That was how Scarlet, gardenia scented and comfortable in a warm dressing gown, came to be curled up in bed over a tray of hotpot and pie while Enid toasted bread over a roaring fire. Enid had divided the “magic wine” between their glasses.
“I hear there’s plenty more where this came from,” she colloquialized while Scarlet laughed.
“Feeling better now?”
“Strangely wonderful,” said Scarlet, “Being Pom’s friends guarantees us the best solicitor, and belonging to the Norfolk Crescent Irregulars somehow protects against fear itself.”
“Power of groups,” Enid suggested. “Finding one’s footing among the right people.”
“It’s a paradigm shift, Pom says. I so naively assumed – I don’t know how to explain this – that Ian was always right. It sounds shamefully stupid but in the old US of A girls are trained to mold themselves to the man. It’s his desires, his personality, his future that’s important. We turn ourselves into a sort of mush. We become strangers to ourselves.”
“It isn’t only in America,” said Enid.
“Looking back on it, I can hardly believe it was me, agreeing to move into that ridiculous old house in the country. But he bought it without telling me – putting it in his own name, also without telling me – and he wanted it so badly! How was I to know he planned only to park me there?”
“It’s the English way – country life and city life – and trust me, they have a whole third life “abroad.” My husband seems to think that around foreigners, Englishmen can degrade others without degrading themselves – some leftover right of empire, I suppose. Their obvious theory is that no one will ever believe anything foreigners say.”
“Horrifying! But it isn’t just the Brits – seems to be the colonizing impulse,” Scarlet considered. “It’s always an excuse to degrade people.”
“And here’s resources at home – as Esme shows us – so poorly managed they’re going to waste! This big house!”
“It’s the same thing at the publishers. Their focus was on degradation, never improving or lifting-up. Can it be that only women know how to share?”
Enid changed course on her second glass of wine.
“Do you think you’d still be together if it weren’t for that property purchase?”
“Actually, no. I don’t even have that much comfort. Now I can clearly see that Ian’s been looking for a way to become Machiavelli’s Prince ever since college. What I regret most is that I thought it was sexy. I thought it made him a prize. Everyone congratulated me on winning the trophy. Turned out to be a booby prize and I was the booby.”
“I’ve said the same exact thing to myself a hundred times,” Enid agreed. “Colin was shopping for a booby! We mustn’t be so hard on ourselves. I was trying to please my parents,” said Enid. “In my day, they kept us so sexually ignorant we studied flowers to earn about marriage! My parents were panicking about finding a man who could reliably launch their grandchildren into the correct class. To them, Colin seemed to be “the one”. I felt nothing when he kissed me, but everyone told me that was because I wasn’t making myself pleasing or exciting enough.
Colin wasn’t interested in my body. I never claimed to be Brigitte Bardot, I hated being pawed, so I thought I had finally found a man in control of his desires. He was so uninterested in sex that conceiving each child was a full-scale battlefield campaign – you can’t imagine.” Enid shook her head. “We were both pretending. Operating on rote.”
“I hope he’s a better father than he was a husband,” said Scarlet.
“To my amazement, he can be. He was very unenthusiastic at first – really didn’t want to accept parenting status, much less become a grandparent. But kids are so winning. They kept bringing him interests to share and he enjoyed widening their world. That part’s been wonderful. And they were at school so much they missed seeing the worst of it. I think having the lawyers lay out clear guidelines will be good for Colin’s relationships. But now, without him to punish me, I punish myself over perpetuating my parents’ mistakes. But our children’s marriages seem solid so far – and much more grounded emotionally.”
“You’re right about being too hard on ourselves. We should be congratulating ourselves that we got out of it!”
“Seen the light, as the preachers say,” agreed Enid. “We do seem to be very lucky just now, all of a sudden.”
“Serendipity, they call it,” Scarlet agreed, touching her sore face. Enid winced empathetically. “Do you suppose good fortune like that was always there and we simply didn’t know how to find it?”
“To some extent,” said Scarlet. “The nanny agency rejecting to represent the exact sort of person I actually needed for the job probably happens all the time. But someone like Miss Bottomley winning the tontine – surely that sort of good fortune is very rare.”
“Pom’s right about the paradigm shift,” Enid nodded. “It depends how you look at things. Fingers crossed that our luck holds out.”
As they crossed fingers, Scarlet thought, it all depends on whether the police can talk any sense into Ian.
“What I know for certain,” Scarlet averred, “Is that your hotpot is perfection.”
Outside the first flakes were starting. The sharp air caught in Scarlet’s throat. Baby Nick’s breath came in short puffs. She saw nobody walking in the street at all.
That’s paranoia for you, she thought. Being scared of people who aren’t there because of people who are there. She resolved to walk to the grocery store like someone with a right to exist and to move freely, and not like a fearful, naughty schoolgirl playing hooky. But as soon as she turned the corner a man leaped out of the shadows and a hand grabbed her. It was Ian.
“You almost frightened me to death!” she barked. “You’re not supposed to be here – I have a non-molestation order against you!”
“If I didn’t know it was you – if you insist on creeping about in disguise – how can that be my mistake?” He was unshaven, his eyes terrible. She felt a stab of fear over so much anger. This side of the building was virtually an alley – she should never have taken it but gone the long way around. No one would see her or help her if she needed it.
She tried acting brave, and didn’t address his implication that he might have thought he was grabbing Enid.
“Now that you know, leave me alone.”
“But this court order, Scarlet! What are you playing at? That I’m a danger to you, to our son?” Her heart smote her – this would always be her Achilles’ heel. She could never believe he’d hurt Nick. On the other hand, she knew he was desperately committed to getting whatever he wanted when he wanted it – he would be careless of Nick and all too ready to entrust his child to God knows who. And there had been a day – not so long ago, either – when she would have sworn he would never hurt her. How wrong that had been!
The best defense was offense. “You put Candi in the hospital!” she accused.
“It was nothing but a couple stitches. She was in and out. I was only trying to stir up a bit of excitement – that woman’s like a planked fish in bed.”
“You moved her into Wyvern because you’ve got a yen for fish?”
Ian tightened his hold on Scarlet. “She quit her job! Her husband threw her out after she told him I raped her – I had to figure out some way to shut her up.” His eyes boiled at her – he did look dangerous.
“Well that didn’t work – she followed you to London and threatened me.”
“You’re joking. I don’t believe you.”
Still, he didn’t release her. The greatcoat was so huge he couldn’t really hurt her but simply blocking her motion, imprisoning her, made her feel panicky. She tried shaking him off. “And who’s that I hear about living in the flat?”
He relaxed into his first smile. The old Ian. But it was a wicked grin.
“I knew this was all about jealousy! Relax, Scarlet, you’ll always be my number one! Don’t we need a nanny? She’s a nice country girl with a modest little job who needed a place to stay and who is used to caring for brothers and sisters. If you decide you don’t like her, say the word and she’ll be gone.”
“We need to make decisions through our solicitors,” said Scarlet, trying to push the stroller on. She didn’t want to call his attention to the fact that he hadn’t glanced at his son – but it was informative – and she refused to surrender to his clutches.
