Forget Me Not (26 page)

I looked at the photo again, feeling my face suffuse with heat, then, just as quickly, go icy cold. For now I saw not just the unmistakable nature of the relationship between my mother and this man, but I recognised in his dark brown eyes, Cassie’s; I recognised in his high, domed forehead her own. Like Cassie, the man had olive skin and hair that, like hers, was dark, and lustrous, and thick.

As I stared at the image things shifted in and out of vision in my mind, like a lens struggling to focus, then suddenly everything became startlingly clear.

Now, my hands trembling, I looked at the letter. It was from my mother to my father and with its many scorings and crossings out was clearly a draft of something that she had found hard to write.

Dearest Colin … how will I ever be able to thank you for
your huge generosity of spirit … I know I don’t deserve
it … I blame myself … feel so ashamed … will do whatever
I can to make it as easy as possible for you … I agree
that
no one
should know
…

I felt goosebumps raise themselves up on my arms. There was no date on the letter, but it clearly belonged with the photo. I read it again, then flicked through the book once more in case there was anything else secreted inside it; there wasn’t, but there was an inscription on the title page:
To Mary, with
so many happy memories, amore a baci, Carlo, June 1977
.

‘So many happy memories?’ I whispered. Now I remembered the conversation I’d had with Dad four months before.

I was out there for eight months
.

It must have been hard for you
.

Yes … it was very hard
.

So that was before Cassie was born?

That’s … right. Cassie was born the following year
.

On 15 March. I felt as though the air had been punched out of my lungs.

As I put the book away in my desk, I found myself wishing that Simonetta had never asked me about the honey garlic. Dad had clearly had no idea what was concealed inside
Flowers of Southern Italy
, otherwise he’d never have left it for me to take.

As I went downstairs, still feeling shaky, the phone rang. It was the producer from GMTV reminding me about the five interviews I was doing for them the following week. ‘We’ve got all the plants you requested,’ she said. ‘I’ve booked the cab to pick you up at 6 a.m. on Monday, to give you time to arrange them as you’d like before the interview. Is that OK?’

‘That’s absolutely fine,’ I replied automatically. But how would I be able to concentrate now?

As it was, the adrenalin rush of live TV carried me through. I arrived at the studios at 6.30, had a quick stint in make-up, then went up to the roof terrace and chatted to Penny Smith about the must-have herbaceous perennials for summer. We’d managed to talk about growing
Osteospermum, Rudbeckia
, lupins and
Verbascum
; then before I knew it she was thanking me, looking forward to seeing me again tomorrow when I would be talking about container planting, then neatly cueing into a piece about teenage mums.

When I got back, I took Milly to Sweet Peas. Then I phoned Dad to tell him that I was bringing over his planters.

‘Your TV appearance went well,’ he said as we unloaded them from the back of my car half an hour later. ‘And they put your website up on the screen.’

‘That’s good.’ I lifted out the tray of
Pelargoniums
. ‘I got you these because they flower for so long, and there’s white Bacopa to go in between.’

‘That should look nice. Is everything OK?’ he asked as I pulled out the bag of compost.

‘Everything’s fine. I’m just a bit tired after my early start, that’s all.’ We dragged the load into the lift, then Dad pressed the button and we juddered upwards. ‘But Dad …’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s something I need to ask you.’

He looked at me. ‘That sounds ominous. What?’

‘It’s about … Brazil.’

‘Brazil?’ he repeated as we jerked to a halt on the tenth floor. The gunmetal-grey doors drew back with a resonant clunk.

‘Yes. I’m thinking … of going there. With Patrick. For a holiday.’

‘Really?’ he said as we unloaded. ‘Well, it’s a long way.’

‘I know, but … I was just wondering what’s the best time to go?’

Dad gave an awkward little shrug. ‘I’m not really sure …’ He reached into his pocket for his keys.

‘But you were out there for a while, weren’t you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘For eight months I think you said.’

‘Ye-es,’ he said as he fumbled with the lock.

‘So which months were they, then?’ There was an awkward silence. ‘Can you remember?’ My heart stopped as I waited for his reply.

