She laughed. “But I suppose now you’ve conquered America you’re one of those insufferable men who swagger about as if they own the world and everyone in it.”
“That’s me. Master of the Universe.”
“Well, lovely to hear your voice after all these years.”
“Yours, too.”
We chatted on for a while. She seemed eager to talk, or at least in no hurry to get off the phone. I had the feeling she was guilty about having disappeared from my mother’s life, and glad of an excuse to reconnect with our family. As the surprise of hearing her voice wore off, I began wondering how to bring up the topic of Marco. I was aware that this might be an opportunity to go a little deeper into his story—get closer to its central chamber, so to speak—and I knew I’d regret it, from a professional point of view if nothing else, if I didn’t pursue it. But just blurting out that I knew Marco Rosedale seemed like a bad idea—crass, and potentially confrontational.
“Well, I hope it won’t be another hundred years before I talk to you again,” she said, winding down. “I’ve enjoyed it.”
“Likewise.”
“You know, I’d love a photo of your mother. Do you have one you could send me?”
“Of course.” Inspiration struck: “Or I could give it to you in person . . .”
“That would be nice!”
“I could meet you somewhere in town, if you like . . .”
“Come to tea,” she said decisively. “Are you free tomorrow?”
I was. Caitlin and the kids had flown back the day before and I was staying on for a few days to start clearing out my mother’s house.
“I warn you I live miles from anywhere. You’ll have to change trains about six times. I spend my entire life changing trains.”
She gave me an address in a part of London I’d barely heard of and never visited. The journey involved stretches on the docklands light railway as well as the tube. It was raining when I arrived, and the walk from the station along wet streets with no shops or pubs to relieve the monotonous stretches of residential developments was bleak. She lived in a brick apartment building with pinched, jutting balconies overlooking a row of one-story houses behind a long wall. She buzzed me in, and I took the lift five floors up to her flat. She was waiting in the doorway, wearing a mauve wool dress with a loose turtleneck. Her face was lined and her blonde hair had faded, but otherwise she seemed remarkably unchanged from when I’d last set eyes on her, fifteen or twenty years earlier. We shook hands first and then kissed on the cheek, laughing at our awkwardness.
“Here we are!” She showed me into a light-filled but sparse living room furnished with a wicker sofa and chairs with floral cushions tied at the corners.