Making It Up (28 page)

And anyway that sort of thing was never Orson's style. The little niceties. Flowers on the anniversary, breakfast in bed. I married a man of action and I knew it and far be it from me to complain. “Dedicated”—the number of times I've heard that word. Just that occasionally, very occasionally, I've wished a tiny bit more of the dedication came my way.

So it's hardly surprising is it if once in a while one looked elsewhere. Friendship. A bit of personal attention. Never any question of disloyalty to Orson, never never.

And it's rather a question of people in glass houses, isn't it? When Caroline showed up at the funeral I was infuriated. That she had the nerve. Looking distinctly past her sell-by date, I couldn't help noting—if you spend years and years in the sun your skin is going to tell the story. Not that I paid her any attention, just walked straight by, made sure I kept on the opposite side of the room. But it was an irritation—her having the gall to show up,
and
socializing right, left, and center, I saw, having a word with the Sir Somebody, cruising around Orson's old colleagues. A legendary hostess, apparently, that was the story. Well, maybe. Diplomatic hospitality, it's called, and possibly diplomatic in other ways too, if you ask me. She would set her sights on a man, and if he was someone else's husband, well, no matter—it was, come stay with me in my tropical paradise, plenty of aid and development to be done here, just tell the bureaucrats that you need to be gone some time, relax, enjoy. I doubt if Orson was the only one.

At least Clara hadn't appeared. I'd have gone ballistic.

And the point about a funeral is that it's supposed to be a coming together, isn't it? There shouldn't be any jarring element. You are coming together in grief and in remembrance. Not that remembrance doesn't throw up difficulties here and there, but you don't want them thrust in your face, do you? A funeral should be tranquil, reflective, a culmination.

Orson disliked chrysanthemums. There was an acreage of them, displayed outside the church. Pink, bronze, white; sheaves, wreaths, sprays. That smell—the smell of weddings and funerals. Is that why a funeral makes you think of a wedding? Ours was register office, of course, not church. We'd had to hurry with it because Orson was going to Uganda for six months which was where I realized that that sort of place was not at all my cup of tea. The heat, the dirt. They weren't called third-world countries then; they were “underdeveloped.” All underdeveloped countries were hot and insanitary; presumably they still are. Orson didn't give a damn—the more squalid the better. He liked a challenge, always has. A spot of adventure. And I found that terribly appealing, when I first met him—the buccaneer quality. And of course there was the older-man thing—he was fifteen years older than I was. Or twelve. Thereabouts.

Mummy and Daddy had invited him to lunch. Daddy had heard that he was an up-and-coming man and wanted to pick his brains, Daddy being big in the Foreign Office at that point, and I was expecting to be bored to tears, doing nice polite daughter-at-home stuff, and in the event it turned out rather different. Smoldering glances across the table and a phone call the next day. Orson never wasted time. And he could lay on the charm. Mummy thought he was delightful, though the name fazed her at first. “As in Welles,” he told her, which is what he always said. “My mother was a fan.” Mummy had barely heard of Orson Welles, but never mind, she was impressed by the exoticism. Daddy wondered at first if perhaps he wasn't a bit too clever by half, but after we announced our engagement he re-jigged this and said Orson was a chap who would go far. Too true. Mummy said red hair in a man was quite unusual, and I could see she was thinking about the grandchildren. As it happens, Toby is dark, like me.

We had a whirlwind honeymoon on this island, Hydra. I'd wanted Paris, but Orson wasn't having that—he had to have some action—so there was a week of scuba diving and spear fishing, at least that's what he did, I lay around and swam and drank ouzo and thought, So this is marriage—a man in goggles comes out of the sea waving a spear-gun with a fish stuck on the end.

The sex was fine, I will say that.

I was so young. Twenty-two. Fresh from art school. Totally inexperienced but so creative. Oh, I know that's not for me to say, but it's the truth. I wasn't so brilliant at painting and drawing—you did those back then—but I was really good at clothes. I could knock up some snazzy original outfit out of a length of stuff and a few trimmings. I always won the prize at the college fashion show, and one thing was already beginning to lead to another. I'd started to hang around the Chelsea boutiques, to suss out the latest trends, and I made a few frocks for chums, and people said but you're so incredibly good at this, you should go commercial. And then Orson swept us off to Uganda. Not that he saw it like that. An overseas posting is a directive, one was informed; sweeping did not come into it.