He pushed on the door. ‘I was there in 1977, from January to August.’ My heart started beating again, then sank like a stone at the implication of what he’d just said. ‘But it’s a huge country so it would depend where you were.’

‘Of course. Well, I’ll do a bit more research. So … from January to August,’ I added casually as we carried the planters on to the balcony and began filling them. ‘And did you come home at all during that time?’ There was another odd little silence. ‘Did you, Dad?’

‘I should have done, as I had leave,’ he replied. He put down his trowel. ‘But I’d had malaria and was too weak to travel. By the time I’d recovered I decided just to press on with the project as by then all I wanted was to get it over with and come home. It was one of the worst periods of my life,’ he added quietly as he gently twisted the plants out of their pots. ‘It was far too long to be away and, well, lengthy separations are no good for a marriage really …’ His voice trailed away.

‘No. Of course not. Well, anyway, thanks.’

‘Was that all you wanted to know then, Anna?’ he added.

I stared at him. ‘Yes, Dad,’ I said. ‘It was.’

So that was that, I thought as I drove home. It was unequivocal. Dad was in Brazil when Cassie was conceived. I went upstairs and looked at the photo again, with a sick, see-saw feeling. Then I just sat at my desk, my head in my hands.

So Mum’s marriage hadn’t been as conventional as I’d thought – far from it. She’d had an affair. I felt a wave of sadness, disappointment and dismay. She’d had an affair while Dad was away and she’d got pregnant, and she’d told him – that was clear from the letter – and Dad had obviously forgiven her, because their marriage didn’t end, it went on.

When a baby comes along I think you just have to …
accept it
.

I felt a sudden burst of affection for Dad. He must have loved Mum so much.

You need someone who’ll always be there for you.
Whatever
…

Mum had always added that enigmatic ‘whatever’. And now I knew what it meant.

But the shock I felt at my discovery was softened by the thought that at some deep level I’d always known. However different siblings may be, you can still detect some common ingredient even if it’s only the line of a nose, or the curve of an eyebrow. But every single thing about Cassie – physical and psychological – was alien to me and now, at last, I knew why. And what would have made Mum and Dad decide to have another baby, more than six years after their last one?

‘Oh, we just got broody again,’ I now remembered her saying if anyone ever mentioned the age gap. ‘Didn’t we, darling?’ she’d add breezily to Dad, who would just smile his gentle, non-committal smile.

I slid the photo back and hid the book in a drawer.

TEN

Over the next few days I felt a huge weariness of spirit, which translated into a physical heaviness, as though I was staggering around with a huge boulder in my arms, but couldn’t find anywhere to put it down. I had an older brother who was virtually estranged, a business partner with marital problems, an ex who only sees our child twice a year, an au pair who might be selling drugs; and now I’d discovered that my sister was the result of an adulterous liaison.

To distract myself I went through my wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear to the Edwards’ party. As I was pulling out shoes, Cassie phoned. I felt an initial discomfort at the sound of her voice, but that alien feeling quickly faded as familiar emotions flooded back.

‘
Guess
what’s happened,’ she said.

‘I can’t,’ I said as I found the pair of pistachio sling-backs I’d been looking for. ‘I don’t have the imaginative energy. You’ll have to tell me.’

‘It’s about Dad.’

I straightened up. ‘Is he OK?’

‘Oh he’s fine. But I’ve discovered something, well, rather astounding,’ she went on.

It couldn’t be as astounding as what I’d recently discovered, I reflected.

‘So what about him?’ I said as I reached for my green linen cocktail dress.

‘Well, last night I was sitting in the bar of the Harvey Nichols Fifth Floor – in my professional capacity.’

‘Is that what you call it?’

‘And I was talking to this chap who I’d been sent to … check out.’

‘Flirt with,’ I corrected her. ‘I hope this is all safe, by the way.’

‘Oh, it’s perfectly safe,’ she replied, ‘because Ken, my boss, was sitting only yards away with a concealed video recorder. Anyway, I suddenly glanced towards the other side of the bar and who should I see? Dad!’

I sat on the bed. ‘You saw
Dad
in the Harvey Nichols bar?’ That wasn’t his kind of place. ‘And did he see you?’

