With a drumming heart Ben picked up the phone again and asked his assistant to connect him to a new number. He waited nervously until the phone jangled and startled him.
‘Yes?’
‘I have Mr Wynter’s office for you.’
‘Thank you.’ He waited, dry-mouthed.
‘Hello, Mr Levi, this is Alex Wynter’s secretary.’
He knew his secretary would have mentioned his city law firm’s name. Wynter’s secretary shouldn’t be too hard to get past. Ben cleared his throat. ‘Is Mr Wynter available please? It’s . . . a personal call.’
‘May I ask you to hold the line for a moment, please?’
‘Of course.’
Breathe, he told himself as he waited and heard odd clicks and buzzes, and the distant echoes of voices that were tripping over phone lines.
‘I’ll put you through now, Mr Levi,’ she said, sounding suddenly loud in his ear.
‘Hello, this is Alex Wynter,’ came a familiar voice. Ben felt his throat tighten. No doubt now. It was Tom.
‘Mr Wynter. I’m um . . . Benjamin Levi,’ he said, saying his name carefully and listening for the reaction. He gave his firm’s name. Wynter didn’t interrupt. ‘I believe my father knew yours and as my old man hasn’t been well,’ he lied, ‘I thought I should make the effort on his behalf to convey our family’s condolences at your loss.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Wynter said, although Ben heard a note of soft irritation in his tone. ‘Coming up for a year ago now, Mr Levi.’ It sounded like an admonishment.
Ben had to think fast. ‘Yes, forgive me for raising it. It’s just his name came up in conversation and my father mentioned his regret at not passing on the family’s wishes at the time. I . . . er, well, I felt I should. Forgive me for calling, Mr Wynter, perhaps I should have written to you instead.’ Wynter said nothing on the other end and Ben licked his lips with the tense sound of silence punctuated only by the clicks and whirrs of the connection. ‘I don’t wish to press on a wound but my other reason for calling was to express my firm’s desire to offer our legal assistance should you ever require them,’ he said, finding himself on the more familiar turf of selling the firm’s services. ‘As our fathers go back well before the war, I thought it polite to ensure this generation kept the connection. No pressure, of course. I presume you have your legal counsel in place, Mr Wynter, but should you ever have the situation arise where you might wish some independent advice, please don’t hesitate.’ He blew out his breath silently, relieved that he had navigated his way through this treacherous path relatively well.
‘Thank you,’ Wynter replied, his tone more accommodating. ‘I’m sorry that I don’t recognise your family name. I was . . . well, away for the war and then was rather late in returning to my family, actually.’
‘Of course,’ Ben said. ‘I do wish you every success at the head of Wynter & Co.’
‘I appreciate that. Goodbye, Mr Levi.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Wynter.’ Good riddance, Tom. Ben permitted himself a smug smile after he took a sip of the tea, ignoring the notion that it tasted as cold as his heart felt.
_______________
Their first day rushed past Edie in what she could only describe as a tornado of colours, sounds, sights and tastes. Tommy was understandably exhausted and was now sleeping beneath the watchful eye of Madeleine’s old friend, Madame Charlotte.
Madame Charlotte was like a fat mother hen but she oozed style and wore scarlet without shame at sixty. She had her granddaughter, Juliet, staying for a couple of weeks and the twelve-year-old was enchanted by Tommy, keen to play and patiently feed him his evening meal.
Edie had observed the newcomers with her son and finally at eight, after watching him drift happily to sleep, she felt ready to leave.
‘Alors, shoo!’ Charlotte had chortled, waving her jewelled hands at Edie and Madeleine.
‘Tell her we shan’t be later than ten-thirty.’
Madeleine gave her a soft push of exasperation but still translated it.
‘Oui, je comprends,’ the woman said, nodding her understanding.
