The divorce had gone through. Diana and a stony-faced Johnathan had sat in one of the corridors in Somerset House and were duly ushered, together with both their solicitors, into an extraordinarily gloomy room with a T-shaped table, where the Registrar listened to the solicitors outlining the financial arrangements that had been agreed, he then rather wearily pronounced himself satisfied with what had been agreed, made an order giving Diana custody of Jamie, and granted a decree nisi. It was all extraordinarily painless, and extraordinarily depressing – so much so that Johnathan accepted Diana’s offer of tea at the Savoy (champagne version for her, standard for him) and they sat together, sunk into one of the deep sofas, desperate to find some positive aspect to the whole thing. Which of course, long term, there was, and for both of them; but that afternoon went down in their joint memories as one of the most negative of their entire lives.
The waitress who served them clearly decided they must have had a bereavement and spoke to them in hushed tones; Diana cheered up a little as the champagne went down, remarked upon the fact with something approaching a giggle. Johnathan didn’t manage the merest smile; and reflecting on the whole thing later that evening, Diana could see why.
For what indeed was a divorce, but just the death of a marriage?
‘Darling, you’re looking a bit peaky,’ Persephone said to Ned. ‘When did you last go for a walk, in the fresh air?’
‘I don’t have time to go for walks.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re so busy, but it doesn’t suit you.’ Persephone looked critically at Ned across his tiny drawing room. She had come to London on one of her periodic visits; to do some shopping, meet old friends, see her son. Who did indeed look less than his best: pale, hollow eyed and very thin.
‘Well, let me at least take you to dinner, feed you up a bit. Where would you like to go?’
‘Oh, I’m a bit – depressed. You’d be better off dining with one of your friends.’
‘I don’t want to see any of my friends. I want to see you. Anyway, you are my friend, I hope. How about Aurora’s? It’s so pretty there and nice and quiet this evening, I should think.’
Ned forced some gratitude into his voice. He didn’t want to go, but said, ‘Yes, why not? That would be lovely. Thank you.’
Ned went upstairs to change. Aurora’s suited his mother. One of the prettiest restaurants in London, in the heart of Kensington, with its ravishing conservatory, wonderful flowers everywhere and waiters who were genuinely courteous and helpful, it exuded charm. As she did. He was lucky to have her; he wondered why she irritated him so much and why he didn’t make more use of her, as the confidante and friend he needed so badly. Apart from Ludo, he was oddly friendless: terrified of being too close, of revealing too much, of just feeling at ease. That was an odd thing to fear, he thought, struggling with his cufflinks; something few people could know.
Aurora’s proved ideal; not full but far from empty, lots of pretty women and good-looking, well turned-out men, none of whom they knew.
‘Right, darling. Shall we start with champagne?’
‘Oh, I think so. But my treat, please.’
‘No, sweetie, this is most definitely on me. I had a little windfall this week, some shares came up trumps. And—’
‘Mother, you should put little windfalls away, not turn them into champagne and expensive dinners.’
‘And how boring that would be? Now I must tell you, I’ve got a new beau.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, he’s complete heaven, quite naughty, had three wives and goodness knows how many mistresses, awfully good-looking, and really quite sophisticated.’
‘In Cornwall?’ said Ned, astonished.
‘In Cornwall. The last wife had a house there, and she left him for once, not the other way around. She’s frightfully rich, got a flat in Paris and another house in London somewhere, so she told him he could keep the Cornish pile.’
‘Good God,’ said Ned. ‘Some chaps have all the luck. What’s he called, this paragon? Or rather non-paragon.’
‘George Tilbury.’
‘And is it a nice house?’
‘Quite nice. Thirties, big pile of a thing, on the cliffs at a place called Polzeath. He likes it, as you would, wouldn’t you? He can play lord of the manor and drink cocktails on the verandah, that sort of thing.’
‘And you really like him?’
‘Well, not specially, if that’s what you mean. But he’s fun and he has a rather splendid old car, an Allard, and he takes me out and about. I make him laugh, he says.’
‘Well, he’s lucky to have you,’ said Ned. ‘I hope he appreciates you.’
‘Oh, darling, he does. Lots of lovely presents and things. He’s very keen. But I’m keeping him hanging on.’
‘So, you’re not actually – living with him?’
‘You mean as in sleeping with him? Heavens, no. He’d like me to, but I wouldn’t dream of it. Not yet anyway. I value my independence far too much. Ned –’ She caught him off guard. ‘What’s really the matter?’
‘Oh,’ he said, giving in to her finally. ‘I’m just not – not happy.’
‘Well, darling, I can see that. But why?’
‘I’m lonely,’ he said simply, his eyes meeting hers with absolute frankness. ‘So lonely. I miss Jillie so much. I really loved her, you know; she was my best friend, my confidante. She was so interested in my work, in what I planned to do, we talked about everything under the sun, politics, religion, where we wanted to travel – just everything. Except – well, you know.’
‘Yes. She’s a lovely girl. I liked her so much. It must be dreadful for you.’
‘It is rather. I keep thinking I’ll find another friend. Like her. But of course I won’t, how can I? No one has time to spend with a miserable old bugger – sorry.’ He laughed for the first time. ‘A miserable old bloke like me.’
‘What about another miserable old bloke like – well, you? Is there no one?’
‘Who I trust? No. I wouldn’t even try and find someone, I wouldn’t dare. Oh, it’s not so bad, in absolute terms, I realise that of course. I’m successful, getting rich, I’m busy all day, more and more in the National Health system – actually, it seems more worthwhile.’
‘Ned! You’re not turning into a pinko.’
‘I might. Now that really would shock you, wouldn’t it?’ He laughed. ‘About the only thing that would, I daresay. But then I come home, and – nothing. No one. I go to concerts, stuff like that, but always on my own. And musicals, you know how Jillie and I loved them? I can’t bear to go to any now. It just hurts thinking how much we’d have enjoyed whatever it is. I get asked to dinner parties sometimes – not often these days, because I’m frankly not very good company.’
‘Oh, darling. I’m so sorry. I wish I could help.’
‘You can’t. No one can. Don’t worry, you’re not going to wake up one morning and read about some doctor who’s slit his wrists or anything. I’m not that desperate. It’s probably only a phase, I’ll get through it.’
‘It’s more like a life sentence, if you ask me,’ said Persephone. ‘Oh, it’s all so unfair, so wrong.’
‘I know. It is wrong. Not us, them. But the world isn’t going to change just because I’m a bit lonely, I’m afraid. There is talk of relaxing the law, some MP is keen. Fine chance of anything happening. Oh, my God, look who’s just come in. There, see, in the black dress and the mink.’
‘Good Lord. How lovely she does look? Who are those people she’s with?’
‘The Bellingers, Wendelien and Ian – she’s an absolute poppet. Oh, Diana’s seen us. Do you mind? We’ll have to chat a bit.’
‘Of course I don’t mind. I liked her very much when we met her at the theatre. But why doesn’t she ever have a husband with her?’