Chapter 36: Louise - The Golden Hours

Bloody Juliet. Why hadn’t Zoë and Rupert sent her to train for something, or found her a husband? She was just so ill- equipped for reality! Festooned in so much romance she kept tripping over it, poor little thing. But why, Louise wondered, did she feel so responsible for her? Why did she bang on about Juliet’s looks, tell her what to do, fear for her? Well, she knew why: she identified with her, and wanted Juliet’s path to be easier than her own. But Juliet had no actual talent – not that she had had much herself. And at least Juliet hadn’t married in her teens.

She had bombarded her with eligible bachelors (Harry, whoever he was, just faded away without being met by anyone). She’d taken her to endless parties – God, she felt like some Jane Austen mama. And she wasn’t even her mama. And it certainly wasn’t the Regency any more. Perhaps in the country people were still wearing white tie to respectable balls and taking fathers into the library to ask for hands in marriage, but here everyone seemed to be in roll necks and T-shirts, shagging in the backs of Minis.

Why wasn’t Zoë looking out for Juliet? Well, she knew why. Zoë adored Juliet, always had, and Louise knew she was disappointed by how easily Juliet could just disappear, and then amble back when she felt like it. And now Zoë had gone into one of her declines. Clary – who was still feeling guilty about having deserted Bank House ‘like a rat’, she’d said rather despondently – and Louise had talked about it. Both felt helpless. Zoë wouldn’t come out, and didn’t want Louise – or even Clary – to go round. It was worse for Clary, obviously, as it was her father whose low spirits were feeding it. Plus, Clary pointed out, perhaps Zoë was going through the Change.

Louise shivered as she swung into Gino’s. Perhaps it would be a relief, once one had gone through it. She might try to talk about that to Zoë. God knows she wouldn’t be talking to her mother, who had after all never told her anything. The Curse! The Change! It all sounded like something from Tarot cards.

Her favourite table, in the corner by the window, was occupied. Sometimes simple things could truly make or break your day: the sun being out when you wake; your comfortable shirt being clean; the 139 coming quickly; your table being free, waiting for you. It was an extravagance to have a coffee at Gino’s each morning but to her it was the moment of peace that set her up for the day ahead. She was walking through to her second favourite seat, at the back, when she heard the sound of a chair being pushed back and a voice saying: ‘Would you like your table?’ – but she didn’t really register that because at the same time, Stella’s Jonathan of all people walked in, his battered charisma shining off him. In the moment of social confusion that followed, Louise greeted Jonathan and acknowledged the owner of the voice; Jonathan greeted both Louise and the owner of the voice – ‘Tom, old man! How the hell are you?’ – and didn’t introduce them; the owner of the voice said to her, ‘How do you do, Tom Locke’, and they all ended up sitting together. Damn, she thought. So much for her moment of peace.

‘Actually, I’m not staying,’ she said.

‘Oh, don’t let me interrupt you,’ Tom Locke said, looking mildly amused, and she realised that he thought she and Jonathan were together, and had made a staggered entrance for discretion.

‘You’ll probably know that Jonathan is about to marry my best friend Stella!’ she said brightly, moving her chair infinitesimally away from Jonathan’s.

‘Is he!’ said Tom Locke. He sounded surprised, disbelieving almost. Or did he? She couldn’t quite tell. She looked at him: tall, fair, tired eyes. Patient. Not entirely English, somehow, yet with that swoopily elegant posture that suggested Eton, confidence, and a damaged childhood. Unreadable face, though. She glanced at the newspaper he had been reading: it was Italian.

‘Yes he is,’ she said. ‘Why?’ but Tom Locke was saying ‘Congratulations!’ to Jonathan, shaking his hand, happy for his friend. ‘Tell me about her?’ he was saying.

‘She’s intelligent, funny, beautiful,’ said Jonathan. Louise found herself keeping score. ‘As kind as a – oh God, she’s kind. A heart of gold. With a sharpness of observation. We never stop talking, basically. Most women, even if they’re intelligent they’re ignorant, but Stella – she listens, she hears, she knows. She’s a journalist, went to Oxford; did something mysterious during the war that she won’t talk about. We’ll never be bored.’

Louise hated him. She couldn’t help it. She felt her heart physically harden in her chest: a knocking stony feeling. If he hurt Stella . . . She hated them both. Did he even begin to understand Stella’s tenderness, her beautiful clarity, the standards she kept you to without even knowing it? Why, why did men have to have so much power? That he could just pick her friend, like a flower, and take her away.

A few minutes later another woman came in who the men both knew, so Louise took the opportunity to leave. I must not let Stella know these feelings, she told herself. I will not be jealous or possessive or man-hating or suspicious or whatever it is I’m being. I must let her be happy. It’s none of my business why an attractive man like Jonathan is single at this age. Even by asking that I make things even more impossible for Stella!

And for myself, she thought. As an afterthought.

She stopped for a second on the corner of Lexington Street, thinking, I absolutely would be happy to never even have a meal with a man again.

And laughed. Don’t want Clary catching me splitting an infinitive, she thought.

A few hours later, she slipped through the plate-glass entrance to La Poubelle. Her father Edward was already there, sitting with a newspaper and two glasses of champagne.

He sprang up, fuelled, she supposed, by his usual mixture of excitement and fear, spry, nervy and pleased to see her. He was wearing his grey suit, the knees only a little shiny, but his cravat was a new one. The kiss on the cheek smelled of his traditional lime. His champagne was half drunk; hers was not quite cold enough, and a little flat.

