Charlie collected the tickets from the box office, and they headed together up the frosted-glass staircase. The bar at the top was half-full with early arrivals, and the sun crashed through the white iron and glass of the vaulted roof. Drinks were ordered, and they settled at a table with a view of the city. The buildings of a dozen ages and the irregular roofs of countless shops, offices, flats, theatres, and secret spaces stretched out below them.
“What an amazing sight,” said Evie. “Our grandparents used to bring us here when we were children, but they were strict opera buffs. We never came up to the bar. I think they would have thought it was a waste of time when we could be downstairs studying the programme!”
He laughed. “You’ll be telling me you brought your own sandwiches next.”
“We did! We really did! They were serious high culture vultures, and I didn’t know that it was so amazing up here. You can see everything. It is like being on Parliament Hill but warm and glamorous and not windy. Are you a regular?”
“Not as regular as I’d like to be. I like it here,” he said leaning back in his chair. His long, fit body stretched out before her, casually. Evie took another sip of her wine. “And I like the opera and the ballet, although I don’t think anyone would call me a buff. I just enjoy it, you know? I don’t really understand it.”
“I know just what you mean. But…well, I don’t go often, but when I do, I don’t really try to understand it. I love the way you can really sit and think while you are watching.”
“Sure, of course. Don’t worry, I won’t be asking you questions about it later. This isn’t a late night talk show on Radio 3.”
They laughed, and she felt something deep inside her relax and unravel like a ribbon from a gift. She took another sip from her cold, white wine and felt it coursing around inside her, loosening her up.
***
“So, did you say that it is your cousin and his girlfriend we are meeting?”
“Yes—Peter—and the girlfriend is Tatiana. She is Ukrainian, and between you and me, she is a bit out of Peter’s league. He and I are about the same age, and he grew up in London as well, so we have been hanging around together all our lives. He is great really. He’s kind, and he’s loyal and funny in a bumbling kind of way. He is almost comically English.”
“Well, it must be nice to have family you can go out with. I have an uncle and aunt who live in Putney, but apart from them, it is just me and Clemmie.”
“Really?” His conscience twitched slightly to think of Simon’s genogram back at the office, stretching out in all directions with uncles and aunts and cousins multiple times removed. It appalled him to think he knew more about her family than she did. “You must have other family. You just don’t know them, right? Don’t they say that we are all sixth cousins or similar?”
“Well, I guess so, but I don’t know who they are. They might be living next door. How funny would that be?”
He wanted to ask her about her parents, but he guessed that it wasn’t a happy story, and he couldn’t bear to break the joy of her mood. Her beautiful smile took over her face, and her small body was electrified with the anticipation of the evening. He didn’t dare imagine that he might be the cause of her excitement. He thought of the endless drawings and paintings of ballerinas and knew why she was so glad to be there. He was about to ask about her interest in ballet when she spoke again.
“Actually, I guess, I know that I do have other relations because…well, there is this weird trust thing that I know about. I get…well, I know that there must be other family out there, but I don’t know anything about them. We get…well, we hear from this trust every year. Clemmie and I, and so did my mum before she died. So I guess that there must be family out there. I’ve never really thought about it. My mum didn’t really talk about her family.”
Charlie couldn’t help but look away slightly. Not for the first time since meeting her, he wondered at himself and what he had become. The old Charlie would have been questioning and subtly pumping her for information. He would be leading her in a charming dance in which she would reveal everything she knew. She wouldn’t even have known, but by the end of the conversation, he would have all the information he needed. As it was, the thought of the Darcy Trust sent a shudder through him, and he did not want to waste time with her talking about it.
“You can’t stop my mum talking about family. She is a non-stop, self-taught genealogist, and we get to hear about it the whole time.”
“Does she live in London?”
“Berkshire. It’s where she is from. She lives in a nursing home. She has a problem with her legs, and my dad died a few years ago. She isn’t in great shape bodywise, but her mind is fine, and unfortunately for the staff, she has an iPad and access to the internet. That is how the whole family history thing started. Speaking of family…”
***
Evie looked up and saw a man in bright red trousers ambling towards them with a huge grin on his face. On his arm was a tiny woman who was waving frantically. You could see that he was related to Charlie; he had the same wavy brown hair, and there was a similarity about his nose and the way his eyes wrinkled as he smiled. But that was where it stopped. Peter was a kindly looking, presentable guy. Charlie…there was a magnetic force about him, and she didn’t know whether to be frightened or just to relax and trust her luck.
Introductions were exchanged, and it was immediately obvious that spending an evening with Peter and Tatiana would be no hardship. Everyone was excited about the performance. Tatiana was the only one of them who had seen Onegin before, but that was in Kiev. While Charlie and Evie had been talking, the place had filled up. The floors of the bar and foyer swarmed with feet clicking about in strappy sandals, and silk scarves of all colours had been slung over chair backs. Women touched up their lipstick in the loo, and men leaned over the bar, giving their orders to the staff who strained to hear over the din. Before long, it was announced that the performance was about to begin, and the crowd started herding towards the auditorium. People around them ran to the cloakroom to deposit bags and fumble around in their purses for tickets. Charlie handed Evie her ticket, and she tried not to think of the eye-watering price on the front of it. She noticed that the name on the tickets was “C. Haywood” and wondered at his story that his cousin had bought these tickets and then given them away because his parents couldn’t use them.