I tried. I really did. I struggled. You'll get used to it, I told myself. The dust and the insects and the stomach upsets and, frankly, the
boredom.
What was I supposed to do with myself? I dreamed of the King's Road and London summer evenings, thin cool air not that soupy heat, a bunch of friends drinking Pimms in a pub garden. And oh, the relief, when at last it was over and Orson was based at home again and I could get on with my life. I started running up frocks in some gorgeous silk I'd bought in bulk in Mombasa when we went there for a weekend—Orson thought I'd gone crazy—just a couple of simple styles, and I put these witty quirky adverts in the Sunday papers and orders came flooding in. I got another sewing machine and brought in Midge who'd been at art college with me as helper and we began a sort of assembly line. Amazing. Magic. This is what I'm for, I thought. Of course the paperwork was a complete nightmare, and the post and packaging. Soon I had to get someone else in to do that. The house was becoming a
maison de couture
.

Midge came to the funeral. Sweet of her. Of course we'd parted company long ago. She always said I should have gone into mass production: “You could have been another Laura Ashley. You would have put Laura Ashley out of business.” Well, I dare say, but I preferred to develop in a different direction—something more exclusive. Just a few stunning designs, new every season, and a rather select list of clients. Much more stylish. Anyway, there was Midge, looking like a bird of paradise amid all the suits—she's a fashion editor nowadays—and we talked husbands. She's had three. I said, “I never ever wanted anyone but Orson. Despite everything. Despite being on my own so much. Orson was always first and foremost.” She said, “It does you credit, darling, but you always did have such strength of mind”—though I'm not absolutely sure what she meant by that, and then she started asking who everybody was, likes to do a bit of networking, does Midge. She'd noticed Caroline—“Pretty lady. I like that outfit. Friend of Orson's . . . Oh, I see.”—and she said how handsome Toby was now, which of course he is, and then she spotted Tam: “But who is the
other
glamorous young man? Oh . . . Oh,
is
he . . . I hadn't realized. . . .”

Tam does not look at all like Orson. I suppose he favors his mother, but I am not prepared to hold that against him. And I have never set eyes on Clara. She runs some sort of artists' colony on a Greek island these days, it seems.

Midge and I drifted apart after I set up in Beauchamp Place. She had her own agenda and by then I needed a professional cutter and fitter. And someone for the office—always a nightmare, the money side of it, and having to
borrow
at that stage—so humiliating. But there were people who were very kind and helpful about that. One was eternally grateful.

Of course Carlos had pots of money, he could easily spare a few bob. Banking, though actually he was rather aristocratic—some old Spanish family. We met when his wife came in and ordered a frock, though soon after that she became his ex-wife. Nothing to do with me, I hasten to say. I was always very firm that in a sense our relationship was a business one. He was my backer, put it like that.

The sad thing is that people come to expect more than was ever intended. Carlos did become rather insistent, over time. Dear Carlos, I used to say, you were my savior in my darkest hour and I am grateful to you forever but there are other people of whom I have to think. My husband. My son. And my work. I am a slave to the calendar—two collections every year. I can never let up. My clients depend on me. No sooner is one lot off the drawing board than I need to start thinking of the next. And the hunt for fabric and trimmings . . . I am hither and thither, from one week to the next. Eventually, perhaps, I shall be able to delegate more, find myself some space, and of course you will always be among my dearest friends.

I've learned to cope with pressure—I've had to—but back at the beginning it was coming from all sides and some of it I'm sorry to say from Orson. Not 100 percent supportive. How could I possibly drop everything and go with him to some famine in Senegal or Sudan or Ethiopia or wherever when everything depended on me? And anyway by then there was Toby, always a slightly delicate child and no way could I have him dragged from continent to continent.

But Orson was Orson and he wasn't going to settle for a decent desk job in London which was the obvious solution given the way things were turning out so there was nothing for it but long periods of separation. Some people didn't even realize I was married. And I was still young and if I may say so not unattractive so inevitably there were men sniffing around. I was making a bit of a name and I met a lot of people and it would have done me no good to be unsociable, and let's face it a bit of attention from a few personable admirers didn't come amiss. But I was always circumspect. Always.

