Chapter 15. Married Romance
Because Ian’s train came in at the dinner hour, Scarlet hoped to turn the event into a sorely needed romantic date. Fern agreed to look after Nicholas if Scarlet dropped the baby off in his carrycot at her parents’ home. Fern’s mother oohed and aahed over Nicholas and offered to give him a bottle of warm, diluted condensed milk if he cried.
She seemed so motherly Scarlet agreed. It was glorious to be set free for the evening, to imagine herself young and carefree with her whole life ahead of her. Those had been such good, such memorable days – she needed their nostalgic power to propel her through this crisis. When she dared to fall for an acknowledged heartbreaker, she told herself his bad reputation had grown out of disappointed spite. Every girl was attracted by Ian’s glamor but it was the shy American girl who had captured his heart.
She had dressed carefully for this evening. Technically they weren’t supposed to “go all the way” tonight but what could twenty-four hours possibly matter? A whisper of the forbidden could spice up routine. According to Scarlet’s thinking this was the second time the future of their relationship required her to throw caution to the winds.
She wore a low cut glittery velvet top – tight, her nursing bra pushing her newly inflated breasts upward. Now that she possessed such a pair of gaudy bosoms she might as well flaunt them. Her black velvet skirt was a bit long, forcing her to wear heels, but Ian liked high heels anyway – didn’t all men? If they danced high heels guaranteed they’d be cheek to cheek. Careful makeup, swinging gold leaf earrings, a fleecy wrap and her pale hair brushed fine and down. She had certainly caused favorable remark at Fern’s house:
“Smashing!” declared Fern’s brother.
She needed this confidence, she realized, as she waited for the train.
The train was on time and she was a bit discouraged to see Ian step out of the dining car, his cheeks lit with comfort and good living, talking and laughing in a gaggle of male strangers.
He waved goodbye as she flashed her lights at him, then she climbed out of the station wagon.
“I hardly recognized you,” he offered.
She hoped it was meant as a compliment but didn’t feel sure. She clambered, heels skittering across the icy cobblestones.
“Steady on!” He grabbed her elbow. “Did you start the celebration without me?”
That’s my line, she thought, almost angrily. “No, I made reservations Sous les Arbres. I thought we deserved a night out. How about you?”
“Suits me,” he said, answering the wrong question, but she left it at that. At least he hadn’t dented his appetite which was something to be grateful for. And he didn’t seem visibly impaired. She must firmly reject that role of critical wife, Xantippe to a pathetic Socrates. Probably he’d had no more than a Guinness. Or two. Drink rounds were a rigid English social requirement in the club car ethos – especially if the “friends” were new.
Scarlet plunged ahead – straight, she hoped, into their shared new life.
“So, tell me the good news! I’m dying to know!”
“I got the job!” he said, grinding the gears into reverse. “It’s a great opportunity. They love my modern mythology series idea. “Jupiter in Your Office!” They ate it up. They created a brand new position, just for me, based on me bringing in all my contacts. Director of New Programming. Fresh people, fresh ideas – cultivating movers and shakers. If we make it our business to know everyone it guarantees our place at the top of the game.”
“Oh honey, I’m so glad!” and she kissed him. It really had worked out all right, then, after all. Buying this impossible house in the country hadn’t been the end of everything, but a more exciting beginning. Sister India had been entirely wrong – she just didn’t understand the English system of presentation, perks, honors and rewards.
“Tell you what, you go up tomorrow and look at flats,” he said.
“What can we afford? What are they paying you?”
“That’s not settled but it’ll be something pretty generous. Should we call the Pourfoyles so you can stay over? They offered.”
Did that mean he had seen them?
“I don’t want to be away from Nick overnight. I think I should take him along.”
“Oh Scarlet, stop being such a sentimental American squaw. Face it, the English have a much better system. You wean that baby and give him to Fern. Or Ina. Or somebody.”
Scarlet certainly would not do that but she knew this was not a good time to argue the point. They had arrived at the restaurant where it was time to surrender their battered old car to the valet.
“Pas devant les domestiques,” said Scarlet and Ian had the grace to laugh.
