, preferably before this Art Salon launches.’
‘But I’m just not sure we’ll get back to how we were at Mum’s wedding. It feels as though that was a moment in time, lost for ever.’
‘Do you like this guy?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want that moment back?’
‘More than I thought possible.’
‘Then you have to tell him how you feel!’
‘Like you’ve told Graeme how you feel,’ I reply.
‘That’s different. Graeme is moving away to live his dream. I can’t interfere with that.’
‘No, but you could go with him.’
She doesn’t say anything. She just stares at the bottom of her coffee cup as though there is something fascinating there.
‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ I say. ‘I’ll talk to Edwin if you talk to Graeme.’
‘I talk to Graeme every day,’ she replies.
‘Talk to him about how you feel.’
She looks at me for a moment, then shakes her head slightly. ‘How can I?’ she asks. ‘It’s too late. I should have told him months ago. Years ago.’
I look away from her. ‘It’s never too late, Pen. Not until you’re dead anyway. If my dad had got in touch even the week before he died it would have been better than not at all.’ Pen doesn’t say anything for a while and I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve said too much when I feel her hand on my shoulder.
‘Deal,’ she says in a quiet voice.
I turn back to her, surprised. ‘Really?’
‘Yup. If you talk to Edwin, I’ll talk to Graeme,’ she says. ‘But I do have two conditions.’
‘Yes?’
‘Firstly, an invitation to this Art Salon launch. Which I’m presuming you were intending to invite me to but it’s just slipped your mind. If things go well, I’ll bring Graeme. If they don’t I’ll drink all the free champagne. I presume there will be free champagne?’
‘Obviously.’
‘And secondly, can you go home and have a shower, please? You stink. The journalists are bound to have shifted on by now.’
6th June 1985
My dearest daughter,
I didn’t think I’d be writing to you from the hospital this year. I have two black eyes and a concussion. It’s not my finest hour.
I got drunk, very drunk. I don’t really remember what happened. The last thing I know I was having a quick drink with some friends and then I woke up in the hospital. Apparently, I stepped out in front of a taxi. I have no recollection.
I swore I’d stop when you were born, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to stop enough. I thought I could have just one or two but I can’t. I thought being a father would mean I’d automatically change, that I’d suddenly become someone who could have one drink without having another and another and another…
Thinking like that has landed me in hospital and landed me with even less chance of your mother letting me see you again.
So tomorrow I’m going to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. I’m just going to see what it’s like. I don’t have much faith in myself. I’ve failed rehab twice before, but I do have faith in you and I do want to be the best version of myself I can for you.
So I’ll go to a meeting tomorrow and see; take it one day at a time. At least then I’ll know I gave it a chance.
Happy Birthday, Princess.
Your Father
Chapter 26
‘Did Bruce ever fall off the wagon?’ I ask Frank. We’re in the Notting Hill flat sorting through paintings, clearing the place out. We’re looking for just a few more paintings to display at the opening of the Art Salon, although I’m trying not to think about that too much.
Rain is lashing against the windows outside, our long hot summer just a memory. When I take a deep breath in, I can smell autumn on its way already and a sense of nostalgia washes over me, nostalgia for the summer that has gone and the things that might have been.
Frank looks at me, smiling. ‘Oh he fell off the wagon many times. Most of them spectacularly.’
‘No, I didn’t mean back then. I meant after I was born. After he started going to AA meetings and working the steps.’ I smile self-consciously. ‘Sorry if that’s the wrong way to say it.’
‘No, working the steps is a pretty accurate turn of phrase.’ I forget sometimes that Frank is probably still working them. ‘But how do you know about that?’
‘It’s in the letters,’ I reply. ‘He wrote about his recovery sometimes. He seemed particularly enthusiastic about steps three and nine.’
Frank chuckles to himself and shakes his head. ‘Oh we’re all pretty enthusiastic about step nine.’ He pauses, ‘It was a funny thing to write to a child about.’
I shrug. ‘I guess he knew Mum would never let me read them anyway.’
‘Maybe she was right after all.’
I don’t answer that. Who knows what is wrong and what is right any more?
‘So di
d he?’ I ask again. ‘Did he fall off the wagon again? It’s just that Edw…’ I pause. I don’t want to talk about Edwin. ‘When I got the letters, some of them were missing.’
Frank stops sorting through the stack of paintings he’s working on and sits back on his heels.
