Sin (6 page)

“Well, as I said, he may be about to take us over.”

“Hmmm.”

Helen was as close to the concept of a friend as I ever had. Which was why I was particularly guarded around her. She had red, wavy hair and sharp, grey-green eyes. When she widened them during an interview, they made her most lethal questions sound benign. She had a certain female power much admired by women in my time. And used the gifts of nature to enhance a considerable intelligence—for the simple purpose of undermining powerful men. She was excellent at her job, fielded lust with some malice and succumbed, I guessed, with little pleasure. Our relationship had an element of mutual admiration and competition.

“Did you know his wife?”

“Felicity? Not really. I met her on just a few occasions, when she was being the token wife. Which she always did well, incidentally. She died four yearsago.”

“How did she die?”

“There was a long illness. A weak heart, I think. Though the end was very sudden.”

“Children?”

“One. Grown up. I think he lives in America. It was a long marriage. There was never any scandal, that I heard of. Charles Harding is not one for the gossip columnists. Far too clever for that. Of course, there could be some secret. … But”—she paused— “on the surface it looks, my dear, as though what you see is what you get. Tycoon. Widowed. …”

I knew Helen well enough to have noted the pause and the equivocating words ….

“On the surface? What do you mean?”

She sat back in her chair and looked at me, a kind of question in her eyes.

She sighed. “Can I trust you, Ruth? This really is utterly confidential.” I nodded. She paused and began to speak quietly.

“In the year before Felicity died—she had, remember, been ill for some time—he had a short affair with a young woman. She was … insanely … in love. It was all extraordinarily intense, I gather, Very sexual, I would imagine. Anyway, he tried to end it. And she … killed herself. I knew her parents. It was all hushed up. Her father's a Queen's Counsel. Has enormous influence.”

“And Charles Harding?”

“Well, he was—he was utterly devastated. Blamed himself entirely. Felicity died shortly afterwards. It was a double blow. To a man who I'd guess had felt himself capable of handling anything and anyone. I imagine he still feels very guilty.”

Now I understood Elizabeth's attraction for him; she would be the perfect balm for a guilty soul. But what of the other side of Charles Harding? The “intensely sexual”? Was that for Elizabeth, too?

“Well, perhaps he'll meet a good woman.” I smiled at Helen. I wanted to break the air of increasing intimacy between us. She took the bait. And became the public Helen.

“There aren't many of those about.” She smiled back at me.

“Oh, yes there are. They're just as lethal.”

We laughed our conversation to an end. And I left having learned a lot, but knowing that I had also revealed something of myself. Which, for me, was always too much.

SIXTEEN

Charles Harding had invited us all to his house in Gloucestershire for Sunday lunch. We would come bearing gifts. Or more precisely the gift of Elizabeth. He should beware.

Dominick and I drove in silence. Earlier, we had had another conversation about our marriage. He had lain beside me, physically satisfied, or finished—whichever—some lonely sensuality draining from his face. His blond hair fell limply across his forehead. His eyes, without his glasses, seemed somehow out of focus as he stroked my hair and whispered, “Ruth … you're breaking my heart.”

I sighed.

“You've got what you wanted. Me.”

We should not try to take what we know is not ours. Even if by some miracle it becomes available to us.

“Do you know what a catastrophe is, Ruth?”

“I think so.”

“No. In mathematics. Do you know what the word
catastrophe
means … in mathematics?”

“No.”

“It means ‘a system that disturbs another.' You have disturbed me. You've invaded me.”

“Indeed. Well, there are other invasions.”

I rose to shower. After the invasion. Modern woman, modern moves. So hygienic.

“We have too many of these conversations.” My morning memory faded. We were now in the car.

“Maybe. You did pursue me, Dominick. And I'm not breaking any promises. Look. It's a beautiful day. Let's enjoy it. It will be interesting to see Sir Charles on home ground.”

I was anxious not to have an obvious tension between Dominick and me. So unattractive, so demeaning. In front of Charles. So I placated him.

