The Summer Set Read online

  They reached the heart of the city, turning at the sweeping Natural History Museum, cathedral-like with its Romanesque towers and arches. Nick remembered Charlie taking him there once, playfully introducing him to the diplodocus commanding the main hall, which she said had been her favorite weekly excursion as a kid and one of the few times she remembered doing things that kids actually did. Most didn’t grow up backstage at the Globe Theatre after all.

  Minutes later, the cab arrived on lovingly manicured Sumner Place, where Dame Sarah Rose Kingsbury still resided.

  Outside, Charlie stood rooted in place, gazing up at the pristine white-painted brick facade with its wrought-iron balcony and delicate gate. “Home sweet home.” Her words sounded ominous.

  It was easy for Nick to forget that Charlie grew up here, along this tony strip of townhomes a stone’s throw from Kensington Palace, one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in all of London. But that was the point. Charlie wanted everyone to forget that. She wanted to forget that. Everything about her persona had been crafted to not fit that part.

  But her mother, Dame Sarah—or Sarah or Ms. Kingsbury, he never knew what the hell he was supposed to call her—had always been intimidating: from that first summer at Chamberlain, even later when he was directing her on-screen in The Tempest, and absolutely when he and Charlie were officially together.

  The scarlet door opened.

  “Right on time, darling girl.” Sarah embraced her daughter. Sarah Rose Kingsbury was in her sixties, elegant, with Charlie’s slim build and bone structure but pale ivory skin. She had close-cropped gray hair and wore all black, with a vibrant patterned scarf, shiny earrings and bracelets he was sure would’ve set off Heathrow’s metal detectors.

  “And, Nicholas.” She gave him a hug, not necessarily warm, but better than a handshake. He wondered how Charlie had characterized their working relationship, how much she might have embellished since one might be less likely to hop a transatlantic flight for two days with someone they despised. “The artistic director himself. How are you? It’s been a while.”

  She ushered them in. The fabrics and color palettes may have changed in the many years since he was here at her home—was it the wrap party for the Tempest shoot? No, it was over the holidays that year and then again for the BAFTAs—but its formal air remained the same. The place was six bedrooms, three floors, probably 3,500 square feet and resembled a museum. He always feared he was going to break something, put something where it didn’t belong; everything felt like an artifact or heirloom.

  “So good to see you, thank you for letting us stay here—or me, because, of course, Charlie would stay, but thank you,” he stumbled. “How long has it been?” He regretted this the minute he asked.

  “Yes, I believe the last time we saw each other was at Grayson’s funeral, wasn’t it?” Sarah didn’t say it in a heavy way, but still. “Six years.”

  “Right, of course, it was a moving service for an incredible man.” This couldn’t have been a worse start, really. That had been the most horrendous year of his life—not that things had been fantastic since then, but still: losing Grayson and inheriting the theater while he was struggling to release Dawn of the Super Id, which even he knew was lousy after years of turnaround and postproduction hell, drinking too much, abusing antidepressants, falling into a terrible relationship with a terrible woman, trying to win Charlie back at her movie premiere only to have a drink thrown at his head, and then it was all capped off with the complete bomb of his film and endless ridicule. Distracted by his failure, he didn’t realize Charlie had taken over the conversation.

  “...and Grayson would love what we’ve been doing, you know,” she saved him. “I told you about everyone rotating through Romeo and Juliet. It’s going to be amazing.” As she talked at her mom about the summer, the plays, their flight, everything in that rapid-fire Charlie way, she strode through the well-appointed living room—delicate florals, furniture with feet that looked like animal hooves—to the updated kitchen, now even more suitable for catering large banquets.

  “...so it’s been going well, it’s certainly brought back memories.” Charlie opened the fridge, rummaging. “The place is completely the same and entirely different, if that makes any sense.” She pulled out a half-eaten salad in packaging from the nearby Whole Foods, picking at it with her fingers. Sarah handed her a fork. “Sorry, we’re starving.”

  “I’m fine,” Nick said, to be agreeable. Even though he was, in fact, famished.

