At this point, Mrs Chapman was summoned by Mrs Montague. Miss Blackett rose with her, and their places were immediately taken by Mrs Mountstewart and Lady Calne. The conversation this time was petrol rationing, spiritualism and Lord Calne’s priceless jade collection, and Diana felt that she’d acquitted herself reasonably well. In the closing stages of this, Lady Calne said, ‘Mrs Montague tells me you’re finding the War Office a bit of a bore, my dear.’
‘I am rather,’ admitted Diana, hoping she looked suitably shamefaced. ‘I know one shouldn’t say so, of course.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Mountstewart, ‘It’s always good to feel one’s making a contribution, especially at a time like this.’ Diana, feeling that this was a way of getting her to commit herself without having to commit anything in return, decided she’d better keep things as neutral as possible for the time being. ‘It’s possible,’ she said, in a lowered voice, ‘that I may get something a little more interesting.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s not certain, but I’m supposed to be having an interview with Sir Neville Apse. I don’t know him, of course, and actually, I ought to thank Mrs Montague for giving me the idea. She spoke very highly of him so when this chance came up, I jumped at it.’
‘Naturally,’ said Lady Calne, blandly. ‘Sir Neville is very well thought of. I’m sure that working for him would be a far better use for your talents.’ Diana thought she detected a trace of sarcasm, but Lady Calne gave her a winning smile, patted her arm, and said, ‘Mrs Montague speaks very highly of you, Miss Calthrop. She tells me you have a great deal of sense about political matters.’
Diana decided to take the plunge. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I must admit, I’m not too keen on the war.’
‘Why’s that, my dear?’ asked Mrs Mountstewart. Here we go, thought Diana.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I can’t help thinking that the government didn’t handle it very well. Chamberlain could simply have dissolved Parliament and held an election on the issue of whether we should go to war. No-one would have voted for it, would they?’ She smiled. ‘Everyone with a grain of sense prefers peace to war, don’t they?’ There were nods of encouragement and sympathetic murmurs. ‘They could have solved the Jewish problem by re-settling them somewhere else. And as for saying that we are fighting against evil things in Germany, what about Soviet Russia? The Communists are far worse, and we’re not fighting them, are we? It’s just my opinion, of course,’ she added modestly, ‘but I think it was a terrible mistake to divide Germany as we did at Versailles, putting millions of Germans inside the Polish frontiers. It was bound to cause trouble, and then saying we would help Poland was practically telling the Germans that war was inevitable because we wanted to fight them sooner or later. And now . . .’ Diana sighed. ‘It’s dreadful. British men are getting killed, and one feels so futile . . .’ She tailed off, fearing she might be overdoing it.
‘I know.’ Lady Calne patted Diana’s arm again. ‘One does. But perhaps there will be a way you can help.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh yes, dear,’ said Mrs Mountstewart. ‘It would be a pity to waste a mind like yours. I think it would be an excellent idea if you were to get this job you were telling us about.’
Diana stood in the doorway of Nelson House, pulling on her gloves. Forbes-James had been delighted with her progress, and had organised a meeting with Sir Neville Apse at lunch the following day. Telling herself firmly that she’d done a good afternoon’s work, and quashing any feelings of trepidation about what was to happen next, she set off through Dolphin Square garden towards the Embankment. Halfway along the path, she spotted a tall figure standing by the gateway, and stopped: it couldn’t be . . . could it? A second glance told her that it was. Claude Ventriss. Afterwards, she told herself that he’d hailed her before she’d had a chance to turn and walk in the other direction, but that wasn’t true because she’d been rooted to the spot, heart thudding helplessly, waiting for him to approach. As he’d dashed towards her, hat in hand, she’d been unable to take her eyes off him. ‘I hoped I might find you here,’ he said. ‘Will you have dinner with me this evening? I can pick you up at eight.’