‘Hello, Dad,’ she said, her cheerfulness geared up – and she was suddenly completely lost for anything to say that wouldn’t sound cutting. A reference to his old champagne/birthday trope? An enquiry about his health, his wellbeing, his recent activities? Even ‘How are you?’ was fraught with peril. What if he told her? ‘I like your tie’ might lead to a discussion of his love life. Money must absolutely not be touched on. No reference could be made to her siblings, none of whom, as far as she knew, were talking to him. Perhaps she could safely ask after Roly. She’d hold that for when they’d finished fussing with the menu.

He wanted oysters, and beef stroganoff. ‘And a nice claret for the main course,’ he said, skimming the wine list. ‘They have wonderful cheese here. But darling, what will you have?’

She chose a steak she didn’t really want, because otherwise he would order another bottle, a different wine for her because she was having the fish. Just as long as he doesn’t pretend he’s going to pay, she thought, knowing that of course he would pretend he was going to pay. They both knew perfectly well that whatever palaver he used to clothe his dignity this time, he wasn’t going to pay. She was.

She settled for ‘The lilac is out! Did you see? In the square!’ As if he cared about lilac.

Of course she wouldn’t scream. Of course she would pay. Of course when he asked after her mother she would pretend to have talked to her recently. It’s women’s job to keep up appearances, to preserve male dignity, to cart their bloody consciences around for them and let them off the hook.

The waitress brought their oysters. ‘And another glass of champagne each,’ Edward said. His skin was dry; the stubble tips silvery. It must hurt him to shave, she thought. Nobody is providing him with good shaving soap, or a balm. His eyes were a little rheumy.

‘Have you heard from Roly lately?’ she asked.

‘Yes!’ he said. ‘I had a letter. All seems excellent. Far East; you know. They’re posting him somewhere new, I think.’ And she thought, Is he lying? Is he going gaga?

And the others are all so far away. Shall it be me? Shall I have to? A vision of darling Rachel flew into her mind, selflessly dedicated to the Brig and the Duchy, taken for granted by all who knew her – I will not! Louise cried, silently. I am not that kind of single daughter. You did not look after me and I will not look after you. Either of you – not for one moment. Knowing that she was doing it already, right now.

I must leave, she thought. Emigrate. Escape before they trap me, and then live another forty years. I’m not Rachel. And anyway, it would be so much worse, each complaining about the other. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t do it.

After a rambling story about a possible trip to France which had not come off, Edward asked after Villy. ‘I spoke to her last week,’ Louise lied. ‘She seems to be having a lovely time back in London, and working with Hermione.’

Edward chewed his lip and nodded at his beef. ‘Should pop into the shop and see her,’ he said.

‘Lovely . . .’ Louise murmured.

‘Old times,’ he said, as if that meant something. ‘Water under the bridge.’ Loneliness was dripping from him and she couldn’t bear it. He wanted the cheese, and a brandy, but generously forewent a pudding. ‘You have one!’ he said. ‘Go on, have whatever you want!’ As if she were eleven, and he the provider of ice-cream sundaes. She ordered a black coffee and said she had to get back to the office, actually. She settled up when she went to the loo, and told him, so he’d know that any further drinks were on him. He was already glancing round the dining room looking for a companion.

‘And Dad,’ she didn’t say, ‘I’m known here, so don’t run up a bill, and no scenes.’ Next time she’d take him somewhere cheaper, not one of her beloved places. He’s probably never had pizza, she thought. As she left, he was chatting to the waitress, a young woman visibly and anxiously torn between her duty to be elsewhere and her duty not to walk off while a customer was talking to her.

Louise cut back. ‘Dad,’ she said quietly. ‘Let her do her job.’ She could see the surprise and hurt in his eyes. ‘Her job,’ Louise said again. ‘You’re putting her in a difficult position.’ Of course the girl then denied it, but used the interruption to get away.

‘We were just chatting,’ he said in bemusement. ‘I’d never embarrass a servant.’

‘She’s not a servant, Dad,’ Louise said. She shook her head and left.

When she got in to the office, there was a message from Clary, asking had Louise seen Neville? Ha! she thought, and rang her back.

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Just that I haven’t,’ Clary said. ‘I think he’s moved and I don’t know where he’s living or what’s happening. And you know how sometimes I kind of need to keep a hold on him.’

Louise couldn’t help. ‘By the way, though,’ she said, ‘do you have Juliet’s friend Pansy’s address? She’s staying there and –’

‘No she’s not,’ said Clary. ‘Pansy’s staying with her aunt in Wales. She rang looking for Juliet just the other day.’

‘Perhaps she’s staying at her place while she’s away,’ Louise said.

‘Pansy doesn’t have a place. That’s why she’s gone to her aunt’s.’

‘Clary, do you think we ought to know everything about our brothers and sisters?’ Louise asked. ‘I’ve just had lunch with Dad and it feels like everything is so scattered, Lydia in Scotland and Teddy in Africa and Roly in Hong Kong and Wills in Cyprus.’

‘He’s not in Cyprus,’ said Clary. ‘He’s staying at Fakenham.’

‘Well, there – you see what I mean! But does it matter?’

‘You and I and Polly need to know where each other are – but then we’re usually in the same place we always are. You need to know where Stella is. We need to know where our children are – oh God, Louise, I’m so sorry I didn’t –’

‘None taken,’ said Louise, an automatic response to the ‘no offence’ implied by anyone who ever mentioned, however obliquely or accidentally, her absent son. There was a short silence.

‘We’re a far more complicated family than we pretend, aren’t we?’ said Clary. ‘All the things we never talk about.’

‘Well, don’t start talking about them now,’ Louise said. ‘For God’s sake. I’ve a meeting in five minutes and Terence still isn’t in. Got to go. See you next week.’ They had arranged to meet with Polly the following week at the Wallace Collection, and not talk about Neville, Rupert, Gerald, Andrew, Edward, Hugh, Wills, Roly, Teddy, Georgie or any of them. Not even Bertie. Not even Archie.