Dear Felix,
Next week is the twenty-month anniversary of your death. We all hoped it would be significant in some way, help us in some way, I think, but I can’t imagine a day when I am not devastated that you died. A day when I won’t wish time and again that I’d made a different decision that afternoon. That I had somehow been able to stop it happening. I have relived that day over and over so many times, wishing I could change the ending. I still wish it.
But I’ve also made a decision. I will always be sad when I think about you but I am going to try to remember something happy too. Every time I feel sad I want to have a good memory ready to try to cancel it out. I am going to make myself remember all the beautiful things that happened while you were in our lives, not just the sad way you left us. Because there are so many wonderful memories, Felix. I don’t know how you did it, but from the moment you arrived, you filled all our lives with happiness, just by being you.
Here are just two of my favorite memories for now:
The way you looked the day you were born. Felix, you had so much hair. Even the nurses remarked on it. I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, but you looked like a monkey.
One day when you were about four months old I was trying to put your nappy on. You didn’t want me to do it. Every time I tried, you struggled. I left you alone, then tried again. No, you still struggled and squirmed and kept trying to sit up. I wasn’t cross, just tired, but I said, a bit sharply, “Fine, Felix. Don’t wear one.” And you got upset. It was as if you understood what I’d said. Your bottom lip quivered and you looked up at me as if you were sorry to cause trouble, and then, the funniest thing of all, you lay down flat again and stretched out your legs, stiff as can be, as if to say, “Go on, then. If you’re going to get so worked up about it, put the bloody nappy on.” I know you were probably just stretching but I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much. I still didn’t get the nappy on you in time, by the way. You got it all over me. My own fault.
I miss you so much, Felix. It’s still so hard.
From: Charlie Baum
To: Ella O’Hanlon
Subject: Meredith
Yes, I saw it. Not so much
MerryMakers
as
Merry-Can’t-Make-a-Muscle-Move-in-Her-Forehead
. Glad to hear she’s laughing about it. Not that we’d be able to tell if we were looking at her. How long does it take for that stuff to wear off??
From: Charlie Baum
To: Ella O’Hanlon
Subject: On a different subject
E, I know the anniversary is coming up soon. I just want you to know we are all thinking of you. Stay strong and brave and know how much we all love you and how much we all loved Felix too. C xx
From: Charlie Baum
To: Walter Baum
Subject: Jess
Just got your message. No, I agree, that’s not like her. Will call you first thing your morning. Don’t worry yet. Maybe she’s just lost her phone. C
D
ear Diary,
Hi, it’s Jess.
I am so scared. I’ve made a huge mistake. I’m in trouble.
I should never have come here. I’m not good enough. I was a big fish in a small pond in Australia and I’m a tiny fish in a huge, huge pond here but that’s not what I mean about being in trouble. It’s just a part of it.
I’ve moved out of the hotel and into Ben’s flat. It’s in Barons Court, about eight Tube stops from Covent Garden. It’s above a laundrette, so it smells good, like washing powder, but it’s so small, just two bedrooms and a tiny kitchen and a pretty small living room. He said it belongs to his aunt and she rents it to him cheaply, that he’s actually really lucky, a place like this would normally cost a fortune. But between us, it’s really ordinary and really crowded. Zach has been staying here too, so his stuff was in the spare bedroom but Ben said that he’ll get Zach to move out into the living room on the sofa, and I can have the bedroom. I don’t know what Zach will have to say about that. He wasn’t there today. He was out leaving his CV at all the agents again, Ben said.
I went to another two auditions today. I won’t even tell you how I got on. Yes, I will. They were terrible. I knew within seconds that they didn’t want me. I was too upset and I couldn’t seem to get the beat and I was out of tune and they wouldn’t give me a second chance. Only one person was kind and explained to me they have to go on first impressions at the audition, because if you don’t get it right under pressure then, how can they have faith that you’ll get it right on the night?
After the second audition (worse than the first), I gave myself a good talking-to. I pretended I was talking about everything with my counselor and she was urging me on. Usually I try to imagine Mum and Dad urging me on and telling me not to worry, that everything will get better, that the day will come when everything won’t feel as bad as it does now, but I couldn’t think about them because I’m not talking to them at the moment. I’m trying to stand on my own two feet. I imagined the counselor asking me how I was and what was worrying me the most at the moment. And my answer to her was “Money.” My lack of it. And my imaginary counselor said, “What about trying to get a job?”