She’d agreed immediately, without even the presence of mind to make a token show of thinking it over. She floated back to Tite Street, light-headed with joy. Even the sight of Guy’s letter on the dressing table didn’t diminish the feeling. After all, why shouldn’t she enjoy herself? She’d earned it, hadn’t she? And one evening’s fun wouldn’t hurt . . . She folded the letter and tucked it into the jewellery box next to her wedding ring. This had, of necessity, been taken off as F-J thought it better that the Right Club didn’t know she had a husband in the forces and had overridden her objections that this could easily be checked if anyone cared to. She couldn’t put the ring on again - Ventriss thought she’d lost it. Pushing away the thought that she could just as well have told him she wasn’t wearing it because of work, she collected her washing things and went out to the bathroom. Lying back in the ancient, claw-footed bath, she abandoned herself to happy anticipation of the evening ahead, and managed, by and large, to ignore the draught on her neck from the ill-fitting window.
Ventriss collected her in a taxi and took her to dine at the Café Royal, where he ate oysters and beef stroganoff and Diana, who was too excited to be hungry, opted, to his disgust, for an omelette. They finished the meal with Crêpes au Citron, coffee, and liqueurs. She wasn’t having nearly as much fun as she’d thought because he spent a great deal of the dinner leaning on the balustrade and waving to people he knew, several of whom came up to the table to chat. Their determined jollity - a jostling, good-natured insistence on having a good time - reminded Diana of the impending invasion. The way that the men and, more particularly, the women, persisted in looking her over was annoying. Despite telling herself that this was in the line of work, the fear that one of them might know Evie or F-J and report back grew on her until it became almost paralysing. Also - although she knew it was entirely contradictory, because Ventriss was nothing more than a colleague, after all - her irritation that he wasn’t paying her more attention eventually spilled over to the point where she pushed away her coffee cup and snapped, ‘I’m not on approval, you know.’
There was a hint of hurt, as well as mockery, in his brown eyes. ‘I know you’re not.’
‘Well, I feel as if I am. All these people . . . Perhaps you should hand out particulars.’
‘You’re being silly, darling. In any case, they do approve of you - and so do I. Why don’t we go somewhere else?’
Diana had expected him to make a crack about her liking to be admired, and found herself thrown off guard. ‘Where?’ she asked.
‘Nightclub? Or what about a walk? It’s quite warm, and there’s a full moon tonight.’ He glanced under the table at her high heels. ‘If your feet can stand it.’
‘Yes,’ said Diana. ‘Fresh air. I’d like that.’
They crossed Piccadilly, passing the boards around Eros and the large buildings fortified by sandbags, and headed down the Haymarket towards Trafalgar Square, where they stood, side by side, in front of the National Gallery. They were close, but not touching, and she could feel warmth coming off Ventriss, almost like a faint vibration, or . . . a wave, she thought. Like being tuned into a wireless set. The buildings, with their huge columns, were pale and clean in the moonlight, and everything seemed sharper, heightened. She was seeing it all, experiencing it, and yet, at the same time, she was conscious of nothing but the man next to her, as if it was his presence alone that made it real and important. ‘Nelson looks out of place now all the other statues are boarded up,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Ventriss. ‘He needs a tin hat.’
‘Poor Nelson.’
‘Not at all. He’s had his victory.’
‘Will we have ours?’
‘Who knows? Too early to say.’
‘Yes, it is . . .’ She turned to look at him. ‘I never thanked you for the flowers. They were lovely.’
‘You’re lovely.’ Ventriss put his hands on her upper arms and pulled her to him. Thinking that he was going to kiss her, she readied herself, closing her eyes, but after a moment she felt herself released, and, when she looked, she saw that he was staring down at her with a solemn expression. Feeling idiotic, and hoping she hadn’t looked too swoony, because she had wanted him to kiss her, very much, she asked, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Why did you marry Guy Calthrop?’
‘I was in love with him.’
‘Was? What about now?’
‘I don’t know.’ Diana shook her head. She really didn’t want to talk about it - Ventriss confused her enough as it was. ‘I was very young, and it happened so quickly. Perhaps I just thought I was in love with him, but it seemed real, and then . . .’
‘And then what?’
‘I’m not sure. I suppose I must have thought - no, I did think - that marriage would be wonderful, but . . .’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘No. It’s hard to explain. I wasn’t deliriously happy, but I thought we could make a go of it. It was only when the war came and Guy went away, and I was living with my beastly mother-in-law that I realised perhaps I didn’t have to do that after all, and . . .’ Diana stopped, feeling disloyal. However she felt, it wasn’t fair to turn Guy - Guy who wasn’t there to defend himself, and with whom there had been some good times, and for whom she still felt affection - into an excuse for bad behaviour. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you all this,’ she said, crisply. ‘I think I had better go home.’
