Chapter Twelve Telling Mother
The proposal, when James told me about it, sounded perfect. The mountain, the gems, the tears, it was so completely James that I couldn’t have written it better myself. I was happy for him. Unreservedly, uncomplicatedly happy.
That feeling lasted approximately forty-eight hours. Which was how long it took James to tell his mother.
James told Elizabeth about the engagement on a Tuesday afternoon, in the drawing room of the Belgravia townhouse. Fortnum and Mason, the King Charles Spaniels, watched from their customary position on the silk sofa.
He had rehearsed the conversation in his head over and over again.
He had prepared responses to every possible objection, counter-arguments to every criticism, defences against every attack.
He had even, in a moment of particular anxiety, written bullet points on a notepad, which he had then lost somewhere between his flat and Belgravia and which would probably surface in six months in a coat pocket, causing confusion and embarrassment.
None of his preparations proved adequate.
‘Engaged,’ Elizabeth repeated, in a tone that suggested James had announced his intention to become a circus performer or, worse, a Labour MP. ‘To the Ukrainian woman.’
‘Her name is Anastasia, Mother. And yes. Engaged. To be married. In the traditional sense.’
‘But you hardly know her’. Elizabeth’s lips thinned to a line that would have done credit to a disappointed headmistress. ‘You’ve known this woman for months, not years and you’ve decided to marry her.’
‘I love her.’
‘Love.’ The word emerged as if it were something distasteful, like finding a slug in one’s salad. ‘James, darling, love is all very well, but it’s hardly a basis for marriage. Marriage is about compatibility, shared values, appropriate backgrounds. It’s about building something that lasts.’
‘I know what marriage is about, Mother.’
‘Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks rather like you’ve lost your head over a pretty face and a sad story.
’ Elizabeth reached for her tea, a gesture that James recognised as buying time, marshalling arguments.
‘What do we actually know about this woman? Where does she come from? Who are her people?’
‘She’s from Kyiv. Her people are in Ukraine. Most of them, anyway.’
‘And her family? Her background? What did her father do?’
‘Her father is dead. Her mother too. She was raised by her grandmother.’
‘How convenient.’
‘It’s not convenient, Mother. It’s tragic. She lost most of her family. She fled a war. She came here with nothing and built a new life from scratch. That’s not a sad story, that’s an impressive one.’
Elizabeth set down her teacup with a click that somehow managed to convey profound disappointment.
‘James, I am not unsympathetic to the difficulties faced by refugees. I contribute to several charities that do excellent work in that area. But there is a difference between charitable sympathy and marrying into the family.’
‘I’m not asking you to marry her. I’m telling you that I’m going to.’
‘Without consulting me? Without asking my opinion?’
‘I’m asking your opinion now.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re informing me of a decision you’ve already made. There’s a difference.’
James took a breath. This was the moment he had been dreading, when his mother’s disappointment shifted from passive to active and the battle lines were drawn.
‘You’re quite right,’ he said. ‘I have made a decision. I’ve decided to marry the woman I love. I would like your blessing, but I don’t require it.’
Elizabeth went very still. The spaniels, sensing the shift in atmosphere, exchanged a glance that was almost human in its apprehension.
‘I see,’ Elizabeth said finally. ‘And if I refuse to give my blessing?’
‘Then I’ll be sad. But I’ll marry her anyway.’
‘Even if I tell you she’s wrong for you? Even if I tell you this will end in disaster?’
‘Even then.’
‘Even if I tell you that I’ve made enquiries, discreet enquiries and there are... gaps in her story? Inconsistencies that don’t quite add up?’
James felt something cold settle in his stomach. ‘What kind of enquiries?’
‘The kind that any sensible mother would make when her only son gets involved with a woman with no family, no connections, no background we can verify.’ Elizabeth’s voice was calm, reasonable, utterly implacable.
‘I hired a private investigator, James. I’m not proud of it, but I did it. And do you know what he found?’
‘I don’t care what he found.’
‘He found nothing. That’s the point. There is nothing to find.
Her records are clean, complete, perfectly constructed.
Real people have references that can be checked, employers who remember them, neighbours who can vouch for them.
Anastasia has none of that. It’s as if she didn’t exist before two years ago. ’
‘She was fleeing a war, Mother. People in wars don’t always have tidy paperwork.’
‘Perhaps. Or perhaps she has something to hide. Something significant. Something that would change how you see her if you knew.’
James was quiet for a long moment. He thought about Anastasia: about her nightmares, her empty flat, the way she sometimes looked at him as if she couldn’t quite believe he was real.
He thought about all the things she hadn’t told him, all the questions she had deflected, all the gaps in her story that he had chosen not to examine too closely.
‘Everyone has things they haven’t told me,’ he said finally. ‘You have things you haven’t told me. Father certainly did: he left without a word and never came back. That’s rather a significant secret, wouldn’t you say?’
Elizabeth flinched. It was almost imperceptible, a tightening around the eyes, a slight intake of breath, but James saw it.
‘That’s not the same thing.’
‘Isn’t it? You’ve spent my entire life not talking about him.
Not explaining. Not helping me understand why he left or where he went or whether he’s even still alive.
And I’ve accepted that, because you’re my mother and I love you and I trust that you have your reasons.
’ He met her eyes steadily. ‘I’m asking you to extend the same courtesy to Anastasia.
She has her reasons too. I don’t need to know all of them.
I just need to know that she loves me. And she does. ’
‘You can’t know that.’
‘I can and I do.’ James stood, suddenly unable to sit still any longer.
‘I’m not asking your permission, Mother.
I’m asking for your support. I would like you to come to the wedding.
I would like you to welcome Anastasia into the family.
I would like us to be able to have Sunday lunch together without it turning into an interrogation. ’
‘And if I can’t do that?’
‘Then we’ll have Sunday lunch somewhere else.’ He paused at the door. ‘I love you, Mother. But I love her too. And I’m going to marry her, with or without your blessing. I hope it’s with. But I’ll survive if it’s without.’
He left before she could respond.