So after the auditions I went into every restaurant and café near Ben’s flat but there were no jobs going. I even went into a temp agency but I didn’t have any qualifications. I can type but not as fast as I need to be able to, and they said there’s not that much work going anyway.
I’ve only got sixty pounds left. When I counted it, I nearly decided to throw my pride out of the window and ring Mum and Dad and beg them to send me money, but something stopped me. I realized I am still really actually mad at them. Then I thought, I’ll just go home and stay with some friends in Melbourne, not go back to Mum and Dad’s, not until I calm down and also not until they apologize. So I rang the airline and I had to hold for so long I was worried my phone battery would go flat and then the woman who eventually answered said it would cost me one hundred pounds to change my ticket!! That’s outrageous, even if I did have it. Which I don’t. So I can’t go back home yet. Anyway, I could just imagine the people in the TV studio laughing at me, “Oh, Jess, you’re back. We only just tidied up after your farewell party.” And as for everyone at the dance classes, I just know how it would be. “Wow, Jess, welcome back. Your West End career went so well! How long did it last, a week?”
What can I do?????? I’ll go for a walk. That might make me feel better. I’ll pretend I have some money and go window-shopping for clothes.
It’s three hours later. I’m in a café not far from Oxford Street trying to make a cup of tea last for as long as I can but the waitress is starting to give me death glares AND she’s Australian. I thought she’d be nicer. Maybe she’s from New Zealand. I’ve only been here for an hour and there are plenty of empty tables around me now so I don’t know what her problem is. I am still really worried and scared. I wish I knew someone here apart from Ben. I know Ella is here in London. I know she’s here at her uncle Lucas’s house. But I have to put that out of my mind.
Ben said he won’t be home until later. I don’t want to be at his flat on my own with Zach, so I said I’d meet him back there at nine p.m. That only leaves five more hours to kill. I’d go to the cinema except that would use up money that I don’t have to spare.
I’ll go for another walk instead. It’s really cold. What I thought was a heavy coat in Melbourne isn’t really heavy enough in London. Hopefully walking will warm me up.
It’s an hour later. I’m in a café in Paddington now. I didn’t mean to come here, I really didn’t. But I was walking and I got so cold and a bus went past and I just got on and it was only afterward that I realized where it was going. I don’t even know where Ella’s uncle lives. I never had the address. And I can’t ask Mum for it. And what would I do if I had it anyway?
Charlie might know it.
But he won’t give it to me. Ella would have told him not to.
But I can ask him anyway. He might.
No, he won’t.
The café I’m in is near a big road called Baywatch Road or something like that. I didn’t realize Paddington was near Hyde Park or maybe it’s Kensington Gardens. I can’t work out where one finishes and the other starts. The houses are nice around here. Big, and all painted white. I saw a blue plaque on one of them saying that the man who wrote
Peter Pan
used to live there. I looked him up in my online guidebook, and it turns out there are hundreds of those blue plaques around the whole city about all the famous people who lived here and there. If the weather was warmer, I would walk around and see some of them, except what’s the point? It’s not like you get to go inside the houses.
London is so huge. I wish again I knew someone here who could show me around, even for a few days.
Now the waiter HERE is starting to give me death glares too. What is it with people who run cafés in London?? It’s not as if anyone has come in and wants to sit exactly where I’m sitting. I’ll go to Paddington Station instead. There are lots of cafés there.
I’m at the station now. I walked up a long street on the way here, past loads of those big white houses, and I could see into a few of them because people’s lights were on in their living rooms and I could see they were watching TV and reading and starting to make their dinner, all these happy people with their safe lovely houses, and I couldn’t help it. I started to cry as I was walking along.
I’m having a really terrible day. I’ve still got two hours to fill until Ben finishes work and I’m hungry so I bought a banana but I’m so worried about spending any more in case what I have has to last me for another week. I called into every café, hotel and restaurant I passed on the walk here too but none of them had any job vacancies either. I even called into two hairdressers’ to ask if they needed anyone to sweep up the hair, or to be hair models, but they all said no. I’m not sure how much longer I can last on my money.
