had a life of her own, away from Summercove, from your parents. She was the life and soul of every party. Absolutely beautiful. Coterie of men always around her, gay and straight. No fear. She swung on a giant chandelier once, in a dilapidated mansion off Curzon Street, and it crumbled away from the ceiling, and she fel to the floor.’ He is almost chuckling at the memory. ‘She didn’t care. That was Miranda.’
My skin is prickling, hot, al over. ‘What happened after that?’ I ask. ‘Did you go back to the States?’
‘Oh, yes, then back again to London. Few months here, few months there,’ Guy said. He swal ows. ‘I was being pathetic. My girlfriend wanted me to stay there with her. She’d moved to New York by then. I couldn’t make my mind up. Didn’t want to settle down. Kept thinking . . . what if . . .’
He trails off. ‘What if what?’
‘What if Cecily hadn’t died?’ He looks up. ‘Would we have been together? That’s why I couldn’t settle down with anyone else for years afterwards. I always thought we would.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t say that now, not after my years with Hannah and the children.
He smiles, and he reaches out his hand, puts it on top of mine.
I let his fingers rest on mine, feeling his warm dry hand, his flesh, and I stare at him again in wonder.
‘I wouldn’t change that for the world. But I do think about it. I used to, al the time. You see, we never talked about her, none of us, after she died.
I had no one to talk to about – about her. None of my friends had met her. It was so brief. I couldn’t discuss it with my brother, with Louisa.’ He exhales. ‘I’m sorry. I find it very hard, even now. Reading the diary, it brought it al back.’
‘Did you know about Bowler Hat and – and Granny?’ I ask. ‘Before you read the diary?’
Guy frowns. Two lines appear between his grey brows. He screws his eyes up. ‘I knew in some way,’ he says. ‘I’ve never trusted either of them.
Don’t get me wrong. I loved them both. I always wil . But I – I think I didn’t want to see what was going on. You have to remember how young we were, how naive, real y. She tried it with me, you know.’
‘What? Granny?’
Guy nods. ‘Frances was a woman of many passions. She let it be known that she was available. Not long after we arrived, that summer. A hand here, a stroke on the cheek there. A look over the shoulder.’ He blinks. ‘I was so lily-livered. I’d have gone for it like a shot if I hadn’t been so scared. Good thing I didn’t.’
I shake my head. I don’t know why I’m surprised. ‘Anyway,’ Guy continues. ‘I suppose, I suppose – yes, seeing your mother, it brought it al back again. But in a good way. She was wonderful. She was like Cecily, of course. But she
He shifts in his seat. ‘You know, people always say she’s difficult, she’s crazy – wel , I think they liked the idea that she was. It was easier for them to explain al these other things that didn’t add up about that family. You know. The father never around, not very interested. The mother this great beauty, hugely talented but hasn’t painted for years, the fact that the house used to be this mecca for glamorous young things and not any more, the death of the younger daughter, the atmosphere that something’s just not quite right – I think it was easier for people to look at Miranda and gossip than look any further. Does that make sense?’
‘Anyway . . . it was always very casual. We’d meet at parties, or we’d go out for some pasta when I was in town, catch up, and then she’d come back to my shambolic bachelor pad in Bloomsbury . . .’ He drops his hands into his lap. ‘She was rather wonderful about it.’ He smiles. ‘Then I’d go back to the States, or she’d find some other boyfriend . . . it was never official with us. Only ever a few times a year. There were always others buzzing around, you know?’
‘I know,’ I say, feeling disloyal, but unable to deny it. ‘So you didn’t think it was weird, when you knew she was pregnant?’
‘That’s just it,’ Guy says emphatical y. ‘I never knew she was. I’ve thought it al through, these last few weeks. You see, I came back in ‘77. I was reporting on the Queen’s Jubilee for an American newspaper. Your mother and I saw each other a couple of times that summer. Once or twice, if that, nothing much. We met . . .’ He trails off. ‘Yes. We met at the French House. In Soho. The anniversary of Cecily’s death, 6th August. I remember it real y wel . I was going to Ulster the next day, to report on the Queen’s visit. It was going to be rather hairy, security everywhere. I was supposed to have an early night, but . . . we stayed up drinking, and talking . . . Eventual y we went back to her place . . . I remember . . .’
He glances at me and fal s silent. ‘What?’ I say. ‘Never mind,’ he says gently, and I realise there are some things I don’t want or need to know, and it occurs to me that perhaps I was conceived that night, the anniversary of Cecily’s death.
‘Anyway, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, us meeting up like that. We weren’t in touch otherwise. And then I didn’t see her . . . didn’t see any of them, for another two years.’
‘Real y?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘No idea. I think Louisa mentioned that Miranda had had a baby, but by then I was married, we were having children . . .’
‘What happened to the girl in the States?’
‘I saw sense,’ he says. ‘I married her. That was Hannah.’
‘Your wife?’
He smiles sadly. He has a melancholy smile, my father. ‘Yes. And I’m an idiot. We both were. It just took us a while to realise it. But al those wasted years, that’s what makes me angry.’ He nods seriously, as if remembering something. ‘But we realised in the end. We were married in 1980, and our first daughter was born a year later, and our second in ‘86.’ He says slowly, ‘Hannah died five years ago. Five years ago in April.’
I squeeze his hand gently. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say softly. ‘Thank you.’ Guy clears his throat. ‘What are your