Ian shook his shaggy head. He needed a haircut. Maybe he was going for the look of one of the teddy boys at the Aldershot Palais.
“Scarlet, you’re being ridiculous! You’ll beggar us and nobody wins! If you insist on divorce, all right, but let me see my son! Stay out of my sex life and I’ll stay out of yours. Don’t make me show MY photographs of YOUR boyfriend!”
“I don’t have a BOYFRIEND. Pom is a FRIEND. My employer is employing him to do a job of work. If you’re willing to get the divorce all you have to do is tell Jellicoe. We’ll meet formally, iron out visitation, the lot. Don’t spring at me in alleys.”
But he didn’t let her go, and he didn’t look at their son. Instead he pushed her against the wall and began passionately kissing her.
“Oh Scarlet,” he moaned, “I’ve missed you so much. None of them are any good. No one’s got your spark. Don’t make me travel to America for a replacement! Come back to me, or if you won’t, at least give me husband’s privileges. Do you know how long it’s been?”
She did know. She had reason to know that it was longer for her than for him. She twisted her mouth away but he crushed her lip with his teeth. Horribly he scrabbled at her clothing – she felt helpless – thinking –this must be what it feels like to be raped. She was powerless – he was so strong, swarming over her, pushing her right up against the stone wall. He found the police whistle and seemed to back up a little, pulling it up to his eye line so he could see what it was. “What’s this then?” He asked. “Gift from your admirer?”
She snatched it from him and blew. The sound was earsplitting. He staggered away, pointed angrily at her and disappeared around the back of the building.
Scarlet reversed course and rushed back to the front door of 14 Norfolk Crescent. Her thoughts were jumbled and crazy – where was that detective? How about HER detective? Why was nobody taking pictures of THIS? Where was ANYBODY – she certainly had seen no policemen. But Ian seemed to believe that someone might come and that was good enough. She guided the pram up the steps and into Miss Bottomley’s front hall. She threw off the already unbuttoned greatcoat in a frenzy, stripping mitten and hat. Voices still came from the dining room so she pushed the pram towards the kitchen and through the swing door into the warm fug of the friendly room. Nick howled lustily.
“Ian attacked me,” Scarlet gasped, falling into a chair.
Enid’s face went white. “We’ve got to go to the police!”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m – afraid.” Scarlet burst into tears, laid her head on the table and wept.
“At least we must call them.” Enid scrabbled for the phone.
“Your police whistle saved me. Give me the phone.”
Enid comforted Nick.
Scarlet called D’Arcy instead.
“It’s an emergency.”
Gotobed the clerk put him right on the line.
“Ian attacked me,” said Scarlet, trying to control her voice. “I was walking Nick, he pushed me up against a wall and started kissing me and tearing at my clothes.”
“Oh, my God!” said D’Arcy. “How did you get away?”
“I blew a police whistle.”
“Well that was fortunate. Do you need a doctor?”
Scarlet felt her lip. It was swelling, but no blood.
“I don’t think so. Swollen lip.”
“Can you make a police report?”
The thought of leaving the house made tears spring to her eyes once again. “No, I don’t want to.” “I can do it for you. May I send Gotobed over to photograph your face? He’ll take the particulars.” Scarlet turned this over in her mind. Gotobed was a sweet, elderly man – could she speak to him about this?
“All right.”
“Very well then. He’s a cab ride away.”
She hung up the phone feeling better while Enid alternated between taking pies out of the oven and serving strong mint tea.
“I didn’t get your lemon curd,” she sniffed, “But your police whistle saved me.”
“Thank God for that! Did a bobby respond?”
Scarlet shook her head and sipped her strengthening tea.
Gotobed arrived with a huge accordion camera and took a couple of snaps. Scarlet was so embarrassed she kept her eyes closed. Apparently, there were also red marks on her throat – bruises developing.
“The man must have been mad,” said Gotobed.
“Have you ever been married?” asked Scarlet, instantly regretting the question as Gotobed’s face closed up.
“I have not been blessed,” he sniffed.
“Who would care to be blessed by THAT?” asked Enid, lightening the moment as she placed a plate of fragrant mince pie in front of Gotobed.
Gotobed produced a notebook. “When was this incident precisely?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” said Scarlet. “I was taking Nick on a walk to Sawditch’s to get lemon curd for Enid here and as soon as I rounded the corner – around to the right side there’s sort of an alley – he was on me.”
“What did he say exactly?”
She tried to remember while Gotobed wrote.
“He was angry about the non-molestation order. I told him he shouldn’t be there – we needed to let the solicitors decide and he said they would beggar us. I said something about him putting Candi in the hospital and he said she was terrible in bed.”
“He said that?” Enid gasped, then as Scarlet flushed said, “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t be listening.”
Scarlet placed a restraining hand on her arm. “No. Stay.”
Mr. Gotobed said, “You have to stay. We need a second witness.”
“Then he started kissing me, backed me right up against the wall. I was trying to twist my face away and he unbuttoned my coat and found the police whistle. While he was trying to figure out what it was I grabbed it out of his hands and blew it. He ran away. He never even looked at his son! Nick was right there!”
Gotobed offered her statement for her to sign. “If you’ll just sign on the witness line, Mrs. Rumson? I’ll take this complaint around to the police and they’ll pick him up. Best pie I’ve ever tasted – ” he added, eying his half-eaten piece regretfully. “But I must be going.”
“Of course,” Enid agreed. “Shall I wrap some up for you? No? Well, come back any time.”
He insisted on taking another snap of Scarlet’s face – “It’s darkening up –“ he commented – before he left. Scarlet took Nick gratefully from Enid and buried her nose in his sweet neck..
A bell rang from the dining room.
“Their tea needs freshening,” said Enid, preparing a tray.
Scarlet was not able to get up the stairs without Miss Bottomley seeing her.
“Scarlet! What happened to your face?”
Bob Thomas’ concerned features appeared behind her.
“Ian – my husband – attacked me. Mr. Gotobed’s taking my complaint to the police. I’m going to lie down.”
Mr. Gotobed emerged from the kitchen, putting on his hat.
“Just the man,” said Mr. Thomas. “Mrs. Bottomley’s business also requires a witness.”
“Should I stay?” Scarlet asked unwillingly.
“No. Gotobed can do it. You go lie down.”
“Won’t the police want to speak to me?”
“Not till tomorrow.”
Nick started his caterwauling again – it was hard for Scarlet to surrender him to Enid but she knew the best thing for her now was a hot bath. Thank God for mothers’ helpers. Every woman needs several, to Scarlet’s way of thinking. She went right upstairs and sank gratefully into a hot tub liberally laced with aromatic gardenia bath salts. Once she was dry she took a sleeping pill. When she awoke it was dark outside. “Turning night into day,” she thought. “Now I’ll be up forever.”
She went into the bathroom. Her own face in the mirror terrified her – was that a BITE? She had no recollection of Ian’s teeth but he had kissed so forcefully she finally understood the term “masher.” This would take more cover-up and concealer makeup than Scarlet knew she possessed. In a way, it was a relief to see the dark bruising – it proved she wasn’t “making a mountain out of a molehill” as Ian doubtless would claim.
There was a knock on the bathroom door. Scarlet opened it slightly to see Enid’s concerned face.
