Spare Brides (11 page)

‘Yes, do find him. But …’

‘But what?’

‘But don’t sleep with him, Ava. Don’t take him.’

‘You said he was divine.’

‘He is.’

‘Then why wouldn’t I?’

Lydia turned and grasped her friend’s hand. It was silky smooth and small like a child’s. She would not look at Ava, but she knew that Ava had already seen all there was to see. ‘Gosh, it’s silly, but I find I’ve developed rather a thing for him myself.’

‘A thing? How is that possible? You’re Lydia, you don’t do
things.
You leave that sort of mess to the rest of us.’

‘I’m not going to do anything at all. I have no intention … Only I can’t quite bring myself to think about
you
doing it.’

‘I see.’

Both women fell silent. Lydia abandoned all show of dignity and pushed on, desperate for a pledge, ‘So you’ll leave him be?’

‘I will.’

She sighed, relieved. She firmly believed that if Ava wanted a man, she could have him, and Ava would want the perfect man if she saw him; how could she not? Lydia had had to put the barrier in the way. Her request was irrational, revealing and ignoble, but she could not stop herself. For the first time in her life, she felt the vines of jealousy creep through her body. Ava was single and free to pursue; Lydia was not. She shook her head, confused. ‘We may never find him, and he may be married, of course, in which case this entire conversation is irrelevant,’ she blustered, trying to erase the tension that choked the room.

‘Why would you think that? Half my lovers have been married. They are the very best sort. So discreet and practised and grateful.’

‘You say the most terrible things.’

Ava smiled unhurriedly. ‘Yes, darling, I do. That’s what separates me from the pack. Everybody else simply thinks them.’

L
YDIA,
S
ARAH AND
Beatrice stood together in the crowded drawing room, waiting with varied levels of patience and animation as the extra guests arrived for dinner. Ava, as the hostess, had to circulate. She moved through the throng, greeting and delighting. Her many attributes sharpened in front of their eyes. Her beauty ripened, her conversation sparkled, and without exerting any real effort she became everyone’s focal point. She saturated the space around her with an aura of rare magnificence; to many she seemed more exquisitely regal than even Her Highness Princess Mary. Ava progressed at an unhurried pace, the dignity of which contrasted with the frenetic energy that surrounded her, as her guests eagerly tried to catch and hold her attention. Artfully, she appeared to scarcely see those clamouring for her notice, which encouraged their desperation. Then, when they seemed to be on the brink of collapsing with frustration and despair that she’d never turn their way, she would bestow a smile that singled them out in time and space, convincing each and every person that he or she was her particular and absolute favourite. As she passed by her best friends, she whispered into Bea’s ear, ‘Have you seen Lady Anna Renwick is wearing teal evening gloves?’

‘Not white?’ asked Bea.

‘No.’

‘Or black?’

‘Are you deaf? I said teal.’

‘Well I never.’

‘No, darling,
you
would never,’ commented Ava, and melted back into the crowd, leaving Beatrice unsure about her view on teal glove wearing.

‘Teal gloves, how exciting,’ commented Bea, avoiding making a gaffe by committing herself one way or the other to the effect and appropriateness of the fashion; exciting could be a good or a bad thing.

Lydia sighed at her life; a life where coloured evening gloves defined excitement. She had forced herself to be polite to the three or four people who’d approached her in the last half-hour, even though she had found them predictable in their conversations and concerns. The women had complimented her on her dress – gold velvet decorated with a substantial amount of intricate jet beading; she’d agreed it was divine. The men had asked after Lawrence, commenting that it was a shame he couldn’t join the party and sharing their opinions that he was, perhaps, rather
too
conscientious, because everyone knew what all work and no play led to. A dull boy. Lydia nodded and shook her head when appropriate; she smiled gently, but did not let loose her full beam. She found she was not required to actually say much, because these old duffers were quite content carrying on the conversation without her active participation. She too wished Lawrence was here with her. She was used to having him by her side. He padded her out. The evening afforded her a brief insight into the lives of Sarah and Beatrice. Not Ava’s life, because whilst Ava was technically single, she never required or requested any padding. She was substantial enough.