‘If you like,’ said Ventriss, calmly. ‘I’ll walk you to the station - unless you’d prefer a taxi.’ That was it! No protest, no anything.
‘A taxi,’ she said, peering in the direction of Whitehall. ‘I think there’s one coming.’
‘I’ll get it.’ Ventriss descended the steps. ‘Come on!’
She was still smarting when the cab pulled up in Tite Street. How could he just . . . relinquish her like that? And all those questions about Guy - sheer impertinence, not to mention bad taste. And pretending he was about to kiss her . . . The worst thing about it all was, she had no-one to blame for any of it except herself. Everyone had warned her, hadn’t they? But oh no, Diana Calthrop always had to think she knew better.
Her bad mood continued while she got ready for bed, until, lying on her back in the dark, the mixture of anger at Ventriss and self-loathing got the better of her, and she began to cry. Groping under the pillow for her handkerchief, she sat bolt upright and blew her nose loudly. This couldn’t be allowed - it was all moonlight, and liqueurs, and . . . and nonsense.
She snapped on the bedside lamp and went over to the dressing table for a cigarette. Seeing her reflection in the glass, she thought, what if Claude were to see me like this, but hastily revised the thought to what if Guy were to see me - or people generally - because weeping women were bad for morale, and so forth. ‘Ridiculous,’ she muttered. ‘There’s no-one to see.’
That was better. She couldn’t afford to let things get on top of her like that. She took a cigarette out of the box, and, muttering to herself that she’d better find an ashtray, went to fetch one from the kitchen. Mustn’t upset the maid by making a mess, or the woman might give notice. She lit her cigarette. Then, deciding that some tea might help, she filled the kettle and lit the gas. Cooking simple things for herself was still a novelty and rather hit and miss, but at least she had managed to master a pot of tea. Absurd, she thought, to have to learn at the age of twenty-four. Why hadn’t they been taught such things? Any sort of culinary procedure was a sharp reminder that she’d been trained for nothing but a life of relentless frivolity like her mother’s: fittings at the dressmakers, luncheons, the hairdresser, shopping and parties . . . And it would have been her life, if the war hadn’t intervened. As she watched the blue flames licking the base of the kettle, she suddenly remembered how Guy, in the first month of their marriage, had taught her to make scrambled eggs on the cook’s night off. He’d learnt as a fag at Eton, and she remembered him standing behind her, holding her round the waist and directing her as she stirred the mixture. She’d burnt the first lot, because he’d kept kissing her. She’d loved him, then, despite her misgivings about his closeness to Evie. That evening, they’d laughed and been happy . . .
The noise of the boiling kettle caught her attention. As she switched off the gas and warmed the teapot, she thought, with a sudden flush of shame, Guy is my husband and I am seeing another man behind his back. She shouldn’t be fuming about Claude’s behaviour but examining her own. It has to stop, she thought, rinsing the pot. Whatever happens, I must not see him again. Vigorous with resolution, she spooned in tea leaves, added water, and stirred. I shall drink this, she told herself, then I shall go to bed and sleep and be at my best for Sir Neville Apse tomorrow. And, whatever else happens, I shall not permit myself to think about Claude.
SIXTEEN
Diana, regarding Sir Neville Apse over the remains of a very good lunch in Claridges dining room, decided that he must be about the same age as F-J - fifty-ish - but she’d been entirely caught off guard by how handsome he was. He had fine, chiselled features, thick black hair with a white stripe down the middle - an aristocratic badger - and a tall, elegant frame. Although - unlike, say, Claude - he didn’t give the impression of being conscious of the power of his looks, Diana felt that he probably was, all the same. There was a hint of self-awareness about his graceful movements, and a suggestion of arrogance in his manner that was just a touch more than the usual endowment of breeding, a public school education, and all the right connections. It was, she thought, part of a general air of amusement with being amused by the world, including, on this occasion, herself. Was it because of her sex? Perhaps he was different with F-J . . . She wondered, fleetingly, what it would take to shake his composure.