“May I bring up a bit of food after your bath?” she asked. “We could have dinner together.” “Dinner? Isn’t it after nine?”
“Miss Bottomley went to bed before dinner, she was so exhausted. She says she and Bob Thomas created four trusts!”
“Good heavens,” laughed Scarlet – “I’m tired just HEARING about it. What happened with the publishing?”
“She’ll be majority owner! Once again she’ll own the Miss Clew books!”
“That’s good news anyway.”
“I missed you both so much it really took the fun out of dinner. I ate cheese and crackers and put my nice hot pot aside. But here I am hungry again, and as you know, hot pot only gets better! And we have the rest of that lovely wine.”
“Well,” sighed Scarlet – “I don’t want you to take trouble –“
“Scarlet, there’s a dumbwaiter! As you very well know!”
They couldn’t finish the wine. To drink such wine just for the sake of drinking would seem sacrilegious. After a single glass each, Pom corked it,
“For Miss Bottomley’s breakfast.”
She giggled. “For our next celebration,” she suggested instead and Enid said, “Tomorrow night?” Pom rapidly found a working bulb and carried it down to the wine cellar. Scarlet remained at the top of the stairs, but once flooded with light, the cavern was not so intimidating.
“Look at this,” said Pom, struggling with an ancient door, “I wonder where this goes.”
“Let’s check by daylight,” Scarlet suggested. “I’m ready for coffee to clear my head.”
Miss Bottomley had gone to bed. Enid was tidying the kitchen while the dishwasher hummed.
Scarlet locked the wine cellar door carefully. “We’d better make certain this wine appears on the insurance inventory,” she said. “Must be worth a bundle.”
Enid poured out coffee. “I appreciated your toast,” she said. “I realized I should have toasted you for rescuing ME.”
“Miss Bottomley put her finger on it,” Pom agreed. “It was Rescue All Around.”
“To the Mutual Rescue Society and Norfolk Crescent Irregulars.” Scarlet lifted her mug. And they toasted their new affiliation with excellent espresso.
“Let me call you tomorrow after I’ve spoken to Kirby Crousam,” Pom told Scarlet as she walked him to the door. “He’s my man at the Albert and Victoria. I know enough to see I’m way out of my league here– we’ll have to call in the big guns.”
“Big guns indeed,” said Scarlet. “Tomorrow we’ve got the security people coming to look at Miss Bottomley’s setup.”
And, it would seem, not a moment too soon. They both saw the man who rushed into the phone booth as Pom climbed into his car. Darned detectives!
Scarlet was changing into pajamas when Nick woke, and she had the pleasure of giving him a bottle. Enid was dead to the world.
Palace Security – “by appointment to her Majesty the Queen” – showed up at precisely eight a.m. in the person of a Mr. Dyson who looked for all the world like a brigadier general. Turned out, he was retired British Army. Miss Bottomley was not awake but Scarlet walked them through the requirements.
“We need something easy that Miss Bottomley can master.”
Mr. Dyson’s eyes glittered. “How about a code? Such as banks use?”
“Perfect. I’ll ask Miss Bottomley for her favorite number.”
She was delighted to stun him with the sight of their new Cavern of Treasures.
“Good Lord,” said Dyson, “We’ll need a new door here. Something metal. Where does this go?” “Are you ready to find out?” asked Scarlet. “It will be news to me.”
Steps led up to the carpark. It was flimsily secured with a padlocked cellar entry.
“Well, I’m glad to see there’s some security,” said Mr. Dyson. “I suppose this is where the vintners brought in the casks. All this will have to be replaced.”
Enid rewarded him with a cup of Earl Grey in the kitchen. “I’d like to introduce a touchy subject,” said Scarlet. “We’ve already had a man try to gain admittance to the house through a ruse.”
“Shocking, but it makes no difference,” said Dyson, stalwart. “You’ve got an elderly lady sitting on a treasure house – just a matter of time before the cons look to test it. I’ll put a bodyguard on. You’ll like him – easy fellow. The front’s a fast job – can be over in a morning – but the back will take a week. And we’ll have to secure all these windows. The bodyguard can vet the workers for you, make certain everyone’s who they say they are.”
“Perfect,” said Scarlet.
After he’d gone, Enid commented, “Is it the divorce causing these ructions?”
“I’ll say,” said Scarlet. “We’ve both hired detectives.”
Enid sighed. “Must be nice to be wanted.”
“It isn’t me he wants, it’s Nick.” Scarlet was aware as she said it that this wasn’t strictly true. Ian wanted something from Scarlet – but what was it exactly? Subjugation? Her admission that he was right and she was wrong? Her conversion to his double standard philosophy of male-female relations?
Bob Thomas showed up while Miss Bottomley was finishing her late breakfast.
“Only one glass of wine for me in future,” she said. “I’m not accustomed to getting so much sleep and feeling wuzzy next day. Show Mr. Thomas into the dining room.”
Since the dining room had no door to the hallway and their conversation could be heard all over the house Scarlet resolved to take Nick for a walk. It would be interesting to see who was spying on the property.
It was a chilly day with a promise of snow – mother and baby needed bundling up. At the door, Scarlet touched Enid’s heavy greatcoat and grey wool hat thoughtfully.
“Enid? May I borrow your outdoor things? I want to see if anyone follows me.” It seemed a less embarrassing excuse than, “My anorak no longer fits me” but it was none the less true. Enid emerged from the kitchen, her face pink from a morning of baking.
“Of course you may, if you promise to wear the police whistle you’ll find in my pocket! Clever girl! Can you pick up a jar of lemon curd for me at Sawditch’s?”
“Will do.”
It was a wonderful big greatcoat – impossible to tell what kind of body was underneath. In her nondescript wellies and hair tucked up into the wool hat, Scarlet could have been anyone – male or female. To make the impersonation perfect she even slipped on Enid’s big gray mittens, much coarser – and less warm – than her own lambs’ wool lined leather gloves. Last of all she put the police whistle around her neck. Amusingly it made her feel less ridiculous when someone like Enid was taking extra steps to be so careful.
It turned out Pom had just the same idea. He appeared at the door – six o’clock exactly – with a bottle of good burgundy and a crop of invitations to upcoming gallery shows. “These belong on the mantelpiece,” said Miss Bottomley excitedly, using the scraps of pasteboard to ornament her previously under-used drawing room.
“I see what you mean about these paintings,” commented Pom, as he walked slowly around a large daub depicting haymaking. “This one’s so filthy they seem to be performing farm work after dark.” “What’s the point of cleaning them?” Miss Bottomley complained. “They’re SO hideous. Just get rid of them.”
“I think it’s a Stubbs,” Pom assured her. “Someone will want it. And this furniture is probably worth quite a bit of money,” he opined. “It looks original to me but I’m no expert.”
These dark, heavy furnishings represented the ugliest pieces of the Victorian era to Scarlet’s mind. The nice Directoire bits were all upstairs.
“We don’t care anything about money around here,” Miss Bottomley asserted loftily. “My man of business Mr. Bob Thomas assures me I have more than enough and can choose to suit myself and I say this room is too uncomfortable.” Scarlet couldn’t argue. It was a very cold room. “I prefer a good squashy chair from Heal’s. In a nice Liberty print.”
