8
The Arrival
SUNDAY 7TH SEPTEMBER 2008
Jane stood at the sink, her hands immersed in soapy water. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled with pride and satisfaction at the sight of her family sitting in relative harmony around the kitchen table. It was ten in the morning, and there hadn’t even been a major row, partly as her sons were engaged in a game of FIFA and her daughter was reading a nature magazine.
“I love family time,” she said.
Ambrose, leaning forward, arched his back and let out a large belch.
“Gross,” Arabella said without looking up.
“Better out than in.” Half rising from his chair, he farted loudly. Since starting as an intern for Thomlinson Sleet, Ambrose had become even more entitled. His employer’s sense of self-importance had transferred seamlessly, osmotically, to the younger man.
“Ambrose!” Jane said.
“It’s your cooking,” her son replied, and belched again. “Death by overcooked mince.”
“I hope you die,” Arabella said, waving the noxious smell away with the magazine.
Kitto flicked the outside edge of his Sunday Times. “There are indications that the Americans will bail out Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. What a relief.”
“Are they film stars?” Jane said, making a feeble attempt at a joke. She found her husband’s and son’s recent obsession with all things financial trying.
Ambrose laughed condescendingly. “They are the U.S.’s biggest mortgage brokers.”
“Why do they need rescuing?” Jane asked.
“Sleet says the Fed will never let the system collapse,” Ambrose said without taking his eyes off FIFA.
“Sleet says this and Sleet says that. At this rate we won’t be able to do anything without Sir Thomlinson’s opinions,” Arabella retorted.
“If you say one word against—” Ambrose raised his fist at his sister.
“Stop it, now.” Jane flicked soapy water at her son. The suds missed him and landed on the floor.
“Our investment will be safe,” Kitto said.
“Sleet says CDOs are rock-solid,” Ambrose agreed.
Jane wondered how two men, both new to the world of finance, could be so certain.
“What’s so genius,” Ambrose said, “is that Sleet keeps inventing new things to sell to people. This week he bundled up a whole East Asian debt, mixed in a bit of Detroit housing, topped it off with some oil futures, called it XT129, and there was a stampede to buy it. We laughed ourselves sick and drank champagne.”
“Why would anyone buy something if they didn’t understand what it was?” Arabella asked.
“The Emperor’s new clothes,” Jane suggested.
Kitto and Ambrose looked at each other and rolled their eyes. “Better stick to making wallpaper, Mum,” Ambrose said, scratching his head with a kitchen spoon.
“Mum, tell him not to do that,” Arabella whined. “It’s unhygienic.”
“This whole house is a health hazard,” Ambrose countered and, with one easy swipe, knocked the magazine out of his sister’s hand.
“Don’t do that,” Arabella shouted. Toby took advantage of the hiatus to initiate a sneaky move in the game. The fragile peace accord between the brothers shattered.
“You fuckwit,” Ambrose yelled, snatching the computer away. “That’s cheating.”
Jane put her soapy hands over her ears.
“When you make a good move, it’s skill, but if I do something clever…” Toby leaned back in his chair.
“Boys—I am concentrating on our future,” Kitto said, waving the newspaper at his sons.
The phone rang in the small scullery off the kitchen.
“Can someone answer it?” Jane asked, looking around for something on which to dry her hands.
No one moved.
“One of you!” Jane repeated.
“It’ll be someone wanting money.” Ambrose reluctantly placed the computer back on the table so that his brother could see the screen.
“Or trying to sell us something we can’t afford,” Toby added.
“No one uses landlines any more,” Arabella opined. “It’ll stop soon.”
The phone rang insistently and Jane, wiping her hands on her jeans, went out into the passage to answer it. “Hello, hello,” she said, raising her voice. All she could hear was a wild crackle.
“Told you,” Arabella said. “One of those Bangalore call centres.”
“Shh,” Jane hissed. “Can you speak up, I can’t hear you.” She listened. “Yes, this is Lady Tremayne. Who is it?” She put a finger in the other ear to hear better what the person on the other end of the line was saying.
“Oh, how awful,” Jane said. “When did it happen? I am so sorry.”
