Page 110 of Mistaken Impression

I smile again, which feels like a miracle. “Thanks, Henry.”

It’s easy to find a taxi at Heathrow and the cabbie takes just over an hour to drive me into Clapham. Fortunately, he’s not in a very talkative mood, which suits me just fine, and as he drops me outside Henry’s four-storey town house, I look up and see my father’s oldest friend, standing by the front door, waiting for me. I know I’m going to be staying in the basement, but after I’ve paid the taxi driver, I lug my cases up the steps and Henry greets me with a welcome hug.

“Come in out of the cold,” he says, smiling up at me.

He moves aside and I follow him into the house, down the hall and into the kitchen, which overlooks the back garden. Considering the age of the property, the kitchen is very modern,with dark grey units and stainless steel appliances, and I wonder what Ella would make of it… and how long it’s going to be before she stops being the first thought that comes into my mind.

We sit at the table and Henry pours the tea from a bright yellow teapot, looking across at me in his usual, avuncular manner, his brown eyes sparkling behind his rimless glasses. Henry is a confirmed bachelor, in his early sixties, with steel grey hair, and a lean figure. He’s the owner of a popular art gallery in Denmark Street, which is how he met my father… so many years ago.

He’s also the kindest man I’ve ever met.

“So, you’re back,” he says, stating the obvious.

“Yes.”

He frowns. “The last time you called, you said the show was going well.”

“It was.”

“Then what happened?”

I pick up my cup of tea, taking a sip. It tastes good, but then I haven’t drunk tea in ages. Ella didn’t like it, and because we were never apart, I got used to drinking coffee. I got used to a lot of things when I was with her… like being happy.

“I fell in love,” I say and he nods his head.

“With someone who lives here? Is that why you’ve come home?”

“No. She’s American. She lives in Boston… and in Newport.”

“She’s got two homes?” He raises his eyebrows.

“Yes. She’s a multi-millionaire.”

He leans back in his chair, staring at me for a full twenty seconds. “I don’t understand. It seems like you had everything going for you. Love… success… happiness.”

“I know. It sounds ideal, doesn’t it? Until you add betrayal into the mix.”

His shoulders drop. “She cheated on you?”

“No. Not in the way you mean.”

“What did she do then?” he asks.

“She went to the press and told them I was a fraud. She told them I couldn’t cook, that I was a second-rate actor, and would-be author.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Which part?” I ask, and he smiles.

“All of it. But especially the would-be author thing.”

“I know. But it’s also how I know it was Ella who betrayed me. She’s the only one, apart from the show’s producer, who knew about my book. And there’s no way the producer would have done this…”

“Of course she wouldn’t,” he says, frowning. “The show was a success. She’d be stupid to jeopardise that.”

“Exactly. That’s what I said.” It’s such a relief to have my suspicions confirmed. I’ve spent every minute of every hour since Ella left me, wondering if I made a mistake… even though I know I didn’t.

“So, you broke up with her?” he says, sipping his tea.

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