“You might enjoy looking at the beautiful rosewood tables and chairs made by Dansk,” offered Pom. “Very light and airy. I’ll take you any time you like. As for this stuff, I know a fellow at the Albert and Victoria who would offer an appraisal – they’d be delighted to have them if you don’t want to sell.”
Miss Bottomley’s face shone. “The Albert and Victoria Museum? That would be lovely! Would there be a plaque – “gift of Esmé Hope Bottomley? That sort of thing?”
“Certainly,” said Pom. “Exactly that sort of thing.”
Scarlet had one of those flashes of insight that seemed to come to her around Miss Bottomley.
“You could say on behalf of The Miss Clew Trust,” she offered. “Get a bit of free advertising.”
Miss Bottomley’s eyes closed in ecstasy as she clutched Scarlet’s arm.
“Well done!” she gasped. “You are a good, good girl. Hiring you was the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Everything in its proper place, isn’t that what Miss Clew always said?”
“She did!” agreed Scarlet. “When you put the pieces in their proper places, the meaning of the puzzle reveals itself.”
“I wrote that?” sighed Miss Bottomley. “What a clever, hopeful young woman I must have been.”
And at that very moment Enid announced dinner.
It was a rollicking evening of delicious food and pleasant company. Pom’s delicious burgundy was soon exhausted.
“You know, there’s a wine cellar downstairs,” said Miss Bottomley. “I’ve never been. The key is hanging behind the kitchen door.”
Scarlet was about to refuse further alcohol but when she saw the way Pom’s face lit up she knew they’d at least be obliged to take a look.
Hanging as it was beneath aprons, the key was difficult to find.
“Better take care,” Pom said as the tiny door squeaked open, “These steps look treacherous. I’ll go first.”
When the light switch failed to perform its job, Pom produced a pen light from his pocket allowing them to proceed downstairs. They were confronted by a cellar full of wine.
“Oh my God” said Scarlet at the sight of dusty racks going on forever.
“It’s like the treasures of the Thousand and One Nights,” said Pom and Scarlet added “With Miss Bottomley as our Sharhazad.”
She chose a bottle at random from the closest rack.
“Romanée-Conti. It’s a burgundy but I can’t see the year. Will this do?”
“I hope so,” said Pom. “I’ve never actually worried about being worthy of a wine before. In fact, I would have said such people are idiots. But that’s seems to be definitely what I’m feeling now.”
“I think it’s Miss Bottomley we have to struggle to be worthy of,” said Scarlet.
“You’re absolutely right. What a good way to put it.” He squeezed her shoulder.
“Is there is a store of electric bulbs anywhere?” Pom asked Miss Bottomley when they were back at the table.
“I’ve no idea,” Miss Bottomley replied.
“On the second floor are lots of unused lamps,” suggested Scarlet. “Some of them must have working bulbs.”
“There’s a good plan,” said Pom and Enid offered up her glass.
“I’ll drink to that.”
As Pom dusted the bottle he said, “1937. Let’s hope that was a good year for French reds.”
“Probably the last for awhile,” said Enid. “Considering what was going on in the rest of the world.”
He opened it with some ceremony, poured out a smidgen for Miss Bottomley and waited attentive as a sommelier.
She sipped.
“I’ve never cared for wine,” she said, “But this tastes lovely.”
It was. Rich and subtle, flavored with sunlight, the wine brought tears to their eyes.
Scarlet choked up.
“I’d like to toast our hostess,” she offered, rising to her feet.
“Oh please,” Miss Bottomley disparaged, “Don’t bother. You’ve brought me so much. I’m so proud to be the founding partner of the Norfolk Crescent Irregulars.”
Everyone laughed at this dedication but Scarlet pressed forwards.
“But I want to say it. I was at the worst time in my life – I couldn’t allow myself to think quite how bad it really was, because I had Nick to consider. And you – rescued me. Thank you.”
“Hear, hear,” said Pom and Enid seconded, “Aye, aye.”
Miss Bottomley’s cheeks were pink. “That three month trial period we discussed? Consider it over – you’re both hired as long as you care to stay, Enid and Scarlet. Think how you’ve helped ME! I was hiding in my kitchen – I think eventually I’d have signed any document Mr. Inkum put in front of me just to get rid of him – and the only thing that stirred me was the thought of my novels lying mangled and bloody two for a penny on a railway stall. And look where I am now!” She raised her glass. “Here’s to you! All three of you!”
Scarlet felt less surprised about the story Pelham had shared about some woman “setting up base camp at Ian’s town residence.” Too young and too footloose to be Margalo but Scarlet felt confident that the BBC doubtless pullulated with skimpily attired, pretty young things, all skimpily paid of course, in desperate need of a London bolt-hole with “all found”; girls who would adore offering comfort to a handsome, lonely man whose wife had abandoned him. What had Ian called them? Dolly birds? Unfortunately, judging by Candi’s hospital records, these poor women failed to reckon with just how “abandoned” Ian actually was!
A two storey “maisonette” (with balcony!) in central London – that girl probably felt fortunate indeed. He could have his cake and eat it too – nanny, housekeeper and girlfriend all mixed together! So probably unpaid? Worse and worse, poor thing. And it sounded just like Ian, thinking himself so clever for dangling before Scarlet just how easily and cheaply she could be replaced. The most bothersome aspect of all this news was how little it seemed he really knew the girl he had married! Scarlet found this new picture of Ian repellant rather than inciting. She couldn’t imagine Pom putting some girl in hospital!
But if she was honest with herself, hadn’t Ian’s aura of danger been a large part of his attraction when they were in college? She knew her rivals thought so. But around children such explosive potential seemed suddenly very unappealing. Maybe I just grew up, thought Scarlet.
Scarlet might be a mystery to her husband, but Scarlet felt she understood Candi all too well. It was Scarlet whom Candi yearned to supplant, Scarlet whom in fact she wanted to be. She had made that very clear in Foyle’s – she was angling to become Mrs. Wye. Poor Candi may have felt that throwing over her job and even being injured by him made Ian “owe” her something. Candi didn’t realize that it was Scarlet’s personal power that she envied, and not the power Scarlet acquired as a wife, if any. But it’s my “power” as a confident, educated woman with a sense of my own value, she thought.
Candi didn’t know herself – or Ian – or even marriage – well enough to realize she’d made the worst possible decision. Scarlet wondered if she should reach out to David Pourfoyle, Candi’s abandoned husband. He must be a wreck. In hindsight, all these actions and reactions seemed so easy to categorize. Look at the mistakes Scarlet herself had made – allowing herself to become the “country wife” – a benefit more honored in fantasy than reality. In Ian’s eyes women cheapened themselves by becoming “convenient”. And Candi hadn’t even insisted on a ring! How could she – married to someone else.
The phone rang again, and since Scarlet was sitting right there, she answered it.
“Er – Scarlet?” Pom’s unmistakable voice.
Scarlet felt an enormous gush of relief.
“It’s for me,” she said to Enid’s, “And who’s that now?”
Enid signed off with a harried, “Very well then.”