“Ready?” He smiled at her.
“Let’s go.” She smiled back and wondered whether she was imagining the suggestion of a hand near the small of her back as she walked slightly ahead of him through the crowd to their places. The four of them plumped down in the red flap-down seats, and Evie leant back, luxuriating in the sight of the vast curtained stage before her.
When the curtain rose, light, colour, movement, and verve screamed into the space in front of them. Lithe, powerful bodies bolted about, and the sound of their feet on the floor was like a dozen heartbeats. Evie felt lifted up by the energy. She could just make out the head of the conductor bobbing away beneath the stage, and the swell of the music seemed to sweep her up. Her mind went back to the paintings that Charlie had said he would buy, and she continued planning the frame that she would make for one of them. Unconsciously, she was almost drawing a picture on her knee with the end of her finger when she realised that Charlie was looking at her. She smiled palely in the murky light of the auditorium, and he looked away. His leg was by her leg, and his arm was by her arm. His proximity to her was real. It made her face burn. It made her feel things, and she wondered what she was supposed to do about it.
As the lights went up at the end of the first act, Evie felt the usual rush of exhilaration. They stood, and Charlie suggested they head out and up to the bar. The crowd had already begun surging down the aisles and staircases.
“Do you think we will get served? There are so many people here,” said Evi
e.
“I have already ordered the drinks,” replied Charlie reaching into his pocket for his iPhone that, unbeknownst to her, had been vibrating away for the last ten minutes of the performance. When he got into the corridor, he looked at it and saw that he had a missed call from his mother’s nursing home, and knowing that he had to call back, told the others that he’d catch up as he walked towards the main entrance to get some signal.
Peter held his arms out to Tatiana and Evie. “Well, look at that. A beautiful woman on each arm. Come on ladies, let’s go and find our drinks.”
The three of them ambled up to the bar, talking about the performance, Tatiana’s commentary by far the most informed. Soon they were installed at their table, sipping drinks and smiling at the old ladies who came in ball gowns and the teenagers who preferred skinny jeans and Doc Martens.
“But then you get all outfits here, don’t you?” said Peter. “Now, my mum, she wouldn’t be seen here without a long dress, but that is just her generation, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” answered Evie. “How is your mum, Peter?”
A look of confusion crossed his face. “Erm, she’s fine thanks.”
“I hope she’s not too sorry about missing the performance.”
“Erm…” Peter wracked his mind to recall what element of Charlie’s strict instructions he had obviously forgotten. He wasn’t sure. “No, not too sorry.” He hedged his bets. Wanting desperately to change the subject, he went for an obvious question. “So how did you come to meet my reprobate cousin?”
“He came to an exhibition that I…well, that I was at as well, and we met there.”
“Oh, that sounds very civilised. I didn’t know that he was an art exhibition kind of chap. Mind you, come to that, we did take my parents to a show at the Royal Academy, but that was a few years ago. I didn’t know that he was really into it.”
Something started off in Evie’s mind like an alarm sounding in the distance. She strained to hear it.
“He collects art, doesn’t he?”
“Collects it? I…well…I don’t know. He has a couple of nice pictures up in the flat but one of those I know for a fact belonged to his dad. Maybe he has started collecting things. He hasn’t told me. I’ll have to ask him about it. That’s the thing with Charlie: he can turn his hand to anything. He’s got such a mind—photographic memory you know. With his brains, he could have done anything, but in some ways he’s a funny chap. Likes to plough his own furrow. He’s so intelligent, but my parents have always said that he wastes his talents with this snooping business of his.”
“Snooping?”
“Well, that’s what they call it, but that’s because they disapprove. Doesn’t bother me. I say. ‘To each his own,’ and nobody could deny that he has made a success of it. You know, he’s a self-made man, and he’s got it all. The swanky flat, the shiny car, women throwing themselves at him—”
Peter stopped, coloured, and reached for his drink. He wasn’t an intuitive man, but he knew that was the wrong thing to say. He searched around for a fresh direction.
“Actually, I always fancied getting involved myself, but you can’t ask your cousin for a job, can you? Anyway, I would worry that I am not discrete enough for it.”
Thoughts and questions started unfolding in Evie’s head. She recalled that he had practically run away from her when she brushed him off at the gallery and never really said exactly what kind of art he collected or how he started out. He had known that Clemmie was short for Clementine, but she hadn’t told him. He had paid for the ticket and pretended not to have done. He obviously had money, but she had no idea where from. Now Peter was talking, and it was like the babble of a foreign language. Snooping? Disapproving? Discretion? What did it all mean? She felt a tremble in her fingers and tightened her grip on her wine glass to stop it.
“Must be fun though, don’t you think? All that secret cloak and dagger stuff. I must admit that, before he started it up, I didn’t think that private detectives really existed.”
“Private detectives?”