She hesitated and listened again. “No! I never said I’d have the child.”
She paused and then spoke very clearly, enunciating each syllable. “I already have three children. I don’t want any more. Do you hear me? I do not want any more children.”
Pause.
“Call Blaze Scott. She doesn’t have any.” Jane’s voice rose an octave. “And no, I don’t have a number for her.”
By now all three children were on their feet and crowding around their mother, trying to work out what and who she was talking about.
“You can give me as many flight details as you like. I won’t be meeting any of them.” Jane put her hand over the receiver. “Someone pass me a pen, quickly quickly.”
Toby ran over to the dresser and found an old pencil and a used envelope and took them to his mother.
“BA 4712. Lands Heathrow at 11:40 p.m. on Thursday the 11th of September,” Jane said out loud and wrote down the information.
“I want to make it quite clear. This child is not my responsibility. Thank you, goodbye.” Slowly she replaced the receiver and leaned back against the wall.
“What’s happened?” Kitto asked, putting the paper down and getting up from his chair. When Jane didn’t say anything, he took her by the arms and shook her slightly.
“Anastasia’s dead,” she said.
Kitto looked at his wife then shouted, “No, no, she can’t be.”
“Who is Anastasia?” Ambrose asked.
“Some friend of Mum’s,” Toby said. All three children looked nervously from one parent to another.
Kitto tried to make sense of the news, but could only hear the noise of his own blood whooshing in his ears. The idea of life without Anastasia was unbearable. Her physical absence had made her emotional presence in his life even stronger; he thought of her constantly. They hadn’t met for nearly twenty years but she was his mirage, the point on the horizon that he aimed for and dreamed of. He knew his redemption lay in their eventual reunion. He started to agitate and shout.
Jane looked back at him in astonishment. His reaction—flailing his arms, keening, grabbing at chairs—was frightening. Had her husband and Anastasia been more than friends?
She refound her voice. “There’s more. Anastasia had a child and it’s got nowhere to go.”
“What kind of child?” Arabella asked.
“How old is it?” Toby shook his head. Rations were already sparse.
“It’s a girl, but I forgot to ask anything else.”
“It can’t come here,” Ambrose said.
Kitto banged his forehead on the wall, over and over again. “We can’t abandon her child.”
“Dad’s upset,” Arabella observed.
“I can see that,” Jane replied tersely.
The fate of the child precipitated a tremendous argument between husband and wife.
Jane: It’s unreasonable for a man who eats business lunches and dinners in London during the week to foist another person on his wife.
Kitto: You should be charitable.
Jane: I’ve sunk everything I owned—all my money, all my parents’ hard work and my own prospects—into this place; don’t talk to me about charity.
Kitto: I thought you did it for love?
Jane: I thought you married me for love; now I’m beginning to think it was just for my money.
Kitto: When your money ran out, I didn’t.
Jane: You had nowhere to go.
Kitto: Why didn’t you leave then?
Jane: I ask myself daily.
Kitto: Unlike Anastasia, you always lacked imagination.
Jane: Perhaps you should have married her.
Kitto didn’t answer.
Jane ran from the room and spent the night working in her studio.
Kitto left for London the following morning without saying goodbye. He didn’t, as he usually did, call from the train or to say he’d arrived. Jane was relieved, wanting only to erase the argument from the record, to rescind the hurtful things they had said to each other. After much agonising, she decided to meet the plane. The child was destitute; Jane didn’t feel able to ignore her plight. As the hours before the arrival loomed, so did Jane’s anxiety; she hadn’t been to London for five years. Her life had been gradually eroded into smaller and smaller pieces. She was a virtual prisoner of Trelawney, hardly venturing outside the castle’s grounds. If she went to a shop, it was the supermarket on the outskirts of St. Austell: the local fishmonger, butcher and baker were too expensive. Most days, aside from cursory exchanges with her family, she spoke to no one. She was years away from the last decent conversation. The struggle to save Trelawney was so all-encompassing that it had eclipsed Jane’s independence.