“Your life appears to be heating up,” said Pom. “Who was that, if I may enquire?”
“It’s a long story. I hired a nanny and she turned into a godsend. In fact, she’s been rather – taken over by Miss Bottomley.”
“So you’re still in nanny straits?”
“No, Mrs. Rumson can tackle both jobs – quite well, so far, I believe. She’s the most fantastic cook! Miss Bottomley’s eating like a rescued castaway.”
“Well, she really is one, isn’t she? Anyway, I phoned to say I’m back in town – Freddie did a bang-up job on my car – and wondered if we could dine? Or does divorce case forfend?”
I’ve got to get my emotions under control, thought Scarlet. She was rocketing between the ecstasy of seeing him again – the embarrassment of feeling the depth of that need – and her dashed hopes over Pelham’s lawyerly injunction.
She was rescued by a brilliant idea.
“I say,” she proposed, “What do you know about art?”
“A lot,” said Pom. “I hope.”
‘Would you be willing to do a job for Miss Bottomley?”
“Anything at all.”
“Why don’t you come to dinner tonight and make an aesthetic inventory of her paintings? She’s got a lot here.”
Pom sounded intrigued. “An aesthetic inventory?”
“Certainly.. She inherited all this stuff and she has insurance policies and inventories and that sort of thing, but she doesn’t care about these works and she never looks at them. Perhaps they would be better off in some museum and she could decorate her walls with…something more modern. Something of her own choice, that gives her meaning and pleasure.”
“Oh, I see. What a fun idea! I couldn’t charge money of course. This would be strictly friend-to-friend. I mean, otherwise my conflicts of interest would be too opprobrious.”
Scarlet laughed. “Too, too opprobrious.”
“Shall we say seven?”
“We’d better say six. There’s old ladies and infants to consider. Unless you can’t.”
“Oh, but I can.”
And just like that, Scarlet was happy again. Lovely Pom!
She found Enid and Miss Bottomley in the kitchen playing the card game “crazy eights.”
“I do love this game,” said Miss Bottomley enthusiastically.
Nick was just starting to fuss so Scarlet picked him up, snuffling up his delightful talcum-y smell. She was certain that he recognized her and was gazing up at her trustingly.
“I wonder if I might invite Pom to dinner,” she inquired shyly.
“Oh, your delightful friend! I do like him so.” Miss Bottomley smacked an eight down on the table and declared “Hearts. You’ll like him too,” she told Enid.
“Do you think he’d like spaghetti Bolognese?” inquired the chef.
“I know for a fact he loves anything Italian.”
“What fun!” exclaimed Enid. “Would you like me to take Nick?”
“No, I need fresh air. I think I’ll take him walking. Miss Bottomley, Pom is willing to take a friendly look at your pictures and perhaps suggest some moderns you might buy. Would you like that?”
“Scarlet, you have the best ideas!” declared Miss Bottomley. “These daubs are so DREARY. Do you know in my bedroom there was a picture of a cow. I ask you! Who would want a picture like that? I had it moved of course – exchanged for boring old flowers but that’s hardly better. It would buck everyone up to see a bit of color. The previous owner’s taste seems all dark green and mud brown. Dreadful stuff.”
And expensive to insure, thought Scarlet.
“I’m so glad you feel that way,” she said, taking Nick to get changed. “It would be fun looking for new stuff. Perhaps we could attend some openings and shows.”
“Auctions!” Miss Bottomley brightened. “Let’s go to auctions! Auctions are so thrilling, don’t you find?”
Mr. Gammel the bank manger had been appropriately primed. Scarlet opened a trustee account for her son and one for herself. She did feel relieved – and rich – as she pocketed her new chequebook, even though she had yet to actually get a paycheck. The thirty pounds deposited in each account – she only hoped Ian would cover the checks when they were presented and that depended entirely on his mood – could not yet be accessed.
Enid had prepared a lovely lunch – in the dining room for a change. Her eyes shimmered. “Salmon mousse!” she exclaimed. “Look how beautifully it came out. Miss Bottomley’s kitchen has every amenity – conveniences I’ve only heard about and am looking forward to discovering the use of. I’m having as much fun as a bride!”
In Scarlet’s memory, her “fun” as a bride was quite different, but Enid had spent her morning sorting pots and pans and implements in Miss Bottomley’s kitchen while Baby Nick waved his legs and the elderly author looked on, bemused.
“Nick was as good as gold. He had his bottle and now he’s having a sleep. I spoke to your lovely solicitor Mr. D’Arcy and he’s promising to set me right with my finances. It will be such a relief not to have to sound pathetic and uncertain when I speak to the children. My husband can well afford an adequate disposition.”
It was quite a Mediterranean lunch. Salmon mousse ornamented with black and green olives, a green salad with sliced tomatoes and buttered whole meal bread. Tea to drink – Miss Bottomley’s favorite Earl Grey. No alcohol in sight, Scarlet gratefully noted.
“Mr. Thomas seemed interested about our plan about investing in publishing,” said Scarlet succinctly, shaking out her napkin as she addressed Miss Bottomley. “He said you need another business!”
Miss Bottomley perked up visibly. “Isn’t it wonderful, being rich!”
The ladies agreed that it certainly seemed to be.
“He’ll do a bit of research and come by tomorrow afternoon to discuss it with you.”
“Good plan,” agreed Miss Bottomley. “Scarlet, how can I ever thank you enough? Enid, dear, will you mark it in my book? By the phone?”
Scarlet would have thought that keeping Miss Bottomley’s “books” was her job, but she didn’t argue. Perhaps it was best to see how things shook themselves out. After all, if Miss Bottomley really did buy a stake in Coltsfoot & Briggins, Scarlet might find herself working there. At least temporarily. Having Enid care for Nick and Miss Bottomley at the same time would clearly be the beau ideal. If, that is, she was trustworthy as she seemed. A big “if.” But she certainly appeared to be, so far.
Scarlet’s offer to do the dishes was roundly turned down.
“No, thank you,” said Enid. “I feel Miss Bottomley’s generous pay entitles me to make the kitchen my dominion. I don’t mind it a bit. In Morocco and India, we had servants and they wouldn’t let me do anything. I found it horribly frustrating. We have the most elegant commercial dishwasher and I’m dying to use it! Would you care for coffee?”
There seemed no point waking Nick merely to carry him upstairs so Scarlet took her coffee upstairs instead.
She was kicking off her shoes and looking forward to an exhausted nap when the phone rang. “Mr. Pelham D’Arcy for Mrs. Wye,” announced the careful clerk Mr. Gotobed. Enid came on the line.
“What is it?”
“It’s for me,” said Scarlet shortly.
“That’s all right then.” Enid hung up noisily.
“Good news about Mrs. Rumson,” said Pelham as soon as he took up the line. “I wanted to reassure you that Jim Bogswell made a couple of calls and there’s no black marks against her. I think you made a good hire. Nothing damaging known.”
Scarlet felt relieved to the point of tears. “That’s marvelous. You can’t think how knowing that relieves me. Mrs. Rumson’s doing such a fantastic job here – and Miss Bottomley’s having the time of her life. I would feel dreadful if I brought a wolf into the fold.”