  “I figured as much,” Sarah said. “As you may recall, Nicholas, I was never the kind of mum who cooked.” Charlie stifled a laugh, and Nick just smiled as Sarah continued. “But that charming Bumpkin is still open, shall we? You won’t believe who I once saw there—”

  “She can’t go there without telling this story,” Charlie said, taking another bite of organic greens.

  25

  YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME

  It had taken Charlie a full twenty-four hours to contact her mother after Nick had asked her to go to London with him. Finally she had sent the painstakingly constructed text.

  I’ve been thinking, we have a quick break before the first show opens, how about that visit? Nick has a meeting in London, I can tag along. I know it’s not long, but it would be nice. Okay? xx

  Her mother’s response had been instantaneous: Charlie, I had to read this twice to believe it. I don’t know what’s changed but I am over the moon! We will make the most of your time however short and it would be delightful to see Nicholas, as well. I always liked him, as you know. This is most exciting news! Love, Mum.

  Now, as the three of them took their seats in the curated, faux-rustic haven that was Sarah’s favorite eatery, Charlie tried to hide her unease, the rattled nerves that came with inhabiting her mother’s realm, knowing that Sarah’s charm could turn to disapproval any moment. Nick seemed to feel it too, fidgeting with his silverware as Sarah spoke animatedly. “...so they had some kind of party in the private room and were leaving just as I was arriving and Will said, ‘My parents always adored your work, you know,’ and we joked that of course I suspected as much because his grandmother had made me a dame after all. And then he introduced me to Kate, who is just as lovely as you can imagine.”

  Charlie scanned the menu. She always ordered burgers when she was with her mother, asserting her independence by choosing something Sarah wouldn’t.

  “That’s a good story,” Nick said earnestly. “I can’t imagine anything more flattering.”

  “You’re a fine audience,” Sarah said to him. “Much more patient than Charlie, who can’t bear to hear the same tale more than once.”

  “Not true,” Charlie barely defended herself, closing her menu.

  “People need the arts,” Sarah said, taking a sip of wine. “They speak to the soul, no matter who you are.”

  “Sure,” Charlie agreed. “I just mean someone has to keep you grounded, so that’s what I do.”

  “And I am firmly in your debt, as ever,” Sarah said. “At the risk of oversentimentality.” She put her head on her daughter’s shoulder. “I am so glad to have you here. And grateful to you—” she gestured to Nick “—for dragging her back. So tell me, you two have plans tomorrow, then?”

  “Yes, or I do. Our DP from The Tempest—remember Simon?—and film editor are still here,” Nick said. “Haven’t seen them in ages and I’m looking to get something new going.”

  Charlie glanced up, intrigued.

  “Yes, well, I suppose it’s about time, isn’t it?” Sarah took another sip. It wasn’t a very nice thing to say and Charlie shot her a look for it.

  “As good a time as any,” Nick said, kindly ignoring the slight.

  “Well, darling,” Sarah addressed Charlie now. “You’re more than welcome to come to my classes, then.” She proposed it in a way that sounded more like a command.

  “Charlie tells me your
studio is very popular,” Nick said. Charlie had told him virtually nothing. “I’m not surprised, of course. And you’re still consulting at the Globe too?”

  Sarah smiled, clearly appreciating his homework. “I am, a couple of shows a year. It’s nice to flit in and out of it. I’m having my ‘second act’—isn’t that what they call it?—with the drama studio, the coaching, the programs for children. It’s great fun, and that wasn’t always something I prioritized, as Charlie no doubt has told you over the years.”

  “Your students are lucky to have you,” Nick said with true warmth, which was the most perfect response. Charlie could sense him finding a groove now.

  “Thank you, Nicholas,” Sarah said. “I am the lucky one. And they will adore having someone there to crawl on the floor with them without fear of injuring her knees.” She said this to Charlie, who nibbled her fries, smiling nervously.

  “I wish I could be there.” Nick flashed Charlie a look that seemed to say, Good luck with all that.