The morning before her trip to Heathrow, Jane fainted; clutching the washing machine for support, she slid to the floor, gasping for breath. Mrs. Sparrow found her and put her into bed with a cup of sweet tea.
“It’s bound to be the change. It gets us all,” the older woman said.
Please, dear God, don’t let things change, Jane thought miserably.
She arrived at the newly opened Terminal 5 with a few hours to spare. In the harsh neon-lit arrivals hall so far from Trelawney and all things familiar, she felt shipwrecked, an insignificant vessel adrift on a foreign sea. The only comfort was that the child, bereft of her mother and wider family, would feel worse; and Jane, though unqualified for many things, could provide a loving and dependable ballast. She foresaw the younger woman bundled up in a sari and colourful shawls, shivering with cold in Britain’s weak autumn sun. She imagined wrapping her arms around Anastasia’s daughter and explaining all things British, their idiosyncrasies and mores. Jane, cheered up by the thought of being useful, bought herself a cup of coffee and, sitting at a fluorescent-orange table, made a list of things to show and tell Ayesha, about local plants and landmarks. Maybe the young woman’s innocence and sweetness would rub off on Arabella; the three of them might go shopping or cook together. After the Indian food even mince would be a delicacy.
Jane’s daydreams were interrupted by the sight of her sister-in-law walking towards her; their first encounter in twenty years. The two women kissed awkwardly, keeping their bodies far apart, their cheeks brushing. She’s let herself go, Blaze thought, scanning Jane’s ill-fitting velour tracksuit, the unfashionable haircut, the trainers (a son’s cast-offs), unmanicured nails and faux-leather handbag. No amount of make-up could hide the weathered skin or tired, ageing face.
Half woman, half praying mantis, Jane thought, looking at Blaze’s just-the-wrong-side-of-thin limbs encased in black, her blood-red nails, her ironed-straight auburn hair and pale skin. Had she known her sister-in-law was coming, she’d have made more of an effort.
“Why are you here?” Jane asked.
“Curiosity, guilt? And the knowledge that you’d take the child,” Blaze said.
“Why were you so sure I’d have her?”
“Because you always do the right thing.”
Jane wondered why the apparent compliment sounded like an insult.
“I wonder if the flight is on time?” Blaze squinted at the arrivals noticeboard.
“It’s only a few minutes late.”
“What a bore.”
Blaze’s mobile phone rang. There was no caller ID but, pleased at the sudden interruption, she turned away from her sister-in-law. “Hello.”
“Have I done something to offend you?” Wolfe dispensed with normal pleasantries.
“No.” Blaze felt a flutter of panic. He was the one person she craved but also dreaded hearing from.
“Do you normally ignore people who ask you out to dinner? I have sent you four texts.”
Trying to buy time and collect her thoughts, Blaze looked across the brightly lit concourse. What could she say to him? That she treasured and polished the memory of their afternoon spent together like a rare and precious shell?
“Are you there?” Wolfe asked.
“Yes,” Blaze said.
“Do you have an answer to my question?”
Blaze decided to match bluntness with bluntness. “What would Molly think?”
“Molly?”
“The woman you live with.” Blaze knew that by mentioning Molly she’d killed any hope of a relationship with Wolfe; for her anyway, infidelity was the death knell of desire.
There was a pause and Wolfe let out a great shout. Blaze held the phone away from her ear. He was laughing. She couldn’t believe his insensitivity, or the gall of his hiding bad behaviour behind a veil of humour.
“Molly is the most wonderful woman, one of the best,” Wolfe said. “She is, however, married to my farm manager Bert and has been for forty-six years. Twice a week she comes in to help clean my house and is kind enough to leave the odd stew or bowl of soup.”
Blaze was glad Wolfe couldn’t see her discomfort.
“Now, how about my invitation?”
“Let me look at my diary,” she said, flicking through an imaginary calendar filled with other assignations and wondering how many weeks it would take to bring about a total physical and mental transformation. “I’ve got a lot going on at the moment. Can I get in touch when things settle?”
“I understand.” Wolfe sounded disappointed. “Could I telephone you or maybe take you to lunch?”
“Let’s talk on the phone,” Blaze said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I look forward to it.” He hung up.