‘He did, yes. Just once more, just after your eighteenth birthday. I don’t know what brought it on really but I think he’d been struggling for a while.’
‘He does mention a few times in the later letters that he was tempted to drink again and was having to go to AA meetings more frequently. There was a definite feeling that he’d given up in those last letters.’
‘You turning eighteen was difficult for him,’ Frank says, standing up and stretching his legs. ‘It was as though he’d lost you then, as though he had to set you free.’
I open my mouth to protest, to say that if I’d known I would have found him, to say that I’d spent half my life trying to find him. But Frank pre-empts me.
‘Nobody’s blaming you, Julia. To be honest these days I don’t think anyone was completely to blame. You must realise your father was as obstinate as your mother about all this.’
‘Why did he never come looking for me later? After I’d left London?’
Frank sighs. ‘Honestly I have no idea. I think he felt he’d be a huge disappointment to you. Or worse, that you wouldn’t want to see him.’ That’s pretty much what Edwin told me weeks ago. I don’t know why I keep asking the question because it seems that nobody really knew what my father was thinking, or why he did the things he did. Frank comes towards me and pulls me into a hug.
‘I wish I knew more,’ I say into his chest. ‘I was hoping the missing letters might turn up here in his flat, but it doesn’t look like they’re going to.’
He pulls away from me and turns back to the flat. ‘Shall we keep looking?’ he says. ‘You never know.’
The flat is looking so much better than it did when I first saw it back in June. It’s so much bigger than it seemed. The morning sunshine streams in through the huge windows, which are badly in need of a good clean, and every time I come here I love it a little bit more.
‘What are you going to do with this place when we’ve cleared it out?’ Frank asks.
‘I’m thinking of living in it,’ I say, surprising myself. It really is a decision I’ve only made this morning as the true beauty of the flat has started to become apparent.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. At first I was thinking of staying in Campden Hill Road. Mum and Johnny keep promising they’re going to move out, but I don’t think they will and I can’t live with my mother for ever. Edw…’ I pause again. ‘Apparently I could sell this place for about two million pounds but I don’t need that money, and I think it’s about time I lived by myself.’
Frank doesn’t say anything for a minute. ‘Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?’ he says suddenly.
‘What?’
‘That’s twice you’ve stopped yourself saying Edwin’s name in the last ten minutes. I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve done it since the wedding. The Art Salon launches in less than two weeks and you need to be there, which means you and Edwin need to sort this out.’
It’s been over a week since Mum’s wedding, over a week since I was in Jones & Cartwright, over a week since I last saw Edwin and I miss him overwhelmingly. I miss talking to him every day; I miss knowing he’s there if I need him. But mostly I can’t help feeling I’ve missed an opportunity to really take charge of my life, to let myself be happy. It’s hard to believe that only four months ago I didn’t even know he existed.
I’ve been doing that thing that I promised myself I wouldn’t do. I’ve been trying to bury my feelings about him, run away from them. I’ve hidden the Tiffany bracelet at the very back of my bottom drawer and I’ve hung the dress I was wearing at Mum’s wedding, which is still holding on to the expensive, spicy aroma of his aftershave, in the wardrobe in the bedroom at the top of the house where Mum used to hide her old headshots so I’m not tempted to sniff it. When I closed the wardrobe door I noticed that the pink boxes of headshots weren’t there any more. Everybody is moving on except me.
‘Julia?’
Frank is still talking to me, trying to get me to talk about Edwin. I need to snap out of this. I can’t bury my feelings; I can’t run away from them. I can’t let myself end up like my father.
I sit down on the floor and rest my head in my hands. ‘I’m so sorry, Uncle Frank,’ I say. ‘I just miss him so much and I’m so embarrassed. I was so rude to him when he was at such a low point, probably the one time he needed me more than I needed him.’
Frank comes and sits down next to me. ‘I know how important Edwin’s been in your life over the last few months, but don’t you see that is exactly the reason that you need to talk to him? Don’t make the mistakes your mother made. I know you can be as stubborn as she is.’
I don’t say anything about that, but I know there’s some truth in it.
‘Look,’ Frank continues, ‘I don’t want to be like Delph and Johnny, constantly trying to play matchmaker with you two. What you and Edwin choose to do with your lives is your business. But this launch is important to me, and I know it’s important to you, and I need you and Edwin onside to make it happen. Don’t make me play go-between, Julia. I spent enough of my life doing that with your parents.’
