Scarlet took a long, thoughtful walk. She wanted to call Pom and thank him for sending her – by whatever circuitous route – to Pelham D’Arcy, but she needed to think over what had transpired. The one thing she found most distressing about the encounter was D’Arcy’s advice to avoid heart to hearts with her new best friend. Did telephone calls count?
She had the uncomfortable notion he’d tell her that they did – but she didn’t plan to inform on herself. Guilty conscience? Ian’s detective couldn’t be listening on phone calls – that was spy stuff. And how could she explain any of this to Pom without enmeshing him still further in the unpleasantness – think how embarrassing THAT would be. Suddenly her greatest fear seemed to be that Pom, simply because their timing was so “off”, would simply begin avoiding her – and then she would have no friends at all.
Shouldn’t she be wanting to discourage him? Maybe Ian was right about loving two people at once…in different ways. No, it was more than Ian used to be her confidante, her best friend, and he’d disqualified himself. Her loneliness felt unbearable.
But D’Arcy had flatly told her that any male confidante was dangerous. Intimacy of any sort might give Pom the wrong idea before Scarlet even knew what the “right idea” was. Yet what was the “wrong” idea when Scarlet was having so much trouble figuring out the simplest objective truth?
She resolved to send a nice long letter to India telling her the facts without any false shame. It was awkward considering the distance but maybe India could be her confidante. India had said she was contemplating a summer visit – perhaps she could be talked into moving up her dates.
By the time Scarlet checked her watch she was in a completely unfamiliar part of London and it was almost 3:00. This was Thursday – last day she could visit Mysterious Employer before the weekend. Checking in at a sweetshop for the nearest cab stand she was told, “I’ll call one for you, miss.”
She thanked the helpful man but the cab took fifteen minutes to arrive and Fitzrovia seemed far away. Scarlet was feeling increasingly desperate to the point where she had to force herself to stop checking her watch. As they pulled up to the address and she sorted out a payment the door of # 14 opened and an obviously irate man in a bowler hat and muffler stormed out clutching a dispatch case.
Scarlet buttonholed him – because what if he himself were The Mysterious Employer? She questioned, “Excuse me, but were you here about the job?”
“I don’t think there is a job,” he protested huffily as he stomped away. Having no time to think about it Scarlet rung the bell. The door was answered by a tiny, very old woman wearing a faded dress, a dirty apron and an annoyed expression. She seemed awfully old to be anyone’s housekeeper.
“I’m here about the job,” said Scarlet hopefully.
The furrows between the woman’s brows deepened.
“It’s almost four o’clock,” said the woman. “I was just about to have my tea.”
Although she looked like the housekeeper her voice was imperious. Scarlet jumped to conclusions.
“Don’t let me stop you,” said Scarlet, stepping boldly into the house, “I can tell you about my qualifications while you prepare.” “There’s only enough for one,” admonished the woman in a school- mistressy voice.
“Perfectly all right,” Scarlet lied desperately. “I’ve had my tea.”
“Very well then,” said the woman. “Follow me.”
She led Scarlet through several ornate reception rooms filled with magnificent Belle Epoque and Directoire furniture that seemed completely unused, as if this were some sort of museum. As they passed through the dining room Scarlet noticed papers on the table – this must be where candidates had been interviewed. The front door bell sounded again.
“Too late!” announced the woman triumphantly. “It’s four o’clock!” and they passed through baize swing doors into a small, muggy kitchen.
Scarlet asked Frankie to stop at the church so she could drop her package at the jumble sale. “And what is it, ma’am?” he inquired, eyes sharp.
She displayed Candi’s stained glass creation.
“Oh, that’s lovely, that is! See his fine red coat! Matches the foxes’ fur! I’d accept it in payment, ma’am, if you’d be willing. I’d be proud to put it in the window of the garage.”
Scarlet thought that would be perfect. So pleasant to imagine Candi coming to town, stopping at the garage and seeing her own handiwork showcased between the neon, the Michelin man and the Pirelli tire girls.
“Excellent,” she said.
Pelham D’Arcy was a youthful man trying to make himself seem older – or so Scarlet assumed – by dressing and posing as some kind of a revenant from the nineteenth century. He had the most extraordinary moustache – as carefully trained as a miniature bonsai bush – and he had a way of stroking it when speaking which meant Scarlet couldn’t take her eyes off it. He first apologized that he handled marriage contracts as a usual matter, but he did have a “small” practice in divorce. “Marriage contracts?” Scarlet collapsed exhausted into a chair, feeling that if she had any strength left she would just walk out of there. Marriage contracts? And I there was I, innocently thinking wedding vows would cover everything! Ian had promised before God to cleave to her before all others, to worship her body with his body until death did them part. If a man was ready to go back on THAT, what help could a contract possibly be? She feared the worst about all solicitors, but at this particular moment she was far too dispirited to seek further. She summoned up as much energy as she could manage and asked a question.
“What good is a marriage contract?”
“Well, I am afraid that under our laws the wife and children are entitled to only one third of the husband’s income,” he confirmed. “Any income she makes would be added to that pool – she still gets only a third. A marriage contract would guarantee that in the event of – er, negative outcomes – the wife gets a fairer disposition.”
Now she could see the point. Too late, of course. She explained her situation. “Plus, I don’t currently have any income,” said Scarlet faintly.