They enjoyed a lovely meal. Snails followed by steak Diane set flaming in the pan, and a fine old Bollinger to drink it all down. Scarlet thought one glass was all she could manage – after all her abstemious days, wine seemed to soar straight to her head.
Ian talked about all the new people he was meeting – important people with “royal connections” looking to him to “set the tone.” “They’re planning to really build me up!”’
The champagne gave him the confidence to say, “Margalo really has no idea of quality. I believe I could sell them any damn thing. We should tart up your verse play and pretend we’ve just discovered it.”
“Margalo?” asked Scarlet sharply. She ordered coffee with her cheese. Café americaine.
They served espresso instead. Oh well, thought Scarlet, I don’t want to fall asleep immediately anyway.
“Margalo Chalmers,” said Ian. “She’s the one who hired me. Don’t be jealous Scarlet old girl, she’s an unspeakably hideous old lesbian.”
Scarlet knew there was no guarantee whatever that this was true. Margalo was doubtless a perfectly presentable thirty-five-year old businesswoman. Ian had probably flirted with her shamelessly. Scarlet accepted the driving duties as they tottered, flushed, out into the night.
Fern’s Mom – who seemed to have commandeered the baby care – said she thought Nick’s diaper rash was “keeping him awake” and she had “taken the liberty” of applying some ointment the locals swore by. Scarlet sniffed at Nicholas like a mother wolf – she couldn’t help herself – had these people “altered” her child? She thought it much more likely that Nick was exhausted from being passed around to strangers when he should be getting his rest.
The “baby minders” were thanked and coins changed hands, then just at the door Ian announced, “Scarlet’s going up to town –“
“I don’t know,” Scarlet interrupted almost ferociously. “We’ll see.”
As Ian helped her and carrycot into the car he said, “See what problems you make for yourself? That nice lady would love having a “babby” to look after!”
Scarlet hissed at him angrily. “They won’t even tell us what they used to treat our child! Could be deadly nightshade for all you know.”
“Hardly, if all the locals have been using it for years. There can’t be anything dangerous in the preparation or it would never have lasted this long. Naturally they keep their secret recipes proprietary. You should consider partnering with Mrs. Mugle to sell Failsafe Babby Ointment to every woman in Britain – that would be a lot more lucrative than verse plays.”
There was so much umbrage to take at this sentence Scarlet didn’t know where to start, so she chose the better path and said nothing. By the time they got home she would hopefully be calmed down enough to get their “special evening” back on track.
“What I hear you saying,” Ian went on in his most reasonable-sounding way as the car rattled around the corner onto the main road, “Is that you need help but you also want to do everything yourself in your own way.”
Horribly, he was right. Her continued silence would sound like sulking.
“I’m the one who chose Mrs. Mugle,” she said. “At least let’s see if this magic ointment really works before we try her again.”
But if she asked Mrs. Mugle to put aside her own maternal instincts how good a job of baby-minding could she possibly do? Resentment and secrecy must follow any such request. Anyway, Scarlet had really signed on for the services of Fern – who had been nowhere in sight. Scarlet feared these local coven mothers with their unscientific, outdated superstitions. She couldn’t be too careful with her only child.
“Americans fuss too much over their children and then they all grow up weak, delinquent and neurotic,” Ian accused comfortably. “In our country, we don’t believe in all this indulgence and fetishizing.”
Once again Scarlet could barely control herself. Who could possibly be more neurotic than any aristocratic twit nursing his entitlement or for that matter an Angry Young Man seeking fame by proclaiming his grievance? But she knew she couldn’t say this – Ian would only tell her she didn’t know anything about it and the fight would be on. That was NOT her plan for the evening.
“I’m bushed,” said Ian, pulling off his tie as she tucked Nicholas into his crib. “I’ll take the guest bath.”
She heard the water running, but she also heard voices. Creeping down the hall she saw he had taken the hall telephone into the bathroom with him and closed the door.
Who could he possibly be calling at this hour? Margalo? Candi? Someone she didn’t even know about? This was insufferable. She’d bitten her tongue all evening, now secret phone calls were too much. The moment for intimacy with her husband– on this night of nights – had passed. Intimacy with her son was all she had left. Too bad her milk seemed to have dried up.
Alysse Aallyn 
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