Edie hugged Madame Charlotte, blew a kiss to Juliet and allowed Madeleine to bundle her out of the top-floor apartment overlooking Rue de Renne and into the cool Parisian night. Edie looked back up at the soaring pale sandstone Haussmann building of the Left Bank where artistic folk liked to haunt the brasseries and bars of Montparnasse. She admired its elegance of delicate iron balconies curving around tall decorative windows, which punctuated the pale sandstone features. The street was alive with people and traffic and Edie had the notion that everyone looked as though they were enjoying themselves, whereas London traffic always felt urgent and distracted – people just headed from A to B. Paris appeared to move at its own unhurried pace, as though its inhabitants understood that this city’s beauty should not be rushed. She sighed with pleasure at the glittering streetlamps throwing a glow around the first-floor window boxes and pooling soft light on the wide boulevard she and Madeleine had stepped onto. Edie decided that Americans, who were easy to pick out, seemed surprisingly at ease amongst their French hosts and she caught herself smiling at the twang of accents far from home.
‘Americans, especially penniless poets and writers, love Paris,’ Madeleine remarked, sensing her interest. ‘Now, I want to take you to Bobinos tonight.’ She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Very “in”, as you British say.’ Edie laughed, feeling her spirits lighten. Paris had been an inspired idea. ‘But first,’ Madeleine continued, ‘I know an excellent bar,’ and she grinned conspiratorially.
‘Everything in Paris is about style,’ Edie marvelled later at La Closerie des Lilas after hearing Kiki sing, waving a chocolate-covered fork at her friend. It was approaching ten p.m. and cold, but spring and being abroad made them daring. The girls sat outside, ignoring the chill, with their backs to the windows of the café, watching Paris go by as they sipped on a black coffee and ate cake ‘to kill all other cakes’, as Edie claimed. ‘I mean, look at this. It’s chocolate cake, but Parisians elevate it to something cosmic. I almost can’t bear to eat this exquisite swirl of brittle chocolate. Imagine what skill to shape it as the treble clef? Even the cream tastes different.’
‘Chantilly,’ her friend replied, amused, lighting a long, thin cigarette.
‘Gold and silver leaf on one cake!’ Edie exclaimed, then waved an arm again. ‘How could you leave all of this?’
‘Perhaps if you were facing what I was, then you could understand how easily I ran away. I do miss it now, though . . . now that I’m back here and seeing it through your eyes.’ She saw her companion’s expression falter. ‘No, Eden, fret not, I will not let you return to London alone. I live there now and we have big plans together.’
‘We’re really going to do it, aren’t we?’ Edie replied, easing a final small fork-load of heavenly, dense sponge into her mouth.
‘We are going to open Valentine’s and you are going to cater to the cream of London’s society . . . balls, engagements, weddings and beyond. Everything the modern woman needs in her wardrobe, you can design and tailor for her.’
‘And if you model the clothes, no one will be able to resist my designs.’
‘Let’s drink to it. I wish I could share a glass of la fée verte with you but it was banned almost a decade ago for being too dangerous. I have tasted it and it is a curious liqueur.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘The green fairy. Absinthe. Dangerously high in alcohol and said to bring on hallucinations and changes in behaviour.’
‘Good heavens. What is it made from?’
‘Wormwood, whatever that is. Let’s have champagne instead.’
‘All right.’ Edie looked unsure. ‘Just a few sips. I’m not used to this sort of living.’
‘Then get used to it. You’re going to be a mad success, Eden. Haven’t you noticed that every woman in this café eyed off your clothes as we walked in?’
Edie shook her head.
‘Oh, please stop being so dreamy. They all want to be in them.’
She grinned. ‘But they all want to be you.’
Edie watched Madeleine order their drinks, flirting with the waiter as she did so. He brought two flutes and some petits fours, on the house, that he delivered with a wink.
‘What shall we drink to?’
‘To new beginnings, Eden. For both of us.’
‘Absolutely,’ she said with a sigh that spoke of sorrows that would never leave but tinged with an element of anticipation. ‘To new beginnings,’ she repeated and this time her voice didn’t waver.
_______________
They drove in Pen’s car with Alex at the wheel, along country roads with tall hedgerows that coursed between the Weald of Kent to the north and the rugged South Downs. He could smell the mineral aroma of salty marshland, drifting over from the Pevensey Levels, and while it did vaguely remind him of the bog he had often stood knee-deep in at Flanders, this was a more familiar and reassuring smell of childhood.