‘Does he ask about me?’
‘He asks if I’ve seen you. He pretends to be nonchalant about it but I can tell he’s fishing. Oh, and he needs you to choose what sort of floor you’d like in the studio.’
I smile despite myself.
‘There isn’t any truth in the rumours is there?’ I ask.
‘About Bruce and Edwin’s mother?’ Frank asks. ‘Of course not. Bruce did donate a lot of money to the rehab centre after Robert’s accident but it was because he cared about those boys so much, not because of anything else. Robert’s accident left us all feeling so helpless. Bruce just wanted to do whatever he could.’
‘How did the papers find out about that?’ I ask.
‘I’ve no idea. I suspect they put two and two together and made sixty.’
‘I can’t believe I blamed Edwin for this. I can’t believe I’ve ruined everything.’
‘I don’t think you have, Julia. You and Edwin both said things you regret last week but I think you both know it was just in the heat of the moment. I don’t think either of you meant any of it.’
‘Do you think he knows that?’
‘Probably, but you’ll have to talk to him to find out.’
I pull a face.
‘Look, Julia, you honestly have nothing to lose. Edwin doesn’t often let anyone break through his rather icy exterior. It’s a protection mechanism that he built up after Robert’s accident.’ I remember Edwin told me that after Mum’s wedding. ‘The only person other than my brother I’ve ever seen him open up to is you.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Go and see him. Go and see the studio. It’s looking fantastic. Apart from the fact it hasn’t got a floor.’
Chapter 27
I leave Frank in the flat with his brother’s paintings, promising him that I will call Edwin. Now I know he’s been asking about me, now I know that he misses me too, I don’t feel as embarrassed. Time to face my feelings. I have to phone him.
I decide to go home and have a shower as I’m covered in dust and grime from my father’s flat. Frank says Edwin’s at work so I’ll phone him there and ask him to meet me later at the studio. I should have been to see it last week. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn. Edwin and I said things last Monday in the heat of the moment, during an unbearably stressful time. I’m sure neither of us meant them. I certainly didn’t and those words have been eating me up inside for long enough.
As I’m getting ready, I see my sewing machine looking at me, judging me. I haven’t touched the sewing machine since the wed
ding either. I tried. I thought I’d throw myself into getting this business idea off the ground, especially if I’m meant to be launching it on the night we open the studio – I bought a website and opened an Etsy store, set up a Facebook group and played around with a few other procrastination tools, but try as I might I never got around to sewing anything. All the designs I’d been coming up with since this summer remained two-dimensional in my sketchbook. Without Edwin cheering me on it just doesn’t seem worth it. It’s almost as though he were my muse. Just like I was my father’s.
I wonder if it might be better to go and see him. He can ignore a phone call after all, especially if he’s busy. He can’t ignore me if I’m sitting there waiting for him, can he?
I take extra care getting ready. I blow-dry my hair, even though it’s raining, and do my make-up carefully. I dress in a navy-blue skirt and a blue and white striped shirt with a navy jacket over the top, all handmade by me. I might not have made any clothes over the last week or so but I have been working on being my brand. One day I’ll wear handmade every day. When I’m sure I’ve managed to achieve that look that lies somewhere between well put-together and ‘oh I just flung this on’, I head off to find a cab.
I’m excited at the prospect of seeing Edwin again and the butterflies dance in my stomach a little, after weeks of being supressed. I struggle with my umbrella as I head towards the High Street. It’s starting to come up for rush hour and the road is heaving. Taxis are beeping madly at each other as though that will make the traffic suddenly part like the Red Sea. Tourists on bikes weave in and out of the cars.
My mother thinks that London’s free bike scheme is the worst thing that’s ever happened to the city, up there with turning Kensington Market into a computer shop, and on days like this I’m inclined to agree with her. I’ve been running across Kensington High Street in rush hour since I was a teenager, but the bikes add a whole new dimension to the puzzle.
I start looking for a taxi with its light on. I spot one on the other side of the road so I start to cross, dodging behind the back of another cab and smiling to the Mercedes driver who lets me past. I’m almost at the other side of the road when, out of nowhere, a man on a rented bike lurches away from the kerb towards me. I’m aware of a sudden sharp pain in my side before the world turns black.
The Many Colours of Us Page 17
