Julian Fellowes - Past Imperfect

‘Of course not.’

‘I didn’t “show” until I was about five months “gone.” I told Greg I didn’t feel comfortable with sex, and with his puritan background he didn’t either. Then I asked if he’d mind not being at the birth, as the thought made me uncomfortable. Boy, you should have seen the relief on his face. These days, if the father isn’t there peering up your flue as the head appears, he’s a bad person, but in 1971 it wasn’t compulsory.’

‘How did you manage the birth itself?’

‘I had a stroke of luck when he was called to New York just before the baby came. The dates I’d given him were three weeks behind the true ones, to leave some room for manoeuvre. I did have a plan of checking into a different room. I think it would have worked but in the end I didn’t need it. She went into labour and I took the mother to the nursing home where, thanks to the doctor, she just gave my name. The baby was delivered and the registration was perfectly routine. When Greg got back, I was waiting for him at home with little Susie. We cried a river. Everyone was happy.’

‘And nobody ever found out?’

‘Why would they? I told him I loved him, but I couldn’t have sex until I got my figure back. He suspected nothing. Nobody was worse off. Including Susie. I mean that.’ Clearly, she did mean it and I would say it was probably true, although one can never be quite sure about these things. Even if I do not endorse the present fashion for leaving babies with mothers who are clearly quite incapable of caring for them, rather than finding them decent homes. Terry was nearly finished. ‘For a while I thought the doctor might blackmail me, but he didn’t, so that was that. Maybe he was scared I’d blackmail him.’

‘And there were never any tests that gave it away?’

‘What tests? They’re both blood group O, which was kind of a relief actually. But who runs a DNA test on their own daughter?’

‘Did Greg have any more children?’

‘None of his own. Two steps. He adores Susie and she adores him.’ She sighed a little wearily. ‘She much prefers him to me.’

I nodded. ‘So he’ll take care of her.’ For some reason I was rather glad of this. Susie had missed a larger fortune which, in my fevered mind, she had possessed for maybe two or even three minutes. It was good to feel she would never know want.

‘Oh yes. She’s safer than I’ll ever be.’

I had to ask. ‘Would you have gone on with it if I hadn’t mentioned the test?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Probably. The temptation was too great. But of course there would have been some hurdle by the end of it, so I’m glad you did. Before I got too excited.’

It was once more the hour to depart and this time I knew for certain we would not meet again. Since, even if I were back in the town, I wouldn’t look her up. But something in the story she had told had won me round a bit. I was reminded of the haunting words of Lady Caroline Lamb: ‘With all that has been said about life’s brevity, for most of us it is very, very long.’ Terry’s life had already been very long and very frustrating, with scant reward to show for it. That this had largely been her fault was no consolation, as I knew well. She had thrown away her only chance of a decent future with Greg and never replaced him with anything like an equal opportunity. Now she had lost even the child she’d invented to be with him. We kissed at the door. ‘Please don’t mention this to anyone.’ She shook her head. I had something more to say. ‘And please don’t ever tell them.’

‘Would I?’

‘I don’t know. If you got too drunk and too angry you might.’

She did not resent this, which was commendable, but she was confident in her denial. ‘I have been drunk and angry many times since we last met and I haven’t told them yet.’ This, I am sure, was true. All of it.

‘Good.’ Now I really was going. But I had a last wish before we parted. ‘Be kind to Donnie,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t sound a bad chap.’

The evening had made me sentimental in my estimation of her. I should have been more clear-sighted. The truth was, with the sole exception of her feeling towards her not-daughter, the old Terry Vitkov was quite unchanged. ‘He’s a bastard,’ she replied and shut the door.

Which only left Candida Finch.

I stayed on a few days in Los Angeles, in Beverly Hills to be precise, at the very comfortable Peninsular Hotel – a haven for the English, since it is the only one where you can actually walk out to the post office or get something to eat without having to stand and wait every time for a crisply suited ‘valet’ to fetch your car. I’d enjoyed meeting my agent who turned out to be charming, and if I did not quite follow Damian’s instructions to the letter, still we got on very well and he sent me round the town to meet a few people while I was still out there. Since I was allowed the untold luxury of first class travel back to London, I felt quite relaxed and invigorated when I got home. How strange it is, the way enough sleep and the resulting physical energy can make one feel as if one’s whole life is going well, while the lack of them has the opposite effect.

However, when I finally returned to the flat, if I was expecting to find a series of messages from Candida answering those I’d left before I went away, I was disappointed. There was nothing. Accordingly, I recorded yet another on her machine which was still not picking up, and settled down to a day or two of work on my latest novel, a tale of middle-class angst in a seaside town, which was approaching what I would hesitate to call its climax and which I had, understandably, recently neglected. It was on the morning of the following day, when I’d finally managed to get some way back into the rhythm of my troubled, marine triangle, that the telephone on my desk started to ring.

‘You called Candida Finch yesterday,’ said a female voice and, for a moment, quite illogically, I thought it must be Candida herself who was speaking. I can’t think why, since it obviously wasn’t.

‘Yes, I wondered if I could see you, which I know sounds odd.’

‘It does sound very odd, and I’m not Candida, I’m Serena.’ A thousand bags of sherbet exploded in my vitals.

‘Serena?’ Of course it was Serena. It was her voice, for God’s sake. What had I been thinking of? But why should Serena ring me? How could that have happened? I pondered the question without speaking, silently wondering, earpiece clamped to my ear.

‘Hello?’ Her voice had gone up in volume.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, I thought you’d been cut off. It all went quiet.’

‘No, I’m still here.’

‘Good.’

I suddenly worried that I could hear in her voice a querying sound, as if she were afraid that the person she was speaking to was in fact a nutter and it might be dangerous to continue the conversation. I trembled lest she might act on this subconscious warning. All of which illustrates the fevered level of my imagination. ‘How can I help?’

‘I was talking to Candida this morning and she said she’d had a message to ring you, that you wanted to see her.’

‘She’s had more than one message from me, I’m afraid. I thought she must have emigrated.’

‘She’s been in Paris and she only got back last night.’

‘It’s rather wonderful that you’re still in touch.’ As the words left my mouth, I could hear their senselessness. Why did I say this? Why was it wonderful? Why shouldn’t they be in touch? Was I mad?

‘She’s my cousin.’

Which I should have known. In fact, I must have known it. In fact, I did know it. Perfectly well. They gave a ball together, for God’s sake. I was present at it. What kind of fool forgets something like that? What kind of stupid moron? ‘Of course,’ I said lightly. ‘Of course you are. I should have remembered.’ Where was this twaddle leading? To some International Idiots’ Convention? Why couldn’t I say anything that didn’t sound illogical and inane?