I still can’t believe Mum and Dad didn’t tell me about the show. Is that really why Mum had the Botox? Because she was feeling threatened by me?
It’s now eight o’clock. I’m still in Paddington Station, in a café in a sort of shopping area. Only half an hour to go before I can start making my way to Ben’s flat. I found a Tube ticket in my bag and thank God I realized I’d bought a monthly pass when I got here, so at least I can use that without breaking into my last pounds. I’ll catch the Tube to Ben’s. I’ll have to change lines but I think I’ve worked out how to do it. There are birds everywhere here, even though the station is under a roof. It’s kind of disgusting actually. What else is disgusting is how much food people leave. If I was really, really starving, that’s what I’d do. I’d come to this café and wait until I saw someone get up and leave half a sandwich or most of their cake behind and I’d get it before the birds got to it, or the waitresses.
I just saw a waitress chase a homeless guy away who was trying to do exactly that.
I just realized I’m like him. I don’t have a home either.
I’m really scared.
I
woke up feeling as if I hadn’t slept. I barely had. I’d dreamed of Jess in London. Of Aidan and his letter. I’d relived the dinner with Henrietta. When I rang Charlie in my dream to ask his advice, he’d hung up, laughing. Lucas disappeared. I ran from room to room trying to find him but it didn’t matter how many doors I opened—he was nowhere to be found.
This house had been my safe haven. It felt different now. I felt different. My heart felt fluttery in my chest. My bedroom suddenly felt too small. It was the beginning of a panic attack. I knew the feeling. I couldn’t let it happen. The key was to do something definite, focus my mind, concentrate on something real, something present, something nearby.
All I could think of was Aidan’s letter.
I couldn’t open it now. Not when I was feeling like this.
I got up. I got dressed. I wanted to run away. Leave London, today, now. But I couldn’t. Not yet. I couldn’t do it to Lucas. He needed my help.
I was now pacing the room. My mind was racing, leaping from thought to thought. I hated the idea of Lucas leaving London. How could I possibly ask him to sell his house? I hated that Henrietta had asked for my help. If she wanted him to sell, then she could ask him herself. I wanted nothing to do with it. I didn’t want to help her.
I didn’t
have
to help her.
Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Why had I been agonizing over how and when to ask him? I didn’t have to obey her. She wasn’t my aunt. Even if they did get married, I could never think of her as my aunt. I would still see Lucas—I would make sure of that—but away from her. Somehow. We could meet in Paris, perhaps, if I was still living in Europe.
Where would I go next? Where else could I live? I had some savings, enough to do some traveling. That was it. I’d go traveling. The first thing I would do if and when Lucas sold the house and moved to France would be to go and see Charlie in Boston. I hadn’t seen him in almost two years. After that? Could I come back to London? Could I look up some of my old publishing contacts from my time in Bath? Could I even consider taking on an editing project or two in London? I could rent a cheap flat somewhere, not here, not in the same area as this, that would be too hard, but somewhere new. Yes, in a brand-new part of the city—
I suddenly felt energized. I was making plans. I wanted to be on the move now, today, this morning. Yes. I would go and see Henrietta today. Now. Tell her that I was sorry, but she would have to talk to Lucas about selling his house herself.
The tutors had already left for the day. Lucas was in his withdrawing room. I knocked on the door, said good morning, kept my voice casual. I made the idea of me dropping over to visit Henrietta sound normal. He was distracted with his work but pleased at my idea, I could see. I mentioned something about a book she’d talked about lending me. What was her address? Her house was within walking distance, wasn’t it?
“Anywhere is within walking distance if you’ve got the time,” he said, smiling.
He gave me her address and directions to get there. It was in Kensington, about forty minutes on foot. I decided against ringing first. I’d let fate take over. If she wasn’t home, I’d go another day.
“Everyone’s in tonight, Ella,” Lucas said as I put on my coat and scarf in the hallway. “Would it suit you to prepare dinner for us all?”
“Perfectly,” I said, surprised at how relaxed I sounded. “Will I do my famous Thai curry?”
