‘But I thought …’
How had he seen it in the papers, I was about to say, when he didn’t seem to know what I did until a few moments ago? Had he, in fact, been keeping tabs on me all along?
‘He’s here, you know, the dad. Dominic. I can have a word with him, get it all cleared up.’
I bristle. Same old Ben. Trying to lord it over me.
‘I don’t need you to do that.’
‘I know you don’t, but let me, because … I realise, you know … how things went down all those years ago and, well, looking back, I’m sorry about that.’
I scan his face. He seems sincere.
‘Look, Serena clearly invited you because she’s ready to move on, and so am I. And she knew I wouldn’t have done it. Too proud, our couples therapist would say.’
Couples therapy? So I was on the money about their marital woes.
‘But I’m actually glad Serena did it. What do you say we just … shake on it, forget it ever happened … and, you know … be mates again? Water under the bridge and all that.’
Of course, I plan to tell him to get lost. Of course, I still hate him and all he believes he can get away with. Of course, I will never forgive him. Of course, I take his hand and shake it and then allow him to pull me in for a hug and of course, I feel the sensation of his arms around my shoulders, and I am so, so happy to be blessed by the Fitzmaurice grace again and so, so angry at him, the family, the world and most of all myself for my own weakness.
But then, I’m wiser this time around, aren’t I? Less susceptible to their charm. And if there is more to Fliss’s story than Ben is letting on, isn’t it better to be inside his circle than outside? Pissing away from the tent, as Serena might say. Isn’t it wiser to observe at close quarters rather than firing impudent questions from afar? He thinks I’m still the same old Martin, his Little Shadow, always willing to do his bidding. But I’m not. This time, I’m motivated not by a need to belong, but by a need to bring them down. The whole bloody lot of them. The Fitzmaurices. The Edward Bullers. The greedy men in charge who consider us human material to be mined. Because the supreme art of war, as Sun Tzu said, is to subdue the enemy without fighting.
Martin, I can hear Joanne Buster saying, this is not good for your anger management issues.
Joanne, I reply, perhaps I don’t want to manage it anymore.
VII.
Serena
SHE HAS AGREED TO MEET JARVIS AT A HOTEL BAR. It is the first time they will have seen each other since Fliss’s funeral. Ben is speaking at a charity gala at the V&A tonight, and Jarvis had suggested (rather boldly, Serena thought) that they go together.
‘What about your wife?’ Serena had texted.
‘Bitsy’s mother is still ill. She can’t come,’ Jarvis had replied.
Serena deleted the messages.
Events had taken a rather unexpected turn. It all started at the wake, which Serena knows she should feel guilty about but doesn’t. She’s sure Fliss, who was always telling her family to be less uptight, wouldn’t begrudge her this little escapade. And Serena had been so stressed, that’s the thing.
The stress had started, as it always did, with her children. Cosima had barely made it to the funeral in time, and when she did spill out of the pre-ordered taxi, she was wearing a ratty old jumper, the black of which matched the circles under her eyes. On her feet were her favourite pair of Doc Marten boots – the ones with the orange laces that Serena couldn’t stand.
‘Where have you been?’ Serena asked, taking her eldest daughter by the wrist and shooing her inside. She didn’t mean to be so brusque but she’d been worried. ‘I thought you were on the early train?’
Cosima shrugged. Her daughter looked sad.
‘Are you alright, darling?’
‘Yes, Mum. I’m fine.’
Serena experienced a pang of – what was it, exactly? Something like failure. Yes, that was it. It was ridiculous, given the circumstances, but she always felt an imposter as a parent, as though her maternal fraudulence was on the verge of being sniffed out. She wanted to get through to Cosima, to understand what was really happening, but every time her eldest child pushed her away like this, Serena experienced it as a personal insult and that made her more distant, falling into the old, comforting habits of snapping and criticising. She hated this side of herself but somehow couldn’t escape from it. It was the only way she knew how to handle the appalling vulnerability of love.
‘Go and get changed,’ Serena said. ‘I’ve got a million things to do.’
Cosima slunk upstairs – all the children had their allotted rooms at Denby; it was their grandparents’ home, after all, and Ben would inherit one day – leaving Serena to attend to the more pressing issue of where on earth they were going to put Edward Buller’s security team, who were insisting on sitting inside the chapel despite there being no room for them. When Cosima re-emerged, she was still wearing the awful jumper and Serena had no energy left to fight. Cressida, at least, looked lovely in a Boden dress. Hector, who had his face buried in his phone for most of the day, had conceded to brushing his hair. And Bear, her little cub, seemed barely to register what was happening or why he was here and whenever Serena tried to hug him, he remained stiff and unresponsive in her arms.
Lady Katherine had done her usual thing of picking apart the floral arrangements, the hymn choice, the canapés and – in a particularly aggressive play – Serena’s outfit.