Blaze walked across the concourse to a small water fountain and splashed her burning face with cold water. If only she could begin the conversation all over again, do the whole thing differently. She shook her head. A few weeks ago Wolfe had been a distant, mythical figure, but those few short hours spent in his company had been a lens into another world. She wanted to get to know him, but fear outweighed intrigue. Experience had taught her that intimacy only led to abandonment. Besides, affairs were things that happened to other people.
Leaning against the wall, she tried to breathe deeply to steady her nerves. Her eyes flicked back to the arrivals gate and she saw Jane gesticulating towards the board. The flight must have landed. Blaze walked back to her sister-in-law and sat down at the small Formica table.
“She’ll be through any moment,” Jane said.
Blaze’s mobile rang again and, seeing that it was TiLing, she pressed answer. “Hi, any news of Lehman? There are a lot of rumours,” she asked. “The mezzanine RMBS synthetic CDO? I want to know the second you hear anything; it doesn’t matter what time of day or night. QE2 on M3?”
Seeing that Jane was listening, Blaze couldn’t resist adding, “Did you see Acorn’s latest figures? They think the effects of bond-yield retardation will soften the blow or that you can securitise air? Oh, sure, one plus one equals two thousand.”
Jane jumped on hearing the name of her husband’s firm; if only she could understand what her sister-in-law was saying. Blaze, it seemed, was speaking in a foreign language.
Blaze registered Jane’s pained expression. She felt a shiver of delight as she sowed further seeds of doubt in the other woman’s mind. Let her have a taste of fear, she thought.
“Why would anyone go on putting money into a housing market when foreclosures are spiralling? Did you see the news from Detroit last night? That’s just one city—I got the stats from Atlanta, Memphis, St. Louis…I could go on. Unemployment in high single digits and rising as fast as vacancies in rental and homeownership.” Blaze shook her head in amazement.
Jane thought about telephoning Kitto to tell him what she’d heard. Would he even listen? Unlikely. She felt a sudden frisson: what if the worst happened? Would they lose Trelawney? After the safety of her three children, this was Jane’s single greatest fear.
“What’s the EBITDA multiple on that?” Blaze said.
Keeping one eye on the travellers pouring through the doors, Jane pretended to read a text on her own phone.
“How much damage are they saying Hurricane Ike will cause in Texas? Is there money to be made there? Should we try and buy into a local construction firm? Can you find out who the blue-chip companies are in Galveston, Houston and surrounding areas?”
Jane sent a text to Arabella saying Hi for something to do. Arabella texted back immediately. Whot?
Blaze continued to talk loudly. “Thailand is clearly taking a beating; see what you can find to short there, particularly anything to do with tourism. A state of emergency is never a USP for a great holiday. Call me if you hear anything.” She hung up and, pushing her chair back, angled her body away from Jane.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Jane, unable to bear it any longer, asked, “Blaze, why are you so angry with me? What did I do?”
“You don’t know?”
“It can’t still be about a bedroom.”
Blaze shook her head in disbelief. “Of course it’s not just that. It’s about you elbowing me out after I had taken you into my family home and shared my childhood with you.”
Jane took a deep breath. “If I ever made you feel unwelcome or excluded, that was absolutely unforgivable and I deeply, bitterly regret it.”
Blaze slowly exhaled but didn’t reply.
“Is there anything else you want to say?” Jane asked. “It would be good to wipe the slate clean.”
“What is there to say?” Blaze checked her watch and the arrivals board. “She must have been held up in Customs.” She looked at her phone again for any updates.
“Did you talk to Anastasia over the last few years?” Jane asked, making another attempt at conversation.
“No. You?”
“Christmas-card relationship. I wonder why her death feels so discombobulating. Can you miss someone you haven’t seen for longer than you knew them? Maybe we rue the time not the person. It was so simple then, so joyous,” Jane said, chuffed with her analysis.
Blaze snorted derisively. “Believe me, it wasn’t. There were things you didn’t know.”
“Like what?”
Blaze pursed her lips. Whatever events she alluded to were staying a secret.
Jane, irritated, examined her tatty fingernails. “None of us wants to look after the girl.”
