‘There’s a pub just along the towpath. Why don’t we arrange to meet there? We could go there now to take a look.’
‘How it will work,’ Clarice said over beers in the City Barge, ‘is that you’ll meet for the first time here, before the cameras. We have to do it that way for spontaneity. Then we’ll leave you both in peace for a few days to get to know one another – if that’s what you want – then meet again for a second shoot to see how you’ve got on.’
Greville could see in his mind an image of this attractive young woman holding his surveillance device between finger and thumb alongside a set of gleaming white teeth.
Exactly one week later Greville was positioned at the same table, facing the door.
‘We’ll have a shot of you sitting there,’ Clarice said, ‘then go outside to follow Samantha in. Act normally but please look delighted to see her. After all, you’ve always wondered about your long-deceased brother.’ Then she added, ‘C’mon, cheer up. It won’t be that bad.’
The whole episode so far had made Greville nervous. For a start he had vague feelings that his life as a recluse – with all the advantages it offered – was about to be compromised. Having met this woman what was he supposed to do with her? Forget her? Send her Christmas cards – or money? She was, after all, only a niece, like Clarice – and he’d managed to push her almost completely out of his mind. But then, he thought, besides Clarice she was probably his only remaining blood relative.
The cameraman squirmed though the door ahead of Samantha, then moved several paces backwards to include Greville in the same frame.
Greville rose and stepped towards her. As she threw her arms around his neck the hand that was rising to shake hers unexpectedly found its way around her waist. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ he whispered into her ear.
They sat opposite one another. Greville realised that the photograph Clarice had given him did not do Samantha justice. Perhaps that had been deliberate, so as not to build up his expectations. The face was more perfect, the eyes more dreamy, the long black hair glossier. He looked at the bare arms extended on the table before him and noted the pallor of his hands in comparison.
‘If my brother Edmund was your father, who was your mother?’ he asked.
‘An oriental princess,’ she replied, teasing him. ‘Actually, my mother was Anglo-Indian.’
‘Was?’
‘My mother was… it was an honour killing, you see.’
‘And my…’
‘…which is partly why your brother committed suicide soon after.’
‘Did he? I didn’t know that. I thought he’d had a fall – an accident.’
‘It was a fall, but we think it was deliberate.’
The cameraman having left, Clarice approached the table. ‘I’ll leave you two alone, but there is one last formality. I would like to take swabs from you both for DNA analysis – just to be absolutely sure. Our viewers are suspicious people, you see. There was a brisk scouring of each of their mouths with swabs, which she put into her bag. Then she was gone.
‘I expect you’d like to see where I live,’ Greville said.
Samantha looked at her watch and smiled apologetically. ‘Maybe another time. I have an appointment in an hour. Perhaps the next camera shoot can be in your house.’ She kissed his cheek perfunctorily and left the pub.
That evening Clarice telephoned to ask if all went well.
‘Well, no,’ Greville replied. ‘She left soon after you did.’
‘Oh, dear. I was hoping you’d hit it off. But she is rather shy. Why don’t you give her a ring?’ She reminded him of Samantha’s telephone number.
That night he slept fitfully. Something was telling him to be careful, something that might upset the life-style he had painstakingly created for himself. He tried to analyse the situation. Why had she left so abruptly, having gone through the circuitous exercise of seeking out relatives in the first place? For sure something was not quite right. Yet… The following morning he dialled her number.
A male voice said, ‘I’ll get her.’
‘I think it would be a good idea if we were to meet before they film us together. Are you free anytime this week?’
‘No, but I could make next Tuesday.’
They met in the rotunda of Chiswick House – that gloomy icing cake of a Palladian villa – and sat in the cafeteria.
‘I must seem an awful intrusion into your life,’ Samantha said. ‘I’m sure when the television people have got what they want…’
‘No, not at all. Sitting at my workbench day in day out can get quite monotonous. A small diversion is exactly what I need.’
‘You miss your wife?’
‘I miss having someone around – someone I can relate to. I’m not sure that’s the same thing. She liked our new-found affluence, you see, but lacked the dedication to the cause.’
‘If it’s not too bold a question, what happened to her?’
‘A boating accident in the Mediterranean, near Cannes, one holiday. Swimming from the boat. It’s believed she was stung by a jellyfish. Allergic to the toxin, apparently. It happened so quickly.’ He looked carefully for her reaction, but saw none.
They wandered away from the house and found themselves in the stone grotto beside the lake.
‘You don’t look old enough to be my uncle,’ she said.
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Your father, my eldest brother, was fourteen years my senior. I was an unexpected late addition to the family. He must have been still a teenager when he emigrated.’
‘And I think he sowed his wild oats very early on.’ For the first time he saw the hint of a smile. ‘So there’s not much difference between us after all.’
‘I suppose not.’
Whether it was this deduction that caused her to rest her hand on his knee – perhaps not even being aware of it – he could not be sure. But he placed his own hand over hers. She turned her head away but did not withdraw the hand. The black hair over her slender body seemed to become even more lustrous. ‘It’s not far to walk back to my house – if you’d like to,’ he said.
And that is what they did. They parted the following morning, having agreed – for the camera – to appear interested but otherwise cool towards one another.
That afternoon Clarice rang to say that the DNA tests had shown the expected match. ‘Have you seen anything of her?’ she asked casually. ‘We met briefly for tea,’ he replied, as calmly as he could, adding, ‘I quite like her.’ ‘Well, don’t get too involved,’ she said. ‘Remember you are related.’
That last remark set him thinking. He went to his computer and googled ‘incest.’ But legal restrictions seemed to stop at full siblings, parents and offspring. He grunted approvingly, failing to see the footnote advising that the law was about to change in favour of wider inclusivity.
A week later he was tidying the drawing room in readiness for the shoot the following morning. At first he placed the items on his workbench so as to be seen to best advantage. But as he picked up his inquiscope he froze. Suddenly it made sense that Samantha had shown no outward interest in his invention, had even seemed to avoid the subject when he tried to explain his work to her. It had disappointed him at the time, but now it began to make sense. Could it have been a deliberate show of disinterest to mask something that was precisely the opposite? That actually her presence here – and all that had gone before – was a plot to spy on him? For financial gain, even? He realised how little he knew of her background.
The shoot began at ten the following day. The bright sunlight through the window lit up not only Greville’s workbench but also the sofa on which he and Samantha were seated. ‘It would be nice if you could hold hands,’ Clarice, said, ‘then I’ll ask each of you about your reactions to seeing one another.’ Feeling the warmth of Samantha’s fingers entwined with his, all Greville’s doubts about her possible motives evaporated. ‘Will your relationship continue, do you think,’ Clarice asked them, and each smiled back in affirmation. ‘Certainly,’ said Greville. ‘Of course,’ Samantha agreed. The cameraman packed up his equipment and left. Clarice jotted a few notes on her clipboard. ‘The viewers will love it,’ she said. ‘Now, when I’m done how about some lunch at Ronaldo’s at Kew. It gets quite full but as we’re early we should be okay.’