“Lovely,” he said. “Enjoy Henrietta. Give her my love.”
“Of course,” I said.
It was a cool, misty day. It felt good to be outside. I walked into Kensington Gardens and took the path that led across to Kensington High Street. I followed Lucas’s directions from there. I walked past long rows of houses with entrances on the street like Lucas’s, many divided into flats, obvious from the number of bells in the doorway. The closer I came to Henrietta’s street, the farther back from the footpath the houses went. Steps gave way to small front gardens. I turned into a very grand street, the houses barely visible through large hedges or over tall stone walls. They were mansions now, rather than houses. I saw security cameras. Sculptures visible over walls or through fences. A fountain in one front garden. A gardener sweeping up leaves in another.
Henrietta’s house was one of the largest on her street. There was a discreetly designed intercom in the wall and, on a post nearby, a camera trained on the spot where I was standing.
I pressed the button. A moment later, a voice. A male voice. Henrietta’s husband? I hadn’t expected that.
“Yes?” So much came across in that one word. Confidence. Intelligence. Impatience.
“Hello. My name is Ella.” Did Henrietta know me as Ella Fox, Ella Baum or Ella O’Hanlon? I didn’t know. I left it at that. “Is Henrietta in, please?”
“Are you one of her students?”
“No.” How did I describe myself? I wasn’t her student or her friend. “I’m Lucas Fox’s niece.”
“Just a moment.”
I waited for the gate to open. It didn’t. I stood there, unsure. A minute later, Henrietta’s voice sounded down the intercom. “Ella? What on earth are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Couldn’t you have rung first? I’m busy.” She sighed, the sound noisy through the small speaker. “Come in, then. Go to the side door. The front door’s just been painted.”
The gate slowly opened, revealing a landscaped front garden, white gravel, two cars and stone steps going up to, yes, a freshly painted yellow door. I made my way around to the side of the house. Henrietta was there waiting for me. I’d expected a maid or a housekeeper.
“Why didn’t you ring?” she said again. There was no greeting.
“Is it a bad time?”
“Yes. Come in anyway.”
She took me through the kitchen, a long room with gleaming appliances and uncluttered shelves, through a kind of scullery and up a flight of stairs into a living room on the first floor. The walls were painted a soft cream. The carpet was a deep blue. The furniture was highly polished. The contrast between her house and Lucas’s was striking.
“Tea? Coffee?”
“Tea, please.” I didn’t really want it, but I was glad of a chance to gather my thoughts. Now that I was here, on her territory, in the shadow of her strong personality, my nerves were failing me. I expected her to ring for someone to make the tea, but she went downstairs.
I heard a phone ring. A minute later, she was back. “Ella, you’ll have to wait for the tea. I need to deal with this call. I’ll be at least fifteen minutes. Do you want to stay or come back?”
If I left now, I knew I’d never come back again. “I’ll stay,” I said.
I took a seat at the large bay window. It was a beautiful room. The furniture was antique. There were china ornaments on the marble fireplace. The walls were covered in portraits and landscapes, arranged by someone with an eye for color and symmetry. I mentally compared it to Lucas’s house again, with his books piled ten high in the hall, dozens of unframed prints and paintings leaning against walls—
How could the two of them ever live together? They were so different in every way. Perhaps that worked well in an affair—clearly it had worked for them—but as a permanent arrangement? Lucas couldn’t make her happy. He would drive her mad. It would never work between them. I hoped it wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part.
“You’re Lucas Fox’s niece, did you say?”
I jumped at the sound of the voice. A man in his sixties was standing in the doorway. I didn’t know what I had expected Henrietta’s husband to look like but it wasn’t this. He was as tall as she was short, and very thin. He was bald. His clothes were crisp, tailored. He might have been handsome in his youth but now he was florid. His eyes were sharp. He struck me immediately as the male equivalent of Henrietta—clever, confident and not to be crossed. I had a split-screen moment, imagining Lucas standing beside him, all disheveled curls, warm smile and baggy clothes. I had to blink it away.
“I am, yes,” I said. I held out my hand. “Ella Fox.” I surprised myself with my surname. I hadn’t been called Ella Fox since I was a child.