Blaze let out a hollow, unconvincing laugh. “You’ve got a huge house, servants and all that. What’s so hard? Don’t forget we took you in.”
Jane imagined Blaze’s horrified reaction if she ever saw Trelawney’s decay or her parents’ living conditions, and hoped her sister-in-law would never witness their dire circumstances. At least Anastasia’s daughter, used to living in a Third World country, would be overwhelmed with gratitude and cowed by Trelawney’s grandeur.
The silence between the two women was like static on an untuned radio. Blaze sipped her coffee. It tasted acrid. “I’m sure my brother would want to take her child in.”
“Meaning?”
Blaze said nothing.
Jane guessed what Blaze was implying. “There was nothing between Kitto and Anastasia. Nothing. Your brother fell in love with me and I loved him from the first second. The proof of our love has been its longevity and our three glorious children. Though not easy, it’s been a great success, a real love story.” As she spoke, fury burned through Jane’s veins. “If your brother only married me for my money, he’d have left me when it ran out, years ago. You’re jealous because, for all your worldly success, you’ve failed to have children or get married and you begrudge other people’s happiness.” Jane got to her feet. “Now let’s go. The least we can do is put on a united front.”
Blaze, stung by her sister-in-law’s remark, wondered how quickly she could dispense with the introductions and return to her office. Maybe simply a quick kiss, or at worst an interminable cup of tea?
The two women stood side by side, bristling with anger, watching travellers, befuddled and bewildered, step cautiously from a bright-white corridor into the cavernous arrivals hall. Many, Jane noticed, looked around anxiously for a familiar face. The lucky few were met by entire families waving banners and flowers.
Three wayward luggage trolleys piled high with suitcases and pushed by three young men burst through the exit.
“Do be careful,” an imperious female voice rang out. “Those are all my worldly possessions.”
The young men, clearly co-opted fellow travellers, grimaced at each other: the pleasure of doing someone a favour had worn thin.
“Where are the porters?” the voice resounded again. “Wait here,” and from behind the mounds of luggage stepped a slim figure wearing skintight jeans and a white Chanel tweed jacket with a matching tweed baseball cap. Around her neck and on her delicate wrists were a mass of golden chains and bangles.
“What does one have to do to get decent service around here?” the girl asked.
Blaze knew the type: a spoiled Upper East Side teenager sent to London with her father’s credit card to put distance between her and an unsuitable boyfriend. Jane felt grateful that Arabella wasn’t that bad.
The new arrival scanned the crowd and, catching sight of Blaze, she waved. Jane cast her eyes around to find the object of the girl’s interest. To her surprise, the young woman marched up to her.
“You must be Jane. My mother described you perfectly,” she said, looking the older woman up and down condescendingly.
Turning to Blaze, Ayesha smiled graciously. “By process of elimination, that makes you Blaze.” She spoke in a cut-glass English accent with the barest and most charming Indian inflections. “My mother also had you down to a T.”
Jane and Blaze stared at the girl in astonishment: the heart-shaped face, high slanted cheekbones, translucent skin and the palest blue eyes; their old friend lived on in a seemingly identical copy. A sudden flood of emotion reduced both to silence. They were transported back to younger, purer, more innocent and hopeful versions of themselves. Like a movie in reverse, memories spooled through their minds. Glancing at Blaze, Jane saw that her eyes too were brimming with tears.
“What an odd way to greet someone,” the girl remarked.
“You are most welcome here,” Jane said, trying to contain her incredulity. She could only suppose that the young woman was hiding her bereavement and feelings of displacement behind this haughty exterior.
“How kind. My name is Ayesha. Now be good enough to find some porters. These young men have other lives to get to.” She waved her arms towards her fellow passengers who, seeing an opportunity to flee, sidled off towards the Underground.
“There aren’t porters at Terminal 5,” Jane said, staring at the piles of suitcases and wondering how they’d manage the 16:45 to Penzance the following afternoon.
Ayesha looked around. “Where are your people?”
“People?” Jane asked.
“Servants.”
“I’m sure we can cope,” Jane said firmly, “between the three of us.”