Lawrence and Lydia very infrequently quarrelled; if a difference arose, they chose instead to be cool and silent with one another until their anger subsided. After their rare disagreements Lawrence often congratulated her on her good sense and conduct. He was naturally peaceable and, whilst Lydia was considerably more fiery by instinct, she had learned to curb any hint of ardent fury or zeal. Girls of her sort were taught by their mothers that angry, emotional scenes were unattractive and led to premature wrinkles; happy faces all round were infinitely preferable, significantly more flattering. But this recent tension was darker and deeper than anything that had gone before in their marriage. The things that had been said at last week’s dinner polluted and stained the atmosphere in their smart London home. She had shared with him her greatest dread, not out of malice, but because she didn’t know who else to voice it to. She had held the cruel thought tight to her for years now; it had bubbled like a cancerous growth in her head, malignant and stubborn. On Thursday it had erupted, her private menace spilling out across the napkins and glassware. She wasn’t sure why, but she hadn’t been able to curb her desperation a moment longer. Not a moment. So there was no chance of her remaining silent for a lifetime. She’d hoped her husband would reassure her, explain things to her; maybe he would show her a way of looking at things in a different light. She wanted her pervasive horror to be contradicted, blocked, eradicated.

Instead he’d called her hysterical and sent her to bed like a naughty child.

She did not believe she was hysterical, misguided or even superstitious; she saw things clearly. There was a moment when the men of their generation had been required to stand up and define themselves as men. Lawrence had hidden behind a desk, and now they were being punished for his cowardice. It was what she believed and it was therefore real. Loss could not be avoided. It would seek you out. Why should they think they could be any different from anyone else? They had no right. Lydia blinked repeatedly. She was surprised to find tears welling in her eyes. It would not do. She must find a way to bury the thought again. She could not think of her husband this way. It would destroy them.

‘Look, isn’t that the Duchess of Feversham?’ asked Beatrice, breathless with excitement and the ethereal whisper of potential scandal.

‘Yes, it is,’ replied Lydia, who was considerably more composed. She surveyed the indulged, coddled people with indifference. She was accustomed. She had grown up with them and was aware of all that they had to offer and all that they lacked. The Duchess of Feversham was a soured woman who existed within a loveless marriage; both she and her husband regularly took younger lovers. Lydia was not judgemental; she just found their set-up depressing. However, the war had limited Beatrice’s exposure to society, and she was still considerably more romantic about the aristocrats she hailed from. Lydia considered that the war had changed the playing field so significantly that it was unlikely that Bea would ever become as weary as Lydia found she was tonight. Bea would not have the resources to fund a continued association with this society, or even a role within it. Lydia found this particular train of thought upsetting and so shied away from it. She preferred to pretend that Sarah and Beatrice had the same money and opportunities as she possessed. It was better not to think about the truth of things. Although the idea that she was forever thinking it was better not to think did not bear examination either. She roused herself. Chummily, cheerfully she commented, ‘You’ve seen her out many times before; why the fuss, Bea?’

‘Yes, at parties, where we might have been in the same room along with three hundred others, but tonight we’re only forty. It’s almost intimate.’

‘Actually we’re thirty-nine,’ corrected Lydia, thinking of Lawrence.

‘No, we are forty. Ava told me that the Duchess of Feversham has brought along an extra man,’ chipped in Sarah.

‘Oh. Who?’ asked Beatrice breathlessly. It was hard for Lydia to maintain the pretence that they were even when Bea insisted on being so green, so artless, so easily impressed and urgent.

‘I have no idea.’

‘Her latest lover, no doubt,’ offered Lydia.

‘I only know that he catapulted through the ranks during the war. Terribly brave. Went in as a commoner, came out practically one of us,’ said Sarah.

‘Well, Ava’s mother will be pleased. Whoever he is, he’ll even up the seating plan, although it is all rather last-minute,’ commented Bea.

‘She will.’

‘Ava has dined at the duchess’s house several times,’ mused Beatrice.

‘Yes, she has.’

‘I wonder which house exactly. You do know they have half a dozen.’

‘Yes.’ They all knew this, had always known it, but Bea never tired of repeating the fact. Probably because her own assets were depreciating, she had become obsessively interested in those who had money to burn. It wasn’t greed or even jealousy; her fascination was similar to that of a palaeontologist studying dinosaur bones: she simply wanted to know all there was to know about this strange and alien species. Lydia decided to throw her a nugget. ‘The Duchess pays up to a thousand guineas a night in fees for the entertainers at her parties, you know.’