“It seems the wolves are all outside,” Pelham warned sententiously. “We are numbering and fighting them off, one by one. Now, don’t ring off. Bogswell had some other news. It seems your husband has more than one girl-friend.”
That more than explained Candi’s anxiety! Apparently Candi’s upgrade to “house-help” created a vacancy! Now that the poor woman found herself in Scarlet’s old job, maneuvering her way around a prevaricating, untrustworthy male, she as being acquainted with the stresses and strains of the position. Scarlet’s conscience smote her – she hadn’t even mentioned Candi’s threat to Pelham. Should she bring it up now? But D’Arcy was in full cry.
“He’s got some woman staying at the flat. Bogswell’s trying to find out more about her.”
“That was quick work,” said Scarlet. “He only told me this morning he was just beginning the move in.”
“Taradiddle,” said Pelham shortly. “Our source says some young woman – early twenties – has established base camp.”
Well then why on earth had Ian invited her over? To make her jealous? She couldn’t put it past him. “And there’s more.”
“More girls?” No wonder Candi was feeling desperate!
“More facts. I believe I mentioned that Mrs. Pourfoyle gave up her employment and moved to Verne on Wye?”
“You didn’t say she’d quit her job!”
“Oh, yes. Gave in her notice. And she had –“ he cleared his throat – “A recent hospitalization.”
Scarlet couldn’t parse his heavy emphasis. “Some kind of miscarriage?”
“It seems,” Pelham said with the delicacy of an elephant, “She experienced a rupture.”
“A physical rupture?”
“Correct. Requiring stitches.”
Scarlet was imagining Ian had socked Candi in the eye when Pelham continued, “Er – gynecologically.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Precisely. Was your husband excessively adventuresome in the bedroom?”
“I believe I used the word “pushy”,” Scarlet said somewhat coldly. This was what people warned you about with divorce attorneys.
“Ah, yes. Forceful.” He seemed to be making a note. “Well, let me tell you this news puts our case in very good standing. We are certainly entitled to a no-contact order at the very least. I will notify you of further developments.”
“Thank you,” gasped Scarlet and fell back on her pillows, all chance of a nap gone. Would she ever sleep again? Poor Candi! Stitches! Hospitals! She would discover first-hand that Ian really had no sympathy for the sick, the disabled, or the “hors de combat.” Candi was truly, now, a “whore de combat.”
Scarlet had never imagined feeling sorry for the woman, but it seemed her rival had unleashed a whirlwind. This was a vision of the country gent as member of the Hellfire Club. Could it be that Ian divided “wives” and “girlfriends” so thoroughly in his own mind that it liberated his aggression if the woman had no legal claim on him? If so, poor Candi! She seemed like the unlucky sorcerer’s apprentice who couldn’t manage her own spell and was now being threatened by her own creation. In which case, why not wash her hands of him? Militate for a better position? But how could she when she had given up both husband and job?
In fact, it was apparent to Scarlet that now that Candi had given up her London work she was dramatically worse off – at Ian’s mercy in fact. How could Candi have not foreseen this? She had always bragged about her gallery job as if it were a wonderfully lucky break. Plainly she considered Ian an even luckier break, only to discover the man was all smoke and mirrors. What was the matter with women?
At the center of all this was Ian, wreaking havoc and feeling entitled to wreak more. In a way, this piece of unholy medical information erased much of Scarlet’s guilt over a “non-contact” order. She needed to come out the other side, with a good arrangement to focus Ian’s good behavior around his own son, as well as terminating Scarlet’s dependence on such an undependable man.
D’Arcy, too, suggested she sit and helped her off with her coat – probably thinking the sweat on her forehead meant she was overheated instead of merely tense. He closed the door behind her with a conspiratorial air.
“Your husband has acquired an attorney,” he said. “Really it could not be better for us. He seems to have instructed a Mr. Jellicoe, who shares offices with his detective.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “It sounds to me as though the cart was driving this particular horse, and we all know what is the result when THAT happens.”
“It sounds horrible,” said Scarlet faintly. “I can’t imagine.”
“Disaster, my dear Mrs. Wye, disaster. I suspect here we have the client who thinks he can manage his solicitor – NEVER a good idea.” He looked repressive. That’s Ian for you, thought Scarlet. He considers himself the smartest man in the room.
“I saw Ian this morning,” she interjected. “His showed up unexpectedly at Norfolk Crescent. To take the car.”
Pelham’s eyebrows knit worriedly but he said nothing.
“That was all right with me,” she hurriedly asserted – “I don’t want it and he’s moving into the BBC flat. I told him in future he should make an appointment. Say, to see Nick.”
“Naturally,” Pelham agreed. “Mr. Jellicoe and I will iron out a schedule. Until we have I suggest you inform your husband there will be no visitation. I will be serving Mr. Jellicoe with our Notice of Potential Harm to a Minor Child.”
He’ll love that, thought Scarlet.
“Have you been to the bank?”
Scarlet looked guilty.
“Not yet.”
“You really need to set that up account. Planters Bank around the corner is the one we use. Would you like me to instruct Mr. Gammel, the bank manager?”
“I wish you would,” said Scarlet hopefully. If there was any way to make this rough course smoother, she would take it.
“I’ll give him a call. Do step round and ask to see Mr. Gammel at conclusion of our business. Should I know any more about this surprise meeting with Ian?”
Should I mention Candi? Wondered Scarlet. The fact that Ian insisted he wouldn’t be getting a divorce. But she couldn’t see how that would help.
“He invited me to help him move into his flat. I declined but I offered to help with a room for Nick. Should I mention the nanny? Could he use mine? My new nanny’s that new client I told you about – the one with the Foreign Service husband. How should I handle this?”
“Ah, Enid Ransom.” Pelham D’Arcy gave a wolfish grin. “We have a lovely case there. Mrs. Ransom will be coming into a tidy sum. I hope that won’t interfere with her need for employment. It would be too cruel if your good interventions deprived you of a nanny.”
“I doubt it,” said Scarlet. “Miss Bottomley also hired her as a cook – I think both of them are having the time of her lives. And Norfolk Crescent’s a most comfortable place to live.”
D’Arcy assumed a serious mien, “Mrs. Wye, I cannot emphasize strongly enough that you NOT go to your husband’s flat. You simply cannot be alone with him. If he assaulted you before the separation is final, such are the marriage laws in this country, we could not prosecute a rape. It would be assumed to be consensual. Every conjugal act sets us back to the beginning of the process, as if you had accepted and forgiven him.”
Scarlet felt faint. Rape as a method of subjection! Like a cruel colonial power subduing recalcitrant populations.
“I did think my husband had some ulterior motive inviting me,” she gasped nervously. “I can’t believe he would be…force me.”
Pelham looked alarmed. “Let’s not wait to find out what he does when he feels desperate,” he insisted, “But assume at the outset that if the worst is possible, the risk is unacceptable.”
Just what Miss Clew would recommend! Thought Scarlet. She began to see the possibility for a new book: Miss Clew’s Advice to Young Girls. Always carry a hatpin would be Precept #1! In spite of the general tension, she giggled.
Pelham D’Arcy pulled out the brandy bottle. Evidently, he considered his client on the verge of becoming hysterical. It had probably happened many times before.
