Authors: Laura Wilson
Jock’s manner had been brusque the previous day, when they’d driven over to pay her landlady the arrears on the rent. The wild hope she’d had of finding James waiting for her on the steps outside had crystallised into an almost-certainty on the journey, so that finding that he wasn’t there plunged her more deeply into gloom even than before. Jock had insisted that she stayed in the car while he sorted things out, and, hating herself for her passivity, she’d waited miserably until he returned with a new key to the second-floor flat.
Jock hadn’t been able to disguise his disgust as they walked into the cheerless sitting room. ‘It’s not normally as bad as this,’ Diana
said, defensively. ‘She’s packed away all our things.’ They’d been stacked in the hall, in suitcases and wooden boxes.
‘Is this everything?’ Jock had asked incredulously, surveying the small pile. ‘Or has she taken some away? She told me she hadn’t, but …’
‘I think so,’ said Diana. ‘I’ll check later.’ She knew she wouldn’t have to check – one or the other of them had already pawned all the larger or more expensive items.
‘Well,’ said Jock awkwardly, ‘if there’s nothing else, I’d better be going.’
‘Yes … Thank you, Jock. For everything.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. No need to make a fuss.’
When he’d gone, Diana opened the first suitcase and, finding that it contained her clothes, began unpacking in a mechanical fashion. The second suitcase contained what was left of James’s wardrobe. She was about to lift out a pile of shirts and underclothes when it occurred to her that it was pointless to go through the charade of hanging them up or folding them away in drawers if he wasn’t coming back.
He must come back, she thought. Surely, he would. He couldn’t leave her like this, so alone. Then with agonising clarity came the image of him as she’d last seen him, grovelling at her feet on the beach, the poached eyes staring past her to the bottle she’d been holding in her hand. He’s not coming back, she thought. He’s not capable of it. She closed the suitcase, snapped the locks, and pushed it into the hall cupboard, closing the door.
The books and ornaments – those that were left – would keep until tomorrow. She went into the kitchen where she found a tin of soup and a bottle of sherry with half an inch left that must, somehow, have escaped James’s notice. She placed them side by side on the draining board and got as far as putting a saucepan on the stove before realising that she had neither the energy, nor the desire, to cook or eat even this simple meal.
Wandering into the bedroom, she glanced at herself in the mirror
over the mantelpiece. The face that looked back from behind the light coating of dust was dazed and cloudy. Turning away, she kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed with all her clothes on, including her fur coat, which she hadn’t felt warm enough to remove. As she closed her eyes, she thought detachedly, I ought to be afraid, but I’m not. I’m too tired, even for that. It seemed to her that somewhere, somehow, she had lost the instinct for self-preservation. Had she ever thought that her life would, at some point, turn out right, and she would be happy? Or had she always known this would happen? She couldn’t remember.
She’d remained in bed, getting up sometime in the middle of the night to undress to her underclothes, for over twenty-four hours, until a sharp tapping on the door compelled her to rise. Pulling back the curtain, she saw that it was dark outside and the streets were lit. Dressing hastily, she found Jock and Lally, dressed in evening clothes, waiting on the landing.
‘Surprise, darling!’ Lally’s voice seemed excruciatingly bright. It’s started already, thought Diana bleakly: the pity. ‘We’re taking you out to dinner, darling. I thought you needed a bit of a cheer-up. I’ve brought you some things to wear,’ she indicated a suitcase held by Jock, who looked markedly less enthusiastic, ‘so you can’t use that as an excuse, and there’s jewellery and things in there.’ She pushed a dressing case into Diana’s arms. ‘Aren’t you going to let us in?’
Diana blinked at her, bleary-eyed. ‘I don’t think … I mean, I’m not …’
‘We know you’re not, darling,’ said Lally, ‘and that’s why you need some fun. Now, come on …’ She advanced towards the sitting room and, looking round at its dusty anonymity, said, ‘Heavens, this is all very …
bijou
, isn’t it?’
‘I think,’ said Diana, ‘that “small” is the word you’re looking for. And “dismal”.’
‘Nonsense. Once you’ve got your things sorted out it’ll be fine. Smaller places are so much easier than great barns like ours, anyway. You can make it really modern.’
She meant well, but the vehement optimism was more than Diana could bear. ‘I haven’t anything to offer you,’ she said, ungraciously.