Blaze had temporarily forgotten about the office and was even more relieved that Ayesha wouldn’t be her problem. Although her daughter was physically similar, Anastasia had been mysterious, not imperious. She charmed others into doing her bidding. She never raised her voice; indeed, even from her two closest friends, she hid her feelings well away. Part of her allure was to keep those close to her in a state of permanent suspense, never giving a clue about how she’d react or what she was thinking. Her daughter—brash, uncouth, demanding—was a monster.
“I thought we could stay in London tonight and make our way to Cornwall tomorrow,” Jane said.
Ayesha shook her head. “It would be more amusing to pass a few weeks in the city.”
“That’s not possible; we no longer keep a town house.”
Ayesha shrugged. “I’m told Claridge’s is comfortable.”
Blaze and Jane exchanged looks.
“I would like to use the bathroom,” Ayesha said.
“I’ll show you where it is.” Jane pointed to a sign across the concourse.
“You’ll be kind enough to watch my luggage?” Ayesha said to Blaze.
Jane led the way to the ladies, followed by Ayesha. Blaze watched them depart. Looking at the piles of suitcases, she saw that each was stamped with a crest and the initials “A. B.” Of course, Blaze thought, Princess Anastasia, the Maharani of Balakpur, and she wondered what her life had been like.
Blaze’s reverie was interrupted by the sight of Jane striding towards her. Alone now, her face was bright red. “I’m not having that girl anywhere near my house or my family. She’s your problem.”
“What the hell’s happened?” Blaze asked, looking towards the ladies.
“Go in there, you’ll see,” Jane said, pulling on her coat and tucking her handbag under her arm. “I’m going back to Trelawney, without her.” Turning, she marched in the direction of the Underground.
“Wait! You can’t leave me alone with her!” Blaze ran after her sister-in-law. “I don’t do children. I have a job.” Catching up, she saw tears pouring down Jane’s face.
Jane wiped a hand over her cheeks and kept walking. “I have a job too. A bigger one than you might imagine.”
Blaze reached out and touched Jane’s arm.
“What happened?”
“You go in there,” Jane shrugged away Blaze’s hand and gestured over her shoulder, “you’ll see.”
Watching her sister-in-law disappear down the ramp towards the Underground, Blaze realised that she’d left the luggage unattended. A security officer was circling. She ran towards him and then pushed and pulled the trolleys to the lavatories where she found Ayesha standing before a full-length mirror, touching up her make-up. It wasn’t the young woman’s figure or face that Blaze noticed; it was her hair. No longer hidden by the baseball cap, it tumbled down her back in thick curls, the exact shade of Trelawney auburn. Taking a step closer, she saw that the shape of Ayesha’s face was much like her own, and the younger woman’s hands were carbon copies too, with long, thin and slightly masculine fingers. Anastasia’s fingers had been tiny and delicate.
“Is Jane all right?” Ayesha asked. “She left suddenly. Maybe I remind her of Mummy.”
“How old are you, Ayesha?” Blaze asked.
“I’m nineteen. I was born in May 1989.”
“Did your mother ever tell you the name of your father?”
“He’s an aristocrat called Scott. I am going to find him.” Ayesha spoke quietly. “I have his address.” She passed Blaze a piece of folded paper. On it was written “Trelawney Castle, Cornwall.”
“Does your father know about you?”
“I am not sure,” Ayesha said and, for the first time, she seemed vulnerable.
Blaze leaned against a basin and looked at the young woman; she’d had no idea that the affair had resulted in a pregnancy.
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Ayesha said.
“Of Christmas Past and Christmas Future,” Blaze said.
“I did Dickens at A level. Frightfully overrated author.”
“You did A levels?” Blaze asked.
“You’d be surprised what you can do in India these days,” Ayesha said cuttingly. “We have hospitals too. Like most British, you think we are a nation of punkah wallahs and coolies.”
“I never said that!”
Ayesha shrugged.
“You will of course take me to my father. I have looked forward to this moment for as long as I can remember. I can’t tell you how excited I am.”
Blaze wished she could share the young woman’s optimism.