‘Tossa, you must be charitable, you must understand… Poor Satyavan, you mustn’t think he didn’t love her…’ (Or why, thought Dominic ruthlessly, would you be shoving her off on to him now, you being the loving mother you are?) ‘Yes, he did try… indeed he tried very hard. But you see, at that time we were so bitter, both of us. And I fought just as hard. Perhaps it was simply that I was American… for after all, there is an understanding, don’t you think so?… of one’s own people? They gave her to me. That was all that mattered then. I didn’t think of him… of his mother… To an Indian woman sons and grandsons are everything, but even a granddaughter would be such joy… But it’s only afterwards that one realises the cost to other people. You mustn’t think I haven’t thought about this for a long time, and gone through agony. All these years, ever since she was six years old. I’ve had the joy of her, and he… My poor Satyavan…’ She made a little poem out of the name this time, the first ‘a’ muted to a throw-away sound almost like V, the second a long sigh of ‘aaah’! Her wisp of an embroidered Jane Austen handkerchief came into brief, subdued play. No doubt about it, Dorette was an artist.
Tossa’s dry little, gruff little voice said: ‘Yes, I do see, he must have missed her terribly!’ But Chloe’s undisturbed smile said serenely that Dorette was doing very well, and could afford to hold her fire. Perhaps she even read her daughter’s implacable motives; whatever the doubts about Dorette’s brain, now rapidly being revised, there had never been any doubts about Chloe’s. Dominic held his peace, and saw the Taj Mahal clear as in a vision.
‘Tossa, there’s a time even to give up what one wants and needs, a time to remember… not other people’s wants and needs, but theirs. The children’s.’ Dorette turned her head and gave them the benefit of her full blue stare, radiant and dazzling; and her beauty, of which they had heard so much and thought so little, was absurd, agonising, irresistible. They understood her power, and being immune to it made no difference when the rest of the world was vulnerable. She looked eighteen, agitated, appealing, Marianne to the life. The Austen irony was missing, perhaps, but this was between takes. ‘She has a whole family there, wanting and longing for an heir. She has a kingdom, you might say. What right have I to keep her from it? What can I give her to make up for it? In America she is just one little girl, not nearly a princess. And my husband…’ She looked momentarily doubtful about that word, but shouldered it and went on: ‘He has rights, too. She knows nothing of the world he can offer her, and she has a right to know everything before she makes a choice. When I marry again…’ Oh, noble, that brave lift of her head, facing the whole world’s censure for love! Or money. Or something! ‘…she will be watching us from a cool distance, I know that. She knows who her father was, she knows he is far away, and almost lost to her. I want to be honest with her! I want her to go to her father!’
A pale person in an unravelling pullover and a green eyeshade leaned through the pump-room palms and called: ‘Any time, Dorrie!’ and Miss Lester, switching from emotion and sincerity to a note of sharp practicality which Tossa found almost insulting, called back in quite a different tone: ‘Coming, Lennie! Give us three minutes more!’ and as promptly returned to character. As though Chloe’s two student stand-ins for a New England governess who declined to cross the world had been a couple of cameras trained on her. No more sales-talk was necessary, Chloe’s brief, reassuring glance had told her they were sold already; still, for her reputation’s sake she kept up the performance in a modified form and at an accelerated tempo.
‘My husband is expecting his daughter. I wrote to him a month ago, before I left the States, to tell him that she would be coming. He will be so happy to see her, and so grateful to you.’
For one brief and uncharacteristic moment she looked back, remembering a thin, fastidious face set in the tension of distaste and disbelief as he argued his case in court, with the dignity he was incapable of laying aside, and which had passed for arrogance and coldness. He could hardly be expected to compete with such an artist in heartbreak and tears and maternal desperation as Dorette Lester; sometimes she wondered why he had even tried. And sometimes, too, she wondered exactly why he had waived his rights of access, resigned from his science chair, and left for India immediately after the divorce suit ended. Was it outraged love and implacable anger against the wife who had shucked him off – a broken heart, in fact? Or had he merely extricated himself in shock and disgust from a world he had suddenly realised was not for him, a jungle not denser than, but different from, his own? She knew better than to simplify his withdrawal; herself uncomplicated though occasionally devious, she was subtle enough to recognise a greater subtlety.
‘I will give you his address in Delhi, and his mother’s, too – Mrs Purnima Kumar – just in case of any contretemps. There will be no difficulty, you’ll see. And of course, all expenses will be my concern, I’ll see that you have plenty of funds. No need even to hurry back, after all, you must see something of India while you’re there. Satyavan will be glad to help you make the best use of your time, I know.’
She didn’t know anything of the kind, she hadn’t been in touch with her ex-husband since he left America, but the family eminence ensured that they would have to put on a show for the visitors; she had learned that much about the Kumars.
‘When,’ asked Tossa, with careful, measured quietness, ‘is Anjli expected to arrive in London?’
‘The day after tomorrow. If you could come with me to meet her at London Airport, we could have a night all together, and I could arrange your flight for the next day. Such luck, I have an old, good friend who is filming over there, quite near to Delhi, and I’ll wire him to meet your plane and take care of you. If you need anything – but anything! – you can call on Ernest, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me. But the journey itself is just too much for a child alone. And we’re so pressed, quite behind schedule, you see it’s impossible for me…’
Yes, quite impossible. Not simply because it would inconvenience her, there was more to it than that. India was an alien world into which she had no wish to venture, and Satyavan Kumar was something more distant than a stranger, because he had once been so close. This much of Dorette at least was genuine, she would almost rather die than confront this part of her past again. That all-American marriage – they said this millionaire of hers was a disarmingly nice and simple person – was her life-line, she daren’t let go of it for an instant to look behind her.
‘You will take my little girl over there for me, won’t you?’ Knock off the calculated charm, and in its way it was still a cry from the heart.
‘Dorette! You ready there?’
‘Yes, Lennie! We’re right with you! Tossa, dear…’
‘Yes, Miss Lester… Yes, of course we’ll take her!’
‘Darling… so grateful… my mind at rest now… Sure, Lennie, coming! Day after tomorrow… Heathrow… I’ll phone you the details… what was that Midshire number again?’ And Chloe laughed, not aloud, just a faint purring sound of contentment, and hugged and kissed her own daughter briefly.
When they crept out of the sound stage she was singing, without a trace of irony, back there behind them in the furnished corner bright as a nova:
‘When will you learn to moderate, my love,
The ardour of a heart that can be broken...’