‘Doesn’t matter, darling. Why don’t I come and chat to you while you get ready? Jock can wait here.’
Jock was standing in the middle of the room, a look of detached politeness on his face. Clearly, thought Diana, all this was Lally’s idea, and she had a strong suspicion that Jock had tried to talk her out of it. ‘It’s very kind of you,’ she said, ‘but I really don’t feel … As you can see, there’s an awful lot to do here, and I don’t suppose I’d be terribly good company, so …’ But Lally had overridden all her protests and borne her into the bedroom to change and dress her hair, and now, an hour and a half hour later, they were all three sitting in sumptuous surroundings like strangers in a railway carriage who have started a conversation out of politeness and exhausted all subjects of mutual interest. Jock wore an expression of thin-lipped endurance, and Lally, who was facing the door, had begun discreetly searching the room for anyone they might know who could be persuaded to come over and enliven things. Laughter and chatter rippled the air all around them, and Diana felt lonelier and more hopeless than ever. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, when Jock excused himself, ‘but honestly, everything just feels like a dream at the moment. Everything since the war, really … No, since I went back to Hampshire. None of it seems real – as if I’d … I don’t know …
died
or something, somewhere along the line. Or part of me has.’
‘I know, darling.’ Lally reached across the table and patted Diana’s hand. ‘But things will get better.’
‘Will they?’
‘Of course they will!’
Diana sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have come out,’ she said. ‘This is all so kind of you, but I feel like the ghost at the feast.’
‘There’ll be dancing soon,’ said Lally. ‘That’s bound to cheer you up. Do you know, I’m sure I spotted Phyllis Garton-Smith just now.
You remember she was at Bletchley Park during the war – of course, you told me you’d seen her when you went there with F-J. Well, she’s engaged to the
strangest
man – his family are something to do with shipping, but apparently he didn’t want any part of it, so he went off and became an explorer.’
About halfway through this speech, the focus of Lally’s gaze had switched to somewhere past Diana’s left shoulder. When she stopped talking – clearly too distracted by whatever she’d seen to keep up the flow of chatter – Diana turned to see what had caught her friend’s eye and, almost immediately, caught her breath. Lounging long-limbed and elegant in the doorway, louche in immaculate evening dress and, nine years on, more absurdly handsome than ever, was Claude Ventriss.
‘Diana …’ Lally’s voice was low, warning. ‘
Diana
. . .’
Diana caught her breath. Claude was scanning the room. She couldn’t work out from his expression whether or not he was looking for someone in particular. The arrogant tilt of his lazy, half-closed eyes suggested that every woman in the room was available to him and he was just deciding which one to snap his fingers at … Presumptuous as ever. Smiling involuntarily, Diana shook her head.
‘Diana …’ said Lally, again. ‘For God’s sake! Stop staring at him.’
Claude’s gaze swept past Diana and, for a second, she thought he hadn’t noticed her. Just as she was wondering if this was genuine or deliberate, his face seemed to break open in recognition, and his glowing, velvet-brown eyes looked directly into hers.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Unable to sleep, Monica leant over and fumbled for her bedside lamp. Turning it on, she saw, from her alarm clock, that it was quarter past three in the morning. All her nights had been like this recently – lying awake, her thoughts going fruitlessly round in circles, the imagined outcomes growing worse each time. At first, it hadn’t been too bad, because she’d been able to tell herself it would be all right in the morning, or, if not then, during the day, or the following morning – that her period would come, must come, soon. Now, such wishful thinking was impossible.
It wasn’t as if she’d
wanted
to have intercourse with Raymond. They’d seen each other a lot over the past months, always travelling miles from the studio to spend evenings at little, faraway places because – or so he’d told her – he didn’t like being recognised by fans. He never had been, although he’d made plenty of nervous jokes about it. She’d thought, then, that it was just the inconvenience of people asking for autographs or gushing over him when he wanted to be alone with her. She was so taken up in playing the part of his girlfriend that she’d never even considered that there might be another reason.
