‘Yes,’ she said hesitantly, not instantly recognising the voice. It was elderly, well-spoken, with a touch of familiarity . . .
‘It’s Christopher. Christopher Carlyle.’
The name took her so much by surprise that she had to lean against the wall. She inhaled slowly and closed her eyes for one moment.
‘Christopher,’ she said, steeling herself. ‘What do you want?’ She hadn’t meant it to come out so curtly.
‘May I come up?’
She could almost hear her own heartbeat as she waited for him to climb the stairs. Of course he took his time. He was older than she was and the flat was a long way from the ground floor. She left the door open and went back into the living room, standing by the window and looking out as she waited for him.
It was a shock to see him. It had been fifty-four years, but for a moment those years vanished in a heartbeat. He was still tall and thin – advancing years had not given him a stoop or shrunk his frame. His blazer and cream chinos were smart – in fact he looked as if he were on the way to a cricket match, and if it wasn’t for the fact that it was January, she would imagine that he was.
‘Don’t you have better things to do on New Year’s Day?’ she said quietly, sipping at the cognac she had left on the drinks cabinet.
‘We always have a quiet New Year’s Day.’
‘Of course – the annual Stapleford party was last night.’
‘How are you, Georgia?’ he said quietly.
‘Fine. Marvellous, actually. I’ve been away. New York,’ she added, her voice as bright as she could manage.
He supported himself on the bookcase with one hand. She guessed that the walk up the stairs had taken it out of him and it had the effect of making him seem quite fragile. Certainly he looked nothing like the vital elder statesman she regularly saw on the television, popping up to discuss the state of the economy, or at some literary party in the society pages of the Mail. Heading up the Carlyle family had not been his original destiny, but once he had been handed the role, he seemed to have grown into it. The shallow youth she had met in that summer of 1958 had been replaced by someone far more impressive.
‘So how was last night?’ she continued. ‘Still going strong, that tradition? Clarissa always liked a party. No need to change that just because we’re getting on a bit.’
‘Your friend came, with Will.’
His words stopped her in her tracks.
‘Which friend?’
‘The American girl. Amy.’
She felt the cold twist of betrayal.
‘What was she doing there?’ she asked with as much nonchalance as she could manage.
‘She came with Will. I believe they might be together.’
‘Really?’ she replied. It was suddenly becoming clear why they wanted to see her this evening. They had evidently been up to no good – meddling, she supposed – and were coming to confess and apologise.
There was a long pause that seemed to go on for ever.
‘Amy told Clarissa that you’re ill,’ said Christopher finally.
‘She had no right to do that.’
‘It was with the best intentions.’
‘Really.’
‘Are you getting proper care?’
There was sympathy in his voice but she chose to ignore it. She didn’t need anyone’s charity – least of all his. Perhaps he was not aware that she was worth tens of millions – a fortune she had created herself. She was tempted to tell him.
‘There’s not a great deal anybody can do, if the truth be told.’