The Woman from Paris(9)
“Eighteen months.”
“Eighteen months! How could he have kept something so important from me for that long? I mean, I would have been surprised, certainly, but I wouldn’t have thought any less of him.”
“He was probably biding his time, waiting for the right moment.”
“Of course he was. He could not have predicted this!”
David watched the car disappear down the drive and turn left up the farm track that cut through the estate. It irritated his mother that Margaret lived so close and visited so often. Fairfield House punctuated her daily walk through the park with Basil, her Yorkshire terrier. Being a woman ill at ease in her own company, she appeared unannounced most days, and Antoinette felt compelled to entertain her while Bertie and Wooster chased Basil up and down the corridors. After all, the house had once belonged to her, before she and her late husband, Arthur, had moved out to accommodate their son and his growing family. Antoinette could hardly turn her away.
David did not want to go back inside. The sun now shone brightly and the damp grass glittered, beckoning him to walk over it. The countryside looked resplendent, as if the mist had given it a good polishing. He was still reeling from the disappointment of discovering that the first girl he had taken a shine to in years had turned out to be his half sister. It was as if life had played a horrid practical joke at his expense.
He decided to wander around the gardens. Bertie and Wooster pricked their ears and watched him disappear through the gate in the hedge. Then they bounded down the steps to join him, eagerly expecting a long walk. He had to smile at their exuberance, although now he no longer felt like smiling at all. His soul was once more plunged into darkness, and his heart felt heavy again, like a sack of ash.
His father had been such a dominant presence in his life; it was unimaginable that he would no longer be around. He gazed at the towering trees and gently undulating lawn, and remembered that nothing was forever. Not even the earth he was standing on. Eventually, everything would pass away.
Life was quiet in the countryside. His father had advised him to settle down young, as he had, but David had failed to find the right girl. He had had relationships, but love had always eluded him. He had watched Joshua marry Roberta and knew that he didn’t want a joyless marriage like theirs. He didn’t want the rootless life that Tom had, either. A different girl every night so that in the end they all blurred into one soulless encounter.
He had really liked the look of Phaedra. In retrospect, perhaps it had been their common blood that had attracted him to her. Perhaps he had sensed a bond, subconsciously. Whatever it was, the attraction was fruitless. When he saw her again, he’d have to suppress it.
She had been brave to come today, he thought, although misguided. His mother was understandably upset about the whole situation. He wasn’t upset as much as surprised—suddenly to discover a half sibling at twenty-nine was a very big surprise. He couldn’t care less about his father changing his will. If he had wanted to include his daughter, that was his business. Tom wouldn’t mind, either. He wasn’t avaricious, just extravagant with what he had. Joshua and Roberta were a different matter altogether. He wondered how they would take the news. Not well, he concluded. If anyone was going to make a fuss about money, it was Roberta.
* * *
Phaedra drove her sky-blue Fiat Uno into a lay-by and turned off the engine. She dropped her head onto the steering wheel and squeezed her eyes shut. She had wanted more than anything to go to George’s funeral, but she could see now that it had been a terrible mistake.
She winced as she recalled the look of horror on Antoinette’s face and the way she had sunk into the armchair, her hands visibly shaking; the reproachful twist to her sister Rosamunde’s mouth; the disbelief that had set the boys’ cheeks aflame. Only Julius had remained resolute, as if he relished having dominance over them. She wished she had had the power to keep her name out of the will. She wished she hadn’t come. If only she could now disappear in a puff of smoke.
The trouble was that George had died without giving her time to say good-bye. She would have told him she loved him. She would have told him she had forgiven him. He didn’t need to change his will to make it up to her. She didn’t want his money. She didn’t want his gifts. She wanted security of a different sort, and that he could no longer give her.
She had needed George, the man. The father figure of her early years had left her mother when Phaedra was ten and gone to live in New Zealand, eventually marrying again and starting a new family. Phaedra had been forgotten, or mislaid, in the murky past, and she never saw him again. From then on her mother had jumped from unsuitable man to unsuitable man like a frog in a pond of lily pads, hoping that the next landing would make her happy. She didn’t realize that with every hop she carried the source of her unhappiness within her, and she couldn’t run away from herself. She resented Phaedra, for she was a living reminder of her husband’s rejection and an unwanted responsibility. So, while her mother sank her sorrows into bottles of gin, Phaedra made her own way, relying on her friends and her dreams to carry her through the hard times. As soon as she was old enough she left home and her mother forever. She had no desire ever to go back. She had not only closed the chapter, but thrown away the book.