  “Well, we can all reconvene in the afternoon for tea,” Sarah offered.

  “Nick was just saying on the flight that he hoped we could do tea while we’re here.” Charlie returned his look.

  * * *

  The evening had gone well enough, so Nick didn’t know why he couldn’t sleep. He climbed out of the four-poster bed of the guest room, creeping down to the kitchen in his undershirt and sweatpants. As he got closer, he heard someone sifting through cabinets and clanging dishes in a way that seemed too cavalier to possibly be Sarah.

  “Jet lag is a bitch,” Charlie greeted him in a tank top and boxer shorts.

  “I always think I’ll be exhausted enough to sleep anytime, but then it never works that way,” he said, stretching.

  “It never works any way for me.” She spooned tea leaves into a small envelope. “I’ve been awake for, like, years. Do you want? It’s kind of DIY here.” She gestured to her makeshift workshop bagging the loose tea leaves.

  He shrugged, pulled a mug—just like Charlie had, not a teacup—from the cabinet. “Hit me.”

  She tossed the bag she had made into his cup, then made another for herself, pouring the water from the kettle over both. “Just curious,” she said. “You really seeing those guys tomorrow?” He nodded toward Sarah’s room, and Charlie whispered, “Asleep.”

  He leaned across the island. “I wasn’t going to be seeing them, but I sent a couple emails so now I am.”

  “So you are working on something?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “We’ll see,” he said. “Anything you might be interested in?”

  “We’ll see.” She matched his tone.

  They stared at each other, neither saying another word. He had entered extremely dangerous—and exciting—territory. His gut told him just to savor the possibility that there could be something for them beyond sixty days, beyond the Chamberlain. Because if he knew anything, it was that he worked better with her. But he had to slow down. They still had a lot of history to right between them, and he worried the mere mention of a film, now, would be a trigger.

  Somehow though, the complexity of their past and extremely fragile present and future could all be captured in a gaze. And so before he could speak again, she smiled and said, “You know where to find me if you need me.” She took her tea, disappeared into her room.

  26

  SOME MIGHT SAY I’M ATONING

  The Kingsbury School was a slim, glass storefront just down New Globe Walk from Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre itself. Charlie had seen the school, which was a few years old, at Christmastime (two years ago), but it had been closed for the holidays, so she had never observed her mother in action—and she couldn’t quite imagine it, honestly.

  She had managed to sleep a couple hours and was surprised to discover Nick already gone when she came downstairs. On the kitchen counter, he had left a pair of coffees, assorted breakfast treats from the bakery down the street and a note.

  Dear Sarah Rose,

  Picked these up before heading out. Thank you again for the hospitality. Looking forward to tea this afternoon. Charlie can send me the time and place.

  Until then,

  Nicholas

  Charlie got a kick out of the formal tone he took with her mother. She suspected his nerves had flared even more since last night. But she felt tense too—they would make The Ask at tea this afternoon.

  When they arrived at the school, the teaching assistant—Lizzy, who apparently had a freshly minted master’s in child psychology from Oxford—was greeting toddlers with their mothers for a class promising “make-believe, puppetry and dress-up,” according to the brochure Charlie swiped from the front desk. It was full of photos of her mom encircled by groups of wide-eyed children.

  “Summertime and we’re at max capacity, so it gets pretty lively, just warning you,” Sarah said, handing Charlie two plush puppets, a court jester and a horse. “Especially with this bunch.”

  “It’s okay, I was a kid once...sort of,” Charlie said, taking her place beside her mom in a playroom swathed in candy colors from the carpets to the walls, to the tables and chairs. The kids were already boisterous, running, playing. “Though this certainly looks like a group of hellions.”

  “You have no idea,” her mom whispered as she clapped her hands, quieting everyone, and began to sing. “Let’s pretend, let’s pretend, let’s pretend from beginning to end...” Charlie looked at her mother as though the woman’s body had been overtaken by an evil spirit. “Everyone! I have a helper today,” she said when the song concluded. “This is my little girl, Miss Charlotte! Can you say hi?”