A woman adored—and of course I was—can do anything. Particularly when she makes so few mistakes. We were balanced. His love. My coldness. I wondered if Dominick understood how much he needed the agony. Probably not.

Charles Harding's house, Frimton Manor Farm, disconcerted me. Just outside a Cotswold village, it was a low-built, stone, seventeenth-century mansion. In place of the grandeur and opulence I had expected, the house exuded a mellowness and peace. It nestled behind a row of chestnut trees, which marked a sort of terrace at the end of a short poplar drive.

He stood in the stone porch to greet us. Then, he led us into a low-ceilinged drawing room in which a roaring fire, deep armchairs and an old carpet on the dark wooden floor all painted an image of the slow seduction of other times, and did so authentically. The house was not a lie. It was itself—in structure, decoration and odour. And if ghosts haunted it, I wondered if it was because they were at ease there. And perhaps found heaven a little bright.

The polite cliches began.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“Since I was a boy.”

“How lovely.” Oh, God.

“When did your family acquire it?”

“My father bought it, when he married.”

A pause.

He was polite but bored. I didn't blame him.

Another car arrived, and in a minute Elizabeth stood in the porch. I watched his face tense. He was no longer bored. I wished I didn't know these things. Elizabeth, in black again, shook hands briefly, then kissed me. Oh, those false sisterly kisses. False sister.

Within fifteen minutes or so, my parents had arrived. We ate a simple lunch, served by a couple who seemed as much part of the house as the old silver and plain white linen napkins. Afterwards, we sat in a small sitting room for coffee. A portrait of a dark woman in a blue velvet dress gazed down at us. Surprisingly, it was Elizabeth who commented on its beauty.

“It's a portrait of my wife,” he said.

A little silence.

“It's four years … now … since she died.”

Murmurs of sympathy. Polite. Of no greater intensity or sincerity than an apology for disturbing someone who had been sleeping. “So sorry. Did I disturb you?” Nothing could disturb the subject of the portrait anymore. I wondered, had Felicity ever disturbed Sir Charles? Other than in death.

“Felicity loved this house. She loved country life. Rarely came to London.”

“And you?”

“In those days I liked applause. When I was younger, London seemed a better place to find it than here.”

“Well you have been much applauded.” My father spoke.

“A little. In my own world.”

“And internationally. Your work for …” Father mentioned an international charity for refugees.

More desultory talk of success, and its necessary companion—adherence to a good cause. Slowly, Sir Charles allowed a portrait—a most attractive portrait—to be painted of himself. For Elizabeth. Surrounded by her family.

And as he stalked her, I stalked him. I was not certain, watching him, which of us had more practice.

Did Elizabeth remind him of Felicity? There was no physical resemblance. Felicity's portrait was that of a petite, dark-haired woman in a blue dress. But other qualities perhaps? Spiritual qualities? Who can tell?

Memories—the living with them, and the killing of them—blur so much of daily life. We pick today's bouquet of feelings, sounds and smells, for tomorrow's contemplation. Tomorrow, Charles Harding would add today's miscellany to his gathered images of the past. And, perhaps, they would include me.

SEVENTEEN

Where does all the time go to?

It goes to grow children and grey hairs. It goes to grow adolescent beauty and cancers. To grow the couple in their coming together and their separation. And at the end of all the time we mark, it sweeps us up and away. An efficient hausfrau, a diligent harbinger of the next generation.

And time brought Charles Harding to Elizabeth and made them a couple.

It did so quickly, quietly, with utmost discretion. It moved so fast it disarmed me.

For the widow had been won. Back to life. She had been mesmerised by the intensity of Charles Harding's pursuit. And she was no doubt anxious, to live for others. Particularly her son, Stephen. A new pattern was established. With new players. Lexington absorbed Charles Harding for weekends and special anniversaries, as once it had absorbed Hubert.

William and Stephen, “the boys,” became even closer. In their times together I could detect only love. And in their childish battles—they seemed to fight clean. But who can tell?