‘No. For one thing it was very crowded, also he was engrossed in conversation with this … woman.’

‘Woman?’ I echoed. I glanced out of the window. ‘So he was on a
date?
’

‘Yes. I found it repulsive,’ she added.

‘Why?’

‘Because the woman in question was at least thirty years younger.’

‘Oh. How ghastly – for her, I mean.’

‘Quite. She looked rather miserable, though he was very animated, chatting away to her nineteen to the dozen – he was wearing the Pucci tie, by the way. Then she went to the loo, so I made my excuses and followed her. And I overheard her ringing a friend. And she said she was on the most “horrendous date of her life” with this “boring old fart …”’

‘Bloody cheek!’

‘… who’d knocked twenty years off his age – he’d said he was fifty-two, apparently.’

‘Fifty-two?’ Oh. ‘Well, that
is
a bit much – or rather, not nearly enough. But how had he lied about it?’

‘Well, this is the point. From the gist of the conversation it became apparent that she’d put an ad in
The Times
personals and Dad had replied. She said that far from being the “fit, fun-loving, macho professional, 45–50” she was seeking, he was a clapped-out OAP.’

‘That’s very rude – Dad
is
fit, for his years.’

‘She then said he’d told her that he’d answered quite a few of these ads – twenty-eight of them, to be precise.’

‘Ah.’ So that explained why his social life had suddenly picked up.

‘Don’t you find that shocking?’ I heard Cassie say. ‘Dad – doing
that
kind of thing at his age! He’ll be
seventy
in September!’

I was incapable of being shocked at the moment, I reflected ruefully. ‘No, I don’t find it shocking,’ I replied. ‘So “moderately surprised” will have to do. You’re not a prude, Cassie – look at the things
you
do – so please don’t be too hard on Dad. He’s been very lonely since Mum died. Good luck to him.’

‘Are you all right, Anna? You’re sounding a bit … weird.’

‘I’m perfectly OK. I’m just tired.’

‘But do you think I should mention it to Dad?’

I kicked the cupboard door shut. ‘Absolutely
not
! If he wants to make a fool of himself with younger women, that’s up to him – and it’s got to be a lot more fun than Bridge with the Travises. Anyway, sorry, Cassie, but I’ve got to go.’

I went up to my workroom and looked at the photo of Mum with her lover again, as I have done many times since I first found it, scanning it for further clues. Seeing it had shattered my peace of mind, obliterating all other thoughts, as though someone had lobbed a brick into my brain. I needed to talk about it, but with whom? Not with Dad, I decided: it would rake up too many bitter memories for him. Not with Cassie. I didn’t want to discuss it with Patrick, as that would make me feel disloyal to my family. I wondered what, if anything, Mark knew. I composed an e-mail to him, telling him that I’d discovered something upsetting and would welcome a chat. But half an hour later I received an auto-reply, saying that he’d be out of town until 19 June.

Over the next few days I found it hard to come to terms with what I’d discovered about my mother. I struggled with the knowledge that she’d had feet of clay. I needed to process what I’d found out – with the help of a professional. I toyed with the idea of finding a shrink. I even looked up a few in
Yellow Pages
and was just about to dial one – a Dr D. Buckhurst, based in Hampstead – when I thought of Jenny. She did stress and trauma counselling. She gave very good, thoughtful advice. More important, she was completely discreet. Her lips were sealed – not just about herself, but about everyone. So I left a message on her machine, asking for an appointment as soon as possible.

‘What’s this for?’ she asked as I arrived at her flat two days later with a bottle of champagne.

‘It’s because I think it’s unlikely that you’ll let me pay you.’

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I won’t. But thank you.’ She showed me into her large study, which doubled as her consultation room. ‘So,’ she said gently, as we sat in the two brown leather armchairs. ‘You said you needed to talk.’

‘I do,’ I whispered as her sympathetic tone released in me a wave of pent-up emotion. ‘I …’ She passed me a box of tissues. I took a moment to collect myself, then explained what I’d found. I hadn’t brought the photo with me – it was too personal – so I just described it.

As she listened, making the occasional pencilled note, Jenny’s face betrayed not a flicker of shock or censure, just an intense, intelligent interest.