Alex inhaled. ‘I love Sussex,’ he said and cast a smile to his passenger. ‘Nice wheels, by the way. Your father’s?’
‘How dare you!’ she said, feigning horror. ‘This is 1921, Lex Wynter, not the dark ages. This is my recent birthday present. Dad finally relented,’ she laughed. ‘I wanted an AC – open top, two-seater. But I was given this instead. Mummy said it’s more sedate for a young lady.’ She gave a moue of disdain. ‘One day I’ll buy my own roadster and I’ll drive it fast enough that my hair whips out horizontally behind me.’
‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘I’m hurt you don’t recall.’
‘I recall piggy-backing you at a gallop to the main house when you’d been stung by nettles. I remember pushing you on the swing down by our river. I remember diving for pennies that you threw into the swimming pool and your squeals when I splashed you. You were always that tiny golden-haired angel, always laughing, ever fearless as you tried to keep up with us.’
She nodded. ‘And you were always my dashing, dark hero,’ she said, in a breathy voice, clasping her hand theatrically to her heart. ‘I’m twenty-two, Lex. More than old enough.’
It was his turn to cut her a look of mock horror. ‘For what?’
She glanced at him with barely concealed dismay. ‘For absolutely anything I choose to do. I refuse to follow in Mummy’s footsteps and do exactly as her parents told her, and then as soon as she was married, and given away by Grandpa, do exactly as Dad told her. Good heavens . . . a life of obedience is not for me. I want to break that mould.’
He chuckled. ‘A modern woman, eh, Pen?’
‘I hope you believe me,’ she said with determination as they approached a T-junction.
‘I do. Anyone from our neck of the woods who calls their father “Dad” is a modern woman. Turn right, I think,’ he murmured.
‘Dad says it’s thoroughly middle class but I think he secretly likes it. He finds a lot of my friends intolerable . . . I think I do too. All daddies’ little girls. Where are we going?’
‘I seem to remember there was a rather splendid stretch of woodland just down here.’
‘I have a horrible sense of direction so don’t count on me,’ she admitted and as Alex deftly cornered, they saw the dark canopy of trees ahead of them. ‘You’re right. Clever you. Who said your memory was damaged?’
Alex parked on the verge, opened the door for Pen and she fetched their picnic basket from the boot. ‘Oh, this is beautiful,’ she said, stretching.
He wasn’t sure if it was a deliberate gesture or just her complete lack of affectation but Alex was treated to a lingering look at Penny’s surprisingly generous, yet perfectly shaped breasts on her lean frame. He had to admit that the little Penny he’d once carried on his shoulders was today a gorgeous vision in pastel yellow with curves that demanded his attention.
‘Lead me, then,’ she said, unashamedly taking his hand. ‘Take me to your secret spot.’
Alex couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t the one blushing – was his cousin flirting with him? ‘Er, through here, then. We do have to cross a low stile, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re strong enough to lift me clear of it,’ she said.
No, he wasn’t imagining it. Penny Aubrey-Finch was flirting with him! She even waited as they approached the stile for Alex to take her basket and place it on the other side. She made no attempt to clamber over it herself. Alex dutifully and easily lifted her over and as he took her by the waist he was reminded, just for a heartbeat, of doing this very action in a countryside setting . . . but not with Penny. Not even with a blonde.
‘What’s wrong, Lex?’ Her smile faltered.
‘Nothing . . . just . . . no, nothing.’
‘A memory?’
‘Mmm, possibly.’
‘What did you see?’ Pen asked, smoothing her narrow, drop-waisted frock.
‘It wasn’t so much an image,’ he admitted as he picked up the basket, ‘as a feeling.’
‘Deja vu?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s gone, Pen.’
‘I suspect this is going to happen often. You’ll get used to it and perhaps there will be some feelings that stick and turn into real memories.’
‘I hope so.’
She casually took his hand again as though it was perfectly natural to do so, and just in that moment he was comforted by the contact of her soft, gloved palm against his. ‘Do you? Why not let the past go?’
‘I wish I could.’ He nodded. ‘Over here to the clearing.’