  “Hi, Miss Charlllaaahhh,” the tiny voices yelled as Charlie waved awkwardly.

  After some form of mass chaos called “What animal are you?” involving roaring and galloping and, inexplicably, some crying, Charlie and her mother manned the elaborate puppet show setup. They ad-libbed a play together—her mom had the king and queen puppets, of course—with suggestions from the audience, like a far less dirty version of the improv nights she’d been to.

  At the end, the children rushed the stage, hugging the puppets and tackling her mother. Charlie smiled and chatted with the moms—many of whom were younger than Charlie but still knew of her and paid her compliments—and before she even had time to ask her mother how the hell it had happened that she, Sarah Rose Kingsbury, had become this maternal, they were greeting another class and singing and roaring and puppeting all over again.

  “That’s fucking exhausting,” Charlie said after the second class, when they finally had a break.

  “Totally true,” Lizzy said, not even bristling at Charlie’s word choice. “In a good way, at least.”

  Somehow her mother seemed more energetic than Charlie had ever seen her. She couldn’t help but wonder if she had had this version of Sarah growing up, if she might have turned out differently: less restless, more sociable and steady. If she might’ve never had a reckless streak or rebellious years. And just as fast Charlie knew, yes, she would have had more of this and less of that and been cobbled together into another person. But she would’ve just as certainly missed out on a lot of what made her her.

  “One more class then Lizzy takes over so we can have a bit of time,” Sarah said. “Shall we go to your namesake, the Savoy?”

  It hit Charlie like a quick jab but she bit her tongue because things had been going well. “Sure.”

  Sarah had Lizzy call in the reservation. “I trust you’ll let Nicholas know,” Sarah reminded Charlie, in a tone suggesting she had some questions.

  “Of course,” Charlie said simply because she didn’t have any answers.

  Class about to start, Charlie texted: Tea at the Savoy Hotel 4:30, and added, be warned: she might be in a mood.

  * * *

  When their last class wrapped, her mother hugged her and suggested they wander toward the river to see th
e Globe before tea. “It’s always like visiting a childhood home for you, I feel,” Sarah said.

  It was true. Charlie had grown up as much there as anywhere. When they reached the grand Elizabethan landmark with its thatched roof, her mother found a bench nearby and grew pensive.

  “You did well today,” Sarah started as Charlie took a seat beside her. “Better than I might’ve even guessed.”

  “See, sometimes I do take direction well,” Charlie said lightly.

  “I was, truthfully, a bit nervous to bring you here, but wanted you to see it at work. I’m not sure if you’ll understand or accept this, but some might say I’m...atoning,” she said, a catch in her voice. She looked out at the river, then back at Charlie. “This is my way of saying that I realize how unconventional things were at home for you, for us. In retrospect, I see it. I hope you know I did the best I could at the time.”

  “I know, Mom,” Charlie said, softly. “You did great. All that you had to handle and with a crazy daughter like me. You were amazing.”

  “I just needed to keep the work steady, to keep myself steady, after your father...” She didn’t finish. “He’s a genius, you know. Your fire comes from him. He’s just not meant for a tied-down life. I know that now too. Wisdom comes with the wrinkles.”

  “What wrinkles?”

  “Ahh, you’re so kind now.” She smiled. “It was probably selfish, keeping you at the theater with me so much. I just needed you close, as comfort. Even such a free-spirited daughter as you.” She said it jokingly, warmly, then looked at Charlie. “This is why I’ve wanted you to come home. I worry there is nothing to steady you where you are.”

  Charlie gazed at the theater. After a long pause, she finally admitted it. “I know.”

  “It’s hard for me to understand what’s going on there, with you. Something has not been right, for some time, even before your...accident.” She shook her head as though not wanting to even think about that. “Something is missing or haunting you. I only know what little you tell me. But I feel that this could be good for you, being at the Chamberlain. If I’m pushing you, it’s only because I want you to feel your soul is full, as I do every day.”