“Dr. Samson,” he said, briskly. He didn’t tell me his first name. “You’re Australian?”
I nodded. “Lucas’s brother married my mother. She’s Australian. I grew up there.”
“I see. Do you tutor as well?”
He knew about Lucas’s tutors? Of course he did, I realized. Henrietta’s work appraising Lucas’s tutors had been their cover story for years.
“No,” I said. “I’m an editor, but at the moment I’m working as Lucas’s hou—”
“What kind of editor? Which publishing houses?”
He was Henrietta’s equal when it came to blunt questions too. I named the publishers I had worked for in Australia and England. He asked for more details. I named some of my authors, the titles of their books—some fiction but mostly nonfiction. I was talking too fast, saying too much, but he had that effect on me.
He nodded. “I’m looking for an editor. What do you charge?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not an ed—” I stopped. I was still an editor, wasn’t I? I still had the skills. I still had my experience. I could soon be leaving Lucas’s house. I would need a new job.
“It’s difficult to quote a fee without knowing more about the project,” I said, noticing my accent become more refined. “Could you give me some more details?”
“I’m drowning in details. I’ve been working on this for twenty years.” He smiled and took a seat in the armchair opposite me. He was instantly less intimidating.
I didn’t feel like Ella the housekeeper now. I was Ella the editor. I reached into my bag for my notebook and uncapped my pen. It felt strange, yet so familiar. I’d had introductory meetings like this with many authors over the years.
He leaned forward, clasping his hands, his expression different now, less imperious—eager even. He told me the project was a history of his family. A memoir told over three generations. It was an absolutely fascinating story, he told me.
I stayed quiet. Family histories were often notoriously dull for everyone except the family in question. But as he continued, I became interested. His father had been a renowned biologist. His grandfather had also been a doctor. They had both kept detailed diaries throughout their careers. Henrietta’s husband—I still didn’t know his first name—planned to use extracts from both. The final book would be part family story, part social history, part scientific journal, a record of the changes in medical knowledge in England over a century.
“It sounds fascinating,” I said. I meant it.
“It’s a bloody nightmare,” he said. “I’ve got boxes of material, diaries, letters, old editions of the
British Medical Journal
, photographs, patients’ records—”
“Is it cataloged?”
“Perfectly. Indexed too. My section is written. My father and grandfather’s diaries are transcribed. All I need now is someone to pull it together, give it shape, structure, a narrative.”
To my own surprise, I was suddenly interested. “When would you need that someone to start?”
“Whenever that someone was able to start. Do you have references?”
“Many, yes.” It would take me only an e-mail or two to gather them. The hardest thing would be composing the e-mail. My publishing colleagues hadn’t heard from me in nearly two years.
“I’d need to see those. And examples of your work, of course.”
“I have copies of everything here in London.” Lucas had shelves full of the books I’d edited. I’d always sent him a copy at the end of each project.
“I’d pay an hourly rate.” He named a figure. It was three times what I’d been paid in Australia. “You’d work for it. It will be a long job. I’d also need you to sign a contract promising you won’t leave midstream if the going gets too hard.” He was talking as if I had already accepted the offer. “You’d also have to work from here. The material is too precious to leave the house. You could use Henrietta’s office. She won’t be needing it anymore, after all.”
He’d raised the subject of her leaving. I had to acknowledge it. “No. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Why?”
I felt myself go red. But I couldn’t stop now, not when he was looking at me in that imperious way again. I apologized once more. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“I’m intrigued now. Why are you sorry, Miss Fox?”
I felt like I was six and in the headmaster’s office. I stammered my answer. “Because you’re getting divorced, aren’t you? She’s going to live in France with Lucas—”
“Really? And there I was thinking she was simply retiring.” He stood up, walked to the door and shouted—literally shouted—Henrietta’s name. I didn’t move. I couldn’t speak. He stood by the door and waited.
After several minutes of excruciating silence, she appeared.
“For God’s sake, Claude. I was on the phone. What do you want?”
He nodded toward me. “This young lady has just informed me you and I are getting a divorce because you and Lucas Fox are going to live in France together. How marvelous for you both. Were you planning on telling me at any stage?”