She followed, happy to be led. ‘You can. Just let go. Whatever happened was part of the war, its isolation, its traumas. Leaving it behind and all of its memories, including even the lost ones that don’t need to be found, are part of the healing.’
He stopped to regard her. ‘Are you really only twenty-two?’
She chuckled. ‘I’ve always believed age is irrelevant.’
‘Now, if we push past this clump of trees . . .’ he murmured. ‘Ah yes, here we are.’
‘Oh, Lex, I remember this place!’ she said in wonder and he grinned, delighted by the pleasure in her tone. ‘We came here one spring, didn’t we . . . I mean all of us – with our parents?’
‘We did indeed.’
‘A carpet of bluebells,’ she exclaimed.
It was a good description, he thought, glad that he’d remembered this picnic spot that had always felt like magic woodland in his childhood. A stunning contrast of the fiercely lime-green leaves of beech trees acted as a foil for the swathes of violet flowers that stretched into the distance. They had only the birds for company.
‘It’s a most romantic spot. Thank you, Alex.’
Romance had not been his intention. ‘I used to say the sight of bluebells in this woodland could make me turn to writing poetry – and I’m no poet.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I seem to recall you were always a sentimental sort.’
He pondered this as he looked around for a suitable spot to throw down the car rug. ‘I really don’t want to crush them,’ he thought aloud.
‘The flowers stretched for a hundred miles, I was sure,’ she said and he nodded in amusement as he unfurled the rug. ‘I seem to recall you telling me that fairies lived in the bluebell cups and I believed you.’
He offered her a hand and helped her to sit down. Pen kicked off her flat shoes and removed her small straw hat with its matching butter-yellow satin ribbon and sat back effortlessly on her knees, unheeding of her fine dress. She raised her chin to where a shaft of sunlight bathed her in a radiant glow of gold. Her hair shone and tiny insects showed up in that light as though paying homage to an angel in their midst. It was warm and the only sounds were the blackbirds and thrushes, singing their hearts out. Again this simple sound, which could probably be heard in most English gardens, was deeply comforting. The war was behind him. His new life beckoned.
‘Even your freckles have gone,’ he remarked.
She threw
her driving gloves, which she hadn't needed, at him. ‘Thank goodness. I hated my freckles. You always teased me about them; you said they’d grow bigger as I did.’
Alex laughed. ‘You remember a lot about me, don’t you?’
Her gaze suddenly intensified, as though shaping itself into an arrow and spearing him. ‘I forget nothing about you, Lex.’
He heard the passion in her voice, refused to acknowledge it and instead changed the subject. ‘So what have we got in here?’ he said, pulling her basket closer.
‘Chicken and walnut sandwiches; some madeira cake. I’ve got some cherries too that I picked from our orchard . . . and this!’ Pen said, pulling out a bottle of champagne.
‘Good grief! What’s the occasion?’
She shrugged. ‘You are! I’ve wanted to celebrate your return since that morning you turned up at breakfast.’
‘Really? But that was ages ago, and you barely spoke to me.’
‘I was in shock,’ she said. ‘Plus . . . you were surrounded by family. I thought it best to let your nearest and dearest have you to themselves.’
He frowned. ‘You didn’t stay for the reading either, did you?’
She shook her head.
‘Why? Father included you in his will. I’m glad you got that painting. Penny Farthing, he used to call you. You really were so tiny.’
‘No, you lot were just hideously tall. Even Charlotte walks on stilts. I was terribly fond of your father, Lex. I do love that painting and I shall always think of Uncle Thomas whenever I look at it.’
‘Funny, that portrait always troubled me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she looked so sad.’
‘Not sad. Wistful,’ Pen said and gave a self-conscious smile.‘I always related to the girl who sat for that painting, whoever she was.’
‘Why?’
She sighed. ‘I can’t tell you the truth of why, not yet anyway. However, there are two reasons and the second is that I’m an only child. It has its benefits, I readily admit. But you can’t imagine what it’s like to have parental attention focused solely and wholly on you every moment of your growing up.’
He began rolling up his sleeves. It was a deliciously mild day, even beneath the cool of the glade. ‘I guess not.’
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