“I’ll do as you suggest,” Scarlet agreed hastily, but declined the brandy. It was eleven thirty in the morning, and on an empty stomach, brandy probably promoted hysteria.
“Have there been occasions in the past” – D’Arcy gasped, pouring himself a snifter, “I realize I should have enquired earlier – when your husband has been – punitive?”
Scarlet blushed uncomfortably. “He is customarily quite pushy,” she said finally. “He hasn’t had occasion to feel…deprived. I was the one being deprived…as soon as he got a girlfriend.”
Pelham tossed back his brandy. Obviously he found discussing marital intimacies the toughest part of his job.
“Live and learn,” he said finally. “We frequently handle suits for restitution of conjugal rights and I confess I usually consider the problem from that point of view. But given the situation, you must have nothing to do with your husband. Consider yourself at risk. Any further questions?”
“No. Thank you very much – for all you have done.” I’ll get right over to the bank.”
She left as Pelham D’Arcy was placing his call to Mr. Gammel.
Dr. Spock’s Commonsense Book of Baby and Childcare was in the Medical section. She was immersed in its pages, reading almost in a state of bliss the doctor’s opinion that mothers were always the best judges and should “follow their instincts” – God Bless America! – when her elbow was roughly grabbed, and she was jerked around face to face with Candi Pourfoyle.
Candi looked terrible. She seemed to have given up the Cleopatra eye makeup, instead wearing peculiar white eyeliner and white lipstick that only made her sleepless face look bonier – positively skeletal.
Her voice was rough as she pulled Scarlet closer.
“Why don’t you just give him up?”
Scarlet studied her pityingly. “I have given him up.”’
“Then divorce him.” There was a definite note of desperation in Candi’s voice now as she scrabbled for a tissue in her bag. Scarlet saw pill bottles.
“I AM divorcing him,” said Scarlet, “You must speak to Ian. He’s the one who doesn’t want a divorce.”
Candi’s face collapsed before this terrible truth. She smeared her makeup with the tissue as she dabbled at her eyes. This was a far cry from the confident seductress who’d visited Wyvern a few short weeks before. Was this what Ian did to women? Or was this what Ian so, so subtly suggested women should do to themselves?
Scarlet pulled away from this depressing spectre, fearing that she herself had looked like this, only days ago.
“He says he can’t divorce you,” gasped Candi. “I’m warning you, you can’t get away with that.”
“You can stop worrying,” Scarlet told her. “Whether Ian likes it or not, we are definitely getting a divorce.”
It’s none of my business if he lies to his girlfriend, she thought, stepping with relief into a stream of foot traffic headed for the cashier’s box. She would expect nothing less of the new Ian she had come to know. He said whatever was convenient for the moment, but made no effort to bring his lies into a consistent story. And soon she was once again free, outside in the brisk London December, clutching her parcel, signaling a cab and giving the address of her solicitor.
Bob Thomas immediately poured her out a welcoming cup of tea, ushered her into a chair and acted as if he had all the time in the world.
“Miss Bottomley hired me to help edit her novel series,” she told him. “I wonder whether you know that.”
His broad face expressed confusion. “It wasn’t mentioned,” he said shortly. Scarlet was not surprised that poor Miss Bottomley had not thought to mention her authorship of a long sold series as any part of her current assets.
“Our Miss Clew – published sixty years ago? I don’t know if you recollect the titles.”
“Ladies novels?” His face became if anything more impassive. “I’m sorry, no.”
Scarlet thought of David Pourfoyle’s enthusiastic recommendation, which had started her on the long path leading her to this very office, but she couldn’t explain it to Mr. Thomas. Instead, she shared with him just the facts he needed to know.
“Let’s say they are highly regarded by the literati. Miss Bottomley was forced by pecuniary imperative to sell the series to Coltsfoot & Briggins, Publishers, forty years ago and now they are suggesting an updated re-issue. Miss Bottomley doesn’t trust them to edit the series – er – respectfully, you understand – and suggested she submit her version first, to which they agreed. I went to see Mr. Mountjoy yesterday and we had what I can only describe as a ghastly meeting. He showed me other series they have done – Rod the Spy if you recognize that –“ horrifyingly, his face lit up. It seemed that he did. She took a strengthening cup of tea and pressed on in spite of the fact that she feared this was about to go all wrong.
“And I came away with no faith whatever that these publishers are going to preserve any of the wonderful charm and special interest of those books – which I may say are personally beloved by many, many people, including me.”
Luckily, he didn’t insert a dismissive comment. His attentiveness emboldened her. She sharpened her point. “I also noticed that these particular publishers seem to be in dire need of cash.” Mr. Thomas said, “Most publishers are. Dicey business, publishing. They’re in the fashion business more than anything.”
Scarlet felt cheered and suitably strengthened. “When I returned to Norfolk Crescent, I told Miss Bottomley I thought she ought to buy an equity stake in those publishers and bring out her books her own way. She was delighted with the idea.”
At last Bob Thomas slid a memorandum pad towards himself and began taking notes.
“Capital idea,” he said. “Miss Bottomley sorely needs a losing business. All her current rentals are bringing in money hand over fist. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I make some preliminary inquiries – sound them out so to speak to see what such a stake might cost without letting out who wants to know, and when I see Miss Bottomley tomorrow afternoon – I’m coming by tomorrow afternoon with some documents for her to sign – she can let me know how she wishes to proceed.”
“Marvelous,” said Scarlet, rising immediately, “She’ll be so pleased. I can’t thank you enough.”
Really, she was just grateful he hadn’t thrown her out on her ear. I mean why on earth should this solicitor discuss Miss Bottomley’s business with her?
As she was putting on her coat Pelham D’Arcy thrust his head around his door.
“Mrs. Wye, could you stop by for a moment?” he requested. “I’ve got something I’d like to discuss.”
His face was all smiles. He was looking very smart and every bit the country squire in green coat and moleskin breeches. She was glad she’d taken care with her own appearance, but she couldn’t disguise her dismay at the sight of him.
His arms moved to hug her but she refused to halt her stride and so he fell into step beside her. “I’ve come to pick up the car,” he began, and she cursed herself for not having thought of it. “It’s around back,” she told him ungraciously.
“You don’t want a car in London,” he said, “The parking alone is a nightmare.”
And Candi must want the car in the country, thought Scarlet, but she managed to say nothing. Ian fell openmouthed at the sight of the large cobblestoned back court of Miss Bottomley’s residence. Parking was clearly no problem.
“You’ve certainly fallen on your feet,” he murmured. There was enough room for ten cars.
“You’re right,” she said, unlocking the car, “I don’t want a car in London.”
He stood awkwardly by the driver’s side.
“I just wanted to see where you live and perhaps catch a glimpse of Nick.”
Her heart smote her. She should have been ready for this! If she had walked through the kitchen to reach the back court instead of out of the front door she would have driven off without even seeing him! What would Enid and Miss Bottomley have done then? But it was no part of her plan to keep the child from his father.
“I really think you need to make an appointment,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat, “While things are so awkward. Anyway, I must be on my way – I’ve got to see my lawyer.”
She couldn’t resist this last.
“I’ll drop you,” he said amiably.