The really idiotic thing was that she could see it would be a whole lot worse if she’d been in love with him. She’d found that she quite enjoyed his company – it didn’t matter that he talked mostly about himself, because it was interesting, and he had lots of funny stories to tell about the plays and films he’d done. He’d
had an off-screen romance with Patricia Regal, who was one of her favourite stars, and she’d wanted to know so much about it that he’d teased her for being jealous. Which she was, of course – just not in the way he’d thought …
When he’d suggested that they spend a night together somewhere, she’d agreed. Not immediately, of course, but when she considered the matter, she’d come to regard it in the same heroic, desperate light as Tilly’s action in the film, when she’d pretended to be drowning in order to show her husband that he wasn’t really crippled at all. It would be like a cure for her, because if she could bring herself to do
that
, then perhaps there would be a normal future for her, after all. Following a couple of days’ consideration, she’d come to regard it as a perfectly sensible – in fact, an almost scientific – course of action.
They’d only done it three times, and she must have made the right noises, or done
something
right, anyway, because he’d seemed very pleased afterwards. The odd thing was, it hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared – more uncomfortable than anything. She’d kept her eyes tight shut all the time so as not to have to look at him, but he had been gentle, especially the first time. He’d probably had heaps of practice because he wasn’t at all awkward about it, and he hadn’t seemed to mind her shyness one bit. When he’d told her that intelligent, sophisticated women didn’t believe in saving themselves for marriage, because it was vulgar to use virginity as a bargaining chip, she’d seen his point immediately, because women ought to be equal with men.
Except that it was obviously more for men than for women – she really didn’t see how they could get any fun out of it – and men didn’t have babies, did they? He’d said he’d take care of that side of things – and obviously thought he had done so, because he’d been appalled and furious when she’d told him. That was when he’d told her he was married.
She wondered, pointlessly, which of the acts had conceived the baby. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t going to have it, was she?
She’d argued when Raymond insisted, but, thinking about it – and she’d thought of practically nothing else since she’d missed her period – she didn’t have much choice in the matter. She hated the idea of an abortion, but, as Raymond said, the baby was hardly there yet, just a collection of cells, a nub of a thing, and – although she hadn’t admitted it to him – she certainly didn’t feel any connection with it. Sometimes, when she was busy at work, she’d manage to forget about it for minutes together and then, suddenly remembering, she’d be struck by the sheer unbelievability of her situation. Now, she was struck by the feebleness of her arguments. She couldn’t have a baby – of course she couldn’t. As if to underline this, there was a faint noise from behind her head. Dad. He sees this sort of thing all the time at work, she thought: abandoned infants, runaways, tearaways, girls cast out, prostitutes, married women who’d tried to pass off a cuckoo in the nest with disastrous consequences … She’d heard the tales often enough. Not that he’d ever preached morality at her, but sometimes, when she asked him how his day had been, the stories had come out, the pathetic, sordid lives, the single, impetuous acts that led down the road to ruin … Clearly, he pitied them, but he would think her no better. Why should he? After all, they hadn’t had her advantages, or her luck.
No. It was out of the question. She was going to do as Raymond told her. He’d seemed to know all about that, too, fixing it up. He’s done it before, she thought. There’d been another – maybe several other – stupid girls like her, easily wooed, easily used and just as easily discarded. But she’d lied to him, too, hadn’t she? Or not told the truth, anyway. And if it was a question of using people, didn’t that make her as bad as he was? Worse, in fact, because his desire was natural, and hers was not. And why had she told
Pete
, of all people?
What a stupid question. She got up and lit a cigarette, breaking her self-imposed rule about not smoking in her bedroom. Pete had taunted her, as he always did, goaded her until she’d got so blazingly angry she’d heard herself blurting it out. She’d seen horror
replace the malice in his eyes, and he hadn’t said much at all after that – except for agreeing not to tell Dad. Now she’d just have to trust him … After all, he’d promised, hadn’t he?
Chapter Forty-Nine
The television, encased in a wooden cabinet and crowned with a doily and a china shepherdess, had pride of place in the stuffy, cluttered front room of number eight Paradise Street. ‘We’re the only one in the street,’ said Mrs Anson proudly. She was a sensible, bulky woman whose frock and cretonne overall hid all but the very top of a monstrous chasm of cleavage. ‘We’ve had quite a few of the neighbours in to watch. Mrs Backhouse used to come every Thursday. She’d get her book from the library and then she’d come in to see the children’s programmes. That’s what she liked –
Andy Pandy
was her favourite, and
Prudence Kitten
. I think …’ Mrs Anson leant forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice, ‘she’d have liked kiddies herself, but they were never blessed. Still,’ she added, ‘that’s probably just as well, isn’t it?’