“Yes, you know. Trilby hats, big mackintoshes, oversized magnifying glasses.”
He squinted with one eye and peered at her. She felt momentarily as though she were in a cartoon.
“I thought they were the sort of thing that you got in novels and films but not in real life. In fact, it turns out there’s a whole world of the buggers. And he gets sent on all sorts of assignments, you know. A lot of it is matrimonial. Marital problems of the super-rich. You know, husbands checking up on their wives and that sort of caper. Although there is other work as well.”
She wanted to take a sip of her wine for strength, but she could not move. She knew in her bones that there was a grave error here, an untruth, laughing at her. It was more than the fact that he had not told her what he did for a living. People must do that all the time, and maybe he was embarrassed. But there was cruelty in his saying he was a collector when he wasn’t. It was malicious. The unkindness of it crept over her, and she wanted to get out.
“In fact, he was telling me only the other night that he’s got the strangest case he’s ever had land on his desk. A really odd business. It seems that there is this trust set up by some fella from the dim and distant that pays out to all of his female descendants. Now this has been going on since forever, but Charlie has been approached by one of the women who is convinced that two of her relations, two sisters living in Fulham, I think he said, are receiving the money when they shouldn’t be. Story about someone or other being illegitimate or some such. So there is Charlie, raking about in the history of this family, trying to prove that these two women aren’t really supposed to get anything. Apparently, it is going to be a tricky one to prove, but if anyone can do it, Charlie can. He’s that sort of chap. Personally, I wouldn’t know where to start—”
He looked up, and she feared that her face betrayed her. Her mind darted, and she felt her pulse quicken. Her palms dampened with sweat, and she pressed them to her dress. She told herself to be calm, but how could she be? It was shaming to think that she had sat here gaily telling him about the trust only an hour ago. It couldn’t be a coincidence. It was mind-bendingly confusing, but it wasn’t a coincidence. She remembered how he had deftly led her to the subject of family history, how he had subtly asked her about her finances, and how he had turned up at the gallery and then at the studio and jumped at the chance of lunch with her and her sister. The thought of him sitting at their dining table, while all the time he was working against them, made her shudder. Her head throbbed. She reached for her clutch and stood.
“I’m sorry, Peter, Tatiana. It was nice to meet you, but I have to go.” She didn’t wait for their replies, turned, and was gone.
Her gold ballet pumps pounded the floor down the stairs, through the foyer, and out onto the street. It was still light, but a duskiness hung in the air like a scent. A street acrobat somersaulted a few feet in front of her, and his audience clapped. A woman eating outside in a nearby restaurant cackled at a joke and dropped her fork on the ground. Evie felt sick, angry, and lonely. She recalled the cash that she had stuffed in her bag, ran across the cobbled square to the strand, and held her hand out for a cab. The memory of how he had made her feel turned to shreds. She thought of the make-up and the too expensive dress. She wanted to rip it off and throw it in the Thames.
“Lots Road, please.”
“’Course, love.”
She sat in the cab and tried not to cry. She saw the driver glance at her in the mirror and could tell from his expression that he knew she had had a bad evening. He could not have guessed how bad. The city whipped past. Lights were on and revellers were about, but it looked grey and joyless to her. She could not even process what Peter had said. It was crazy. Nobody could know about that trust except the people who got money from it and the lawyers who dealt with it. A memory
crept back to her, like sunrise through drawn curtains, of her mum sitting her down on her eighteenth birthday and explaining that she would be getting this income for life—and Clemmie too. Mum called it their Darcy money and said it was like pennies from heaven, like gold dust, and it had saved their bacon a million times. Spend it on important things, she had said. Don’t waste it; use it to make your life better; use it to make things happen that otherwise wouldn’t. Her own mother had said to her, however many decades previously, that she was not to spend it all on stockings and chocolate, which, Evie concluded, amounted to much the same advice.
The Darcy money had been Evie’s blessing in a sea of misfortune. It paid for Clemmie’s care and treatment in specialist centres. It paid for physical therapy and speech therapy and the endless slopes and bars and lifts and gadgets that had been required for them to remain in their home—to say nothing of the fact that it was the Darcy money that enabled Evie to work as an artist and follow her dream instead of the requirements of her circumstances. It was the thing that saved her from being Clemmie’s full-time, life-long caregiver. How could it be that they were to be disinherited, disentitled? What kind of ill wind had blown this man into her life: a stranger who lied to her about who he was, followed her about, and spied on her to trick her out of money she needed? The spirit-crushing dishonesty of it blindsided her.
Her phone started to buzz in her clutch, and when she looked, it said “Charlie Haywood calling.” She rejected the call, and moments later, a text arrived.
It’s not what you think. Please can I call you?
The cab turned into the King’s Road and sailed into Fulham, the pastel-coloured doors of home streets unfolding all about her. When the house came into view with its ramps and bars glistening in the orange sodium stream of the streetlight, she felt tears prick her eyes. Clemmie would be in bed, but she could see the lamp on in the sitting room and the shape of Milena moving about within. She couldn’t go in crying. She moved the flap back on the driver’s cab.
The Elizabeth Papers Page 10