That would put her at the solicitor’s office far too early.
“I have to go to Foyle’s first,” she admitted so he said, “Get in. I’ll take you.” Mr. Bossy or Mr. Agreeable? She couldn’t be sure, because she no longer trusted him.
Into the silence he injected, “You’re looking well.”
“I’m feeling well,” she lied after her sleepless night. But she appreciated the compliment. I’m as starved as Miss Bottomley, in my own way, she thought. Lots of deprivation and loneliness going round.
“So…are you all moved in?” He made conversation.
“It was furnished,” she responded.
“And probably pretty well judging by the neighborhood.” He whistled. “How’s the editing job?”
She tried not to laugh. “It’s quite involving. Exciting and unexpected.”
He seemed amazed she’d acquired anything but drudge work.
“And the old lady? How’s she holding up?”
“I got someone to look after her,” said Scarlet, struggling not to sound smug but feeling it. Would he ask about the nanny? I mean, here she was, so SOMEONE must be looking after Nick. Did he understand? Did he care?
Apparently not. He evidently thought a house of old ladies and old lady minders could look after an infant. I despise this man, thought Scarlet a bit angrily. I actively despise him!
“Well, I’m moving into the BBC flat,” he said. “It’s dreadfully big for me.”
Should she remind him he needed a room for Nick and possibly for a nanny as well? She should ask Enid if she’d consider staying with Nick elsewhere. Would Nick be swarmed instead by Ian’s girlfriends – Scarlet felt certain that to the extent he thought about it at all, THAT was his plan, to fob Nick off on a series of impressionable girls. That wouldn’t do at all, but she knew Pelham would want her to say nothing. But there was SO MUCH she wanted to say! About his detective, for example! Trying to horn his way into Miss Bottomley’s! But she realized there was no point – he’d disavow knowledge, certainly. Anyway, why question a committed liar?
“Would you like to…help furnish the place?” He asked this respectfully, almost shyly. “I could use your assistance.”
Scarlet stared at him. He’d had plenty of ideas about Wyvern House! So why the sudden dearth – the need for her help and intervention now?
She experienced an unnerving thrill of power. Was that his goal? Or was he admiring her, courting her even, for refusing to lie down and accept ill treatment?
She hadn’t considered this possibility – that once she no longer wanted him he would want her again – but she realized she should have. It had been true of all her boyfriends in the past. Probably some quirk of the male character – they always wanted to be the one to walk away. “I’ll help you do Nick’s room,” she offered.
He pulled up to Foyle’s while traffic flowed around them. “This is fine,” she said, and jumped out of the car before he could argue. Parking really was a nightmare around Foyle’s – buses were everywhere. Once through the glass revolving door she watched him grinding gears as he swept into the roundabout. She wanted to make certain he was really gone.
And then she saw a redhead step out of a cab – a strawberry in sunglasses – surely that wasn’t Candi? It looked like her! She pulled away from the glass as if fearful of contamination.
When she opened the front door at Norfolk Crescent the delicious scent of roasting lamb assailed her nostrils at the same time as laughter struck her ears.
In the kitchen, she was surprised to encounter a mini-cocktail party – Enid chopping vegetables while Miss Bottomley looked on, enjoying a glass of red wine. Her withered-apple face glowed.
“I hope you had success?” she enquired. “Enid’s been regaling me with tales about Morocco.”
“There’s just a bit of hummus left,” said Enid. “Really you must try it.”
Scarlet was more interested in the wine.
“Sawditch is ordering couscous!” Miss Bottomley said. “Enid promises to cook us a mush-wee!”
“A meshwi,” Enid corrected, handing Scarlet a glass of wine. “How did your publishing encounter go?”
“Sadly, the man is a complete dunderhead,” said Scarlet, throwing the books on the table. “THIS is the sort of thing they publish! They expect us to accommodate ourselves to this ghastly drivel!”
Enid looked thoughtful but Miss Bottomley seemed so crestfallen Scarlet sat right down to comfort her before taking a single sip.
“They’re doing it for money,” she said. “They are on their beam ends – the place looks desperate – and remember, you are a very rich woman!”
Miss Bottomley’s face cleared. “Buy the series back? Of course!”
“These wonderful books deserve republishing, but I’m suggesting a lot more than that. What if you buy the publisher?”
Miss Bottomley looked appalled.
“Buy a PUBLISHER?”
“Your money is currently all in property, which you’ve stated you don’t really care that much about.”
“That’s true enough,” agreed Miss Bottomley. “But what if these dunderheads – as you call them – are correct and my books are such old hat no one will want them?”
“Impossible!” roared Enid and Scarlet enthusiastically together.
Scarlet said, ‘This Mr. Mountjoy is overlooking an entire market of mature women. They are the most enthusiastic readers of books, and Miss Clew has so much to offer them. Isn’t there a revival going on of the Golden Age of Crime?”
“But buying a whole publishing company – “
“Or you could simply become an investor. Bob Thomas will know how to set it up.”
Miss Bottomley’s face cleared. Obviously “Bob Thomas” had become a magic name for her.
“You’re right,” nodded Miss Bottomley. “Bob Thomas will know. Let’s call him.”
“Call him tomorrow,” said Enid, spilling wine on Rod the Spy as she swept him off the table.
“Dinner’s ready!”
The dinner was delicious enough, but for some reason Scarlet had trouble sleeping, and Nick, too was wakeful. Enid seemed to sleep like a rock – at least Scarlet didn’t hear her or encounter her on the way to the bathroom. That’s all right, thought Scarlet stolidly, I can handle the nights if Enid can handle the days. But she was worried. How did she know Enid was who she said she was? Even if her past was impeccable, what if she was, say, an alcoholic? Who had she really brought into Miss Bottomley’s home? She was surprised – shocked wouldn’t be too much to say – at the vulnerability of this old lady. She had handled the hiring of an editor much more expertly – though of course I think so, Scarlet admitted, because she hired me. Obviously, others might quibble.
Enid put Scarlet’s fears to rest in the morning with her vigor and drive. She made crepes with fresh fruit for breakfast – Miss Bottomley sat at the table expectant and eager as a child. Enid managed Nick and the cooking effortlessly enough, Scarlet had to admit. A pile of clean diapers was already whizzing around the modern dryer.
“Could you pick up a copy of Dr. Spock’s childcare book while you’re out?” Enid requested. “It had a wonderful recipe for infant’s milk I seem to remember. Probably get one at Foyle’s.” Any excuse to go to Foyle’s was welcome.
“I’ll take the afternoon,” Scarlet promised. “Pelham D’Arcy has an appointment available for you at three-fifteen.”
“That would be suitable,” Enid agreed. “I most concerned to protect the children from knowledge of – er – their father.”
“I’m sure your husband wants that too,” Scarlet comforted her, hoping it was true. Enid, who knew her husband best, didn’t argue.
Scarlet phoned Bob Thomas and asked if she could have a short word with him – he suggested she join him for his “elevenses.”
Scarlet dressed carefully, called, “See you later!” from the door and found herself out on a fashionable London street on a brisk winter’s day with the most blissful sense of freedom she had experienced since Nick’s birth.
Alysse Aallyn 