“No, I have to do it now. George isn’t coming back. I have to accept that; otherwise, I’ll be stuck in a horrible sort of limbo.”
They stood a moment outside his dressing room door, fighting the sudden sense of loss that no amount of humor or stoicism could hold off. Antoinette inhaled through her nose as if mustering courage, then she lifted the latch and pushed it open. Inside it smelled manly: a little spicy, like sandalwood, yet uniquely George. The very air vibrated with his presence as if he were there with them, filling the space around him with his powerful charisma. And yet the room was empty but for his clothes, tossed carelessly onto the big double bed, over chairs, and on the divan beneath one window. Silver dishes were placed haphazardly on the table at the end of the bed and on the tall cherrywood chest of drawers in front of the other window, full of loose change and paper clips, nails, stubs from boarding cards, and other useless things that were once part of something important. The little drawers under the Queen Anne mirror were brimming with old tickets from the opera, ballet, cinema, theater and even the London Underground.
There was also a musty smell, for no one had been in to clean since George died, and the old house accumulated a great deal of dust. Phaedra walked over to the window that looked out onto the front lawn and was startled to find clusters of ladybugs basking in the sunshine in the corner against the glass.
“I think I should set these small creatures free, don’t you?” she asked, lifting the stiff leaden latch to open it. She noticed that her hands were shaking. She flicked the ladybugs out with her fingers and allowed the fresh air to rush into the room. The light, tinkling sound of birdsong was carried on the breeze, and Phaedra breathed it in, restored a little by the beauty of the sun-drenched gardens. “Come, Antoinette. Have a look out of here,” she said. Antoinette joined her at the window. “It’s so lovely I just want to stay here a moment and enjoy it.”
Antoinette let her gaze wander over the view. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“George would have looked out, perhaps every morning when he opened the curtains. He would have taken a long breath, savoring the sights. He must have loved it here.”
“He did. Fairfield was always home. But in a funny way, he ran from it, too.”
Phaedra looked at her quizzically. “Do you think?”
“I’m sure of it. He never spent more than a couple of days in a row down here, then he was shooting back up to London, or off to do something silly like climbing Everest or skiing.”
“Yes, he seemed a restless man, always having to push himself to the edge,” Phaedra agreed.
“Until he fell off,” Antoinette added sadly.
“He didn’t mean to fall off.”
“Of course not. But if you always push your limits, you’re bound to break.”
They drew away from the window. “Now, where to begin?” asked Antoinette with a sigh. The quantity of belongings was overwhelming.
“Let’s start with the drawers,” Phaedra suggested, pointing to the bedside tables.
“Let’s take them out and put them in the middle of the room. Then we can go through them methodically. We’ll have a pile for rubbish and a pile for things too sentimental to chuck out—and darling, if you want to keep anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Phaedra suddenly felt nauseous. She wished she was anywhere but here, about to go through all George’s private things. “Thank you. I shall,” she replied weakly. She pulled out the top drawer of the right-hand cabinet and put it down on the rug. It was filled to the brim with papers, photographs, shooting cards, and itineraries. One by one, the two women lifted out the contents, both nervous of what they might find. If he was capable of keeping Phaedra a secret, what else might he have hidden?
“Ah now, I remember this,” said Antoinette, showing Phaedra a handwritten dinner menu, decorated elaborately in gold, pale pinks, and blues. “This was for George’s fiftieth birthday in Paris at Le Moulin Rouge.” Her eyes glittered at the memory. “We had tremendous fun. I think I’ll keep that.” And she put it to one side with notes for a speech and a diary he wrote on safari a few years before.
“He’s kept a record of everything. It’s incredible,” Phaedra mused, pulling out old black-and-white photographs of his school friends at Eton. Each one had written a personal message on the back. “I wonder what’s happened to all of these young men. I wonder how many he kept in touch with.”
Antoinette glanced over their young faces. “I recognize a couple. Goodness, wasn’t Henry Patterson handsome then.”