And of course when Orson was back for a while one had to make it clear that one would be less available. He was liable to turn up without warning, straight off the plane, in the most awful clothes, having come from some underdeveloped jungle somewhere, and I might be in the middle of a dinner party, the house full of people, and there's this tramplike figure: “May I introduce my husband.” Not that Orson would be at all put out, not he, he'd have everyone on the run within minutes. Orson is an assertive man.

A presence. Makes himself felt. And the gift of the gab, like no one else—could talk himself in or out of any situation. I suppose that was a professional advantage, the sort of people he had to deal with, around the world. Women noticed him—oh, yes indeed. Well, we know about that.

Clara dates from way back. Toby and Tam are the same age. Not that I knew about her until later. Some kind friend always tells you: “My dear, I feel you should know . . .” She was queening it on the Seychelles—holding court at this mansion and one wonders how she came by that—and Orson fetched up there with some colleagues, stopping off after one of those so-called fact-finding tours, and why one asks were they there in the first place, but it seems that they stayed on and on until their office started sending telegrams. The story was that the island was the site of an experimental pig-breeding scheme in which Orson and his team were interested, centered on Clara's estate. The extended stay was essential for proper monitoring of the scheme. Ho, hum. Whether or not the relationship was sustained I do not know and have not inquired. Tam was sent to Bedales and has turned out a very charming young man, against all the odds.

She trapped him, of course. Women like that set their sights on a man and will stop at nothing. I don't know what she did and I don't want to but you hear a lot of rumors about black magic and voodoo and jiggery-pokery of one kind and another in places like that, don't you? Suffice it that she got him and I dare say that Orson wasn't by any means unwilling. I've been told she is remarkably seductive. Well, that's as may be, but some men go as lambs to the slaughter and I'm afraid this is where Orson's much-vaunted strength of personality seems to have failed.

I have never made an issue of it. Her name is not mentioned. Tam of course is the living testimony but I have never ever been anything but generous and fair-minded where the boy was concerned. He cannot be blamed for his mother's practices and it is to his credit that he has emerged such a very engaging young man. Of course the funeral was agony for him. He was so devastated at what had happened. Distraught.

Toby got back just in time. It took me three days to get hold of him. He was in Australia. Frankly, it was not really necessary to go to the other side of the world after that family row. When Orson said that he thought it would be a good idea if Toby went away for a bit he just meant that a cooling-off period was needed. After Orson's retirement he and Toby were never on good terms, to be honest they
fought
. Orson was too forceful and Toby had dropped out of college and he was into dope and he didn't seem to have any particular career structure in mind. And he wasn't used to having a father around as a permanent fixture. Toby has artistic tendencies though it's not clear what form these will take and of course Orson is not that way inclined. I stood aside as far as possible though I must admit I was finding Toby's lifestyle rather trying myself but basically it was a question of male egos and Orson's was dominant. And he had the checkbook. So Toby went off on what was supposed to be a sort of postponed gap year and I won't say I wasn't a tiny bit relieved, I'm much too busy still to have to endure a stressful home life and anyway his room needed redecorating.

I love children. I love to have the young around me. But naturally there had to be nannies and suchlike for Toby because I was just not available and I will admit that I find infants and very small children somewhat wearing. A larger family would not have been a good idea which is the main reason I was so shattered when I found I was pregnant again. There was also the problem that it happened while Orson was away in Nigeria I think it was, which made things—well, a bit awkward. I suppose it was the silly fling with that photographer, he'd been knocking on the door for ages and I couldn't go on saying no forever. Though actually there was someone else around then too, now I come to think of it. I didn't realize about the pregnancy until it was rather too late to do anything so I just had to go through with it, said I was having a sabbatical and slipped off for a few months to a place Carlos had in Spain. An arrangement was made for the baby, some sweet nuns in a convent took care of everything, much the best thing for all concerned. It had something wrong with its feet, some sort of malformation. I hardly saw him so wisest not to think about it, just put it behind one.