In small, careful ways I increased my influence on Stephen, Elizabeth's son. Particularly in the early years of her new marriage. At a time when Charles sought connection with his stepson, I forged a deeper bond with my … what? Nephew? No. False sister. False nephew.

Elizabeth was a quiet, gentle mother. Good, and kind. There was no question that Stephen adored his mother. But I was a more captivating companion. Subtly, I increased his adoration.

I was an intriguing aunt. I had a certain wildness, a sense of adventure that Elizabeth lacked.

Of all Elizabeth's possessions, Stephen was the most accessible to me. Our temperaments matched in some way. A wayward streak, perhaps.

It pleased me a lot when, at Lexington, he would call out, “Aunt Ruth, you're so funny,” or, “Oh, come on, Aunt Ruth. Challenge me,” or, “Test me on this, Aunt Ruth,” or, “Let's go, Aunt Ruth. Let's go.”

It pleased me, this application of my power. It would have pleased me more had Elizabeth ever seemed distressed. But she remained serene.

Was such serenity a fault? Are you certain you approve?

EIGHTEEN

Over time, I found I noted everything about Charles Harding. I had an appetite for facts about him. His body had a density about it, as though it had no hollows. As though it were a statue. His legs implied not speed but power. And when he stood before a window, he effectively blocked the sun.

When he spoke to others, I felt it clearly on my skin. Yet whenever he spoke to me, he came blurred down the line.

Sometimes, looking at him, I thought of the story Helen had told me. It was impossible to exploit, I was aware of that.

“There's nothing Elizabeth looks forward to more than your visits.”

Charles and Elizabeth were welcoming us to Frimton Manor.

Dominick collected our things from the back of the car.

Elizabeth smiled, opening her arms to us. Stephen raced towards William and me.

Then, Elizabeth's kiss.

“Charles is right. I'm always full of happiness at the thought of your arrival.”

Sometimes Elizabeth's happiness disgusted me. Literally. I felt disgust.

“But you see us regularly at Lexington at the weekends.”

“Yes. Yes. But it's … just different here. It becomes a treat.”

Charles was in fine, generous form. The mogul now spent only four days a week in his office. “Besotted,” I had read in a magazine in a doctor's waiting room. “Besotted” by his new wife—“the artist, Elizabeth Ashbridge.”

Elizabeth Ashbridge is not an artist, I had sighed at the journalist's idiocy. Elizabeth Ashbridge is a reasonably competent painter of skies.

We sat down to eat—a group united by blood, by love, by hatred, a fairly common combination—and we drank to the success of Dominick, this man who had stayed much longer in my life than I had ever intended. He had just become the youngest ever head of Government Statistical Service at the Treasury.

“You must be so proud of him, Ruth.”

“Ruth's pride is like so many things about her— understated,” Dominick replied.

“Oh, but underneath she's glowing.” Elizabeth raised her glass.

Charles addressed me. “Ruth. When William's older, do you still want to set up that book division you once mentioned?”

“Maybe. Why?” This is not how I want to speak to you. These are not the words.

“Ruth, you had so many ideas. The kind of books you wanted to publish. Charles is right. It would be …” Elizabeth speaks for me.

Who are you to know what is good for me? How dare you speak of my life? You two. As a couple. For my happiness.

“Ah, you're so encouraging. But Dominick is … uncertain. Darling?”

“Ruth would be brilliant at anything she did. There's no doubt about that. It's an interesting idea. But, let's wait—William is still young, and Ruth enjoys being with him a lot,” Dominick replied, on my behalf.

“Well, Ruth, what would be the first book you would publish—a daring novel by a new young writer?” Charles asked.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“There are enough books in the world already.”

“You astonish me.”

“I always at least try … to astonish you.”

“But …” Dominick started to speak.

“Ruth, I think is teasing us.”

Oh, sweet Elizabeth.

“No dear—I'm not. I'd like to re-issue some oddities—
The Laws of Sparta,
or
Diary of an Erotic Life
—in little pocket-book size. My first title would be
The Devil's Dictionary.”

Silence. Neither Elizabeth nor Charles smiled.