Bea gasped. ‘What do they do for that?’

‘Quite literally anything, I imagine.’

‘They say she has had all her underwear embroidered with coronets,’ chipped in Sarah.

‘And she’s just bought a second Rolls-Royce,’ added Lydia.

‘No?’

‘This time in purple. It has the coronet on it too.’

‘Well!’

It wasn’t clear if Bea was impressed with the ostentation or horrified by it, but her face stretched and contorted like melted rubber. Suddenly Lydia felt enormous affection for her friend. It must be lovely to be so
bothered
. Lydia found she was rarely bothered about anything nowadays. ‘I think we should go in to dinner. I heard the gong,’ she said calmly.

‘Who is taking you in?’ Bea looked concerned again. As one of the least important guests at the table, she couldn’t hope that Lady Pondson-Callow would have allocated her a spare man. Lydia, as a married woman, was more entitled to an escort. Bea quickly started to calculate who might be taking whom. Would there be anyone left for her?

‘Shall we all three go in together?’ suggested Lydia, linking her arms through the sisters’.

‘Dare we?’ Bea giggled.

‘Oh, with you two flanking me, I feel equal to it,’ smiled Lydia.

‘She had not expected to see him ever again, but as she had fallen asleep imagining him for nine days, when she did turn and see him at her side, he felt strangely familiar. Lofty, magnificent, audacious. So familiar she dispensed with formality and talked to him as though they were picking up a conversation they’d started in the drawing room, just five minutes ago.

‘I didn’t know you knew Miss Pondson-Callow.’

‘I don’t. I came with the Duchess of Feversham. Miss Pondson-Callow called her this afternoon and asked for a spare man. That’s who I am; a spare man.’ Lydia felt sick at the thought that he’d arrived with the notorious duchess.

‘What a surprise,’ she mumbled.

‘Life is full of them.’

‘We met in the café on Marble Arch. Maison Lyons, a week last Thursday.’ She added the detail because she was terrified that he might not remember the incident, so brief and insignificant in reality; so large and all-consuming in her mind. The moment she offered the circumstances she felt silly, exposed.

But he did remember her. ‘I don’t think we actually met.’

‘True, there was no formal introduction.’

The eyes again. Too knowing, too deep, too vivid to allow her a modest pretence of disregard. It was obvious he knew the effect he had on women. He’d probably known since he was a boy holding on to his mama’s apron. Sitting next to him now, she had the chance to notice more details. He had a lean, ravenous face, draped with a clear, almost translucent skin. He was sinewy, taut, well-defined, strong. Lydia didn’t doubt that it was the war that had shaved off all that was unnecessary about him.

He picked up a wide, shallow glass of champagne and sipped at the lip while holding her gaze. ‘I’m Edgar Trent. And you are Mrs …?’

‘Lady Chatfield.’

‘But I should call you …?’

‘You
should
call me Lady Chatfield, but I think you are going to call me Lydia.’

‘I think I am going to call you Lid.’

‘Nobody calls me Lid.’

‘I didn’t imagine they would.’

‘It isn’t any sort of name. It’s simply a reduction.’

‘Yes. It’s plain and confident. You’ll grow into it.’

With this he turned away from her and started to talk to the lady seated on his right, as was the proper etiquette. Lydia felt a spike of indignation that he was implying she wasn’t yet straightforward or confident, and at the same time she was doused in a vibrant sense of excitement as she realised he was flirting with her. Pulling her out. Wrapping her in the golden light of his notice. She looked up and saw that Sarah was sitting opposite her. She was beaming and mouthed, ‘Isn’t that …?’ Lydia nodded. ‘How strange, what a coincidence,’ Sarah mouthed again. Lydia turned to look up the table, where her eyes met Ava’s. Ava winked at her. It was a knowing gesture, too knowing. Uncomfortable, Lydia quickly looked away.

She tried to talk to the old chap sitting to her left as they drank their soup, as she was expected to. He was a friend of Ava’s father and the usual type of gentleman that Lydia found around her own parents’ table. He had a portly body, a creased face and a triangular clump of hair in the centre of his head. He was affable and polite, but Lydia identified something in his manner that she recognised with increasing frequency nowadays in men her father’s age – he was apologetic.