“What is your husband’s income, if I may ask?”
“I don’t really know,” Scarlet admitted. “He’s negotiated something with the BBC. It seems to include a flat.”
“Well that’s unfortunate,” said D’Arcy, “decidedly unfortunate. What’s to prevent them cutting you out?”
“Why would they cut me in? Are you saying the BBC would conspire with my husband to cheat me?”
“Goodness no,” he gasped, “I am saying no such thing. On the other hand, if your husband is seen as a desirable acquisition they will attempt to accommodate his needs. If not, they may of course, simply get rid of him. This is a most awkward time for the pair of you to decide that your marital difficulties are insoluble.”
Scarlet looked at his hands – no wedding ring to be seen – only a sizeable carnelian pinky ring that looked to have just been dipped in the red wax seal of some Top Secret document.
“I just gave birth to our first child,” she said as calmly as she could, “And my husband has announced that he has a girlfriend, he’s keeping his girlfriend and he will always have girlfriends. I don’t want to be in that kind of a marriage. If I get a separation, first, instead of a divorce, there’s a chance – just a possibility, mind you, that Ian will come back to sanity.”
It wouldn’t happen. She could no longer force herself to believe it this possibility. How could she ever trust him again? Wouldn’t he simply wait for the next time she was incapacitated and vulnerable to spring something similar – or something even worse, if that could even be imagined – upon her?
“I can’t recommend marital gambits, I’m afraid.” Said D’Arcy in a decidedly chilly manner. “Possibly your doctor –“
“Separation or divorce,” said Scarlet, matching his cold tone, “Which do YOU recommend?”
“Separation definitely,” he agreed, “If what you say is true.”
“Do you have any law female partners? At this firm?” Scarlet was rapidly losing patience with this troglodyte.
He drew back as if her question was improper and she had somehow insulted him. Then with an effort he seized control of himself, stiffened his upper lip, (thinking of England, presumably), and mustered up a calm facade.
“I’m afraid we do not, nor do I know of any I can recommend.”
“It’s just that I’d just like to start with a solicitor who doesn’t call me a liar.”
“I am not “calling you a liar”, madam” – he seemed to put the words in quotes as if afraid he was soiling his mouth, “I am accustomed to ascertaining the facts of the case.”
“The facts of the case are, that my husband spent the night with another woman who masqueraded as Mrs. Wye at The Carpathian Hotel. I have the receipted bill. When I challenged him he admitted it, saying it would continue because of Modern Marriage and stated further that he’s a man of the world, or some such thing, and showed me some photographs a detective took of me meeting a platonic male friend in London.”
D’Arcy perked up and looked interested in spite of himself. “Your husband was having you followed?”
“Apparently. For all I know it’s still going on – I didn’t see anybody but because I’m not doing anything, I wasn’t really looking.” I’m never doing anything, she thought disgustedly.
D’Arcy stroked his moustache. “About this friend –“
“Pomeroy Bronfen – the man we bought Wyvern House from – we ran into each other on the street by the sheerest coincidence. He invited me to dinner and a movie, and because he had a car, he ended up driving me around.”
“I believe you, of course – I would hope that goes without saying – but I also think it would be sensible on your part to keep some distance from – friendly men.”
“Should I stay away from all men?” Scarlet asked and D’Arcy looked physically pained. “That will be difficult as I’m looking for a job.”
“Don’t ride in cars with them, don’t have dinner alone with them, don’t sit in darkened theatres with them,” said D’Arcy huffily. “It is not that I don’t trust you,” he emphasized the word – “It’s a question is what a judge might think.”
“And what might he think?”
D’Arcy sighed. “In England, ma’am, it is not possible to get a divorce for adultery if the spouse has been compliant or collusive.”
She let those terms sink in. This was what she needed to know, this was why she was sitting in this dreadfully overheated room listening to this silly little man. She needed to find out what game Ian was playing.
“You mean if we both have affairs?”
“If neither one of you – such is English law – truly can be considered an injured party.”
She stared at him. She wanted to tell him what she thought of English law – what a bunch of idiots they all were – but she knew that wouldn’t help.
“I gather your husband doesn’t desire this divorce,” said D’Arcy.
“You gather correctly. And it isn’t for any reason flattering to me, it’s because of this division that exists in my husband’s mind between “wives” and “girlfriends.”
“I see. He doesn’t wish the categories to – collide, as it were.”
Was there a human being buried inside this pompous little twerp after all?
“Exactly. And I want no part of it.”
“How refreshingly American,” said Pelham D’Arcy, shuffling papers.
“American?” Was he insulting her again? She bridled.
“It’s very American to want to be both wife and girlfriend,” said D’Arcy. “But I must say my wife shares your view.”
Scarlet felt enormous relief. Perhaps this man would do after all.
“Hopefully the world will come around to our opinion,” she said. “So, given all this, what do you recommend?”
“Under the scenario you describe, I recommend we hire a detective of our own, get the goods on hubby so to speak – romantic and financial – and you file for divorce. A settlement contract will prove a more productive path than separate maintenance which allows him to play bloody hell with your allowance. And he seems to be a gamesman. I’ve got an excellent fellow – er, detective – er, Bogswell.”
“Thank you,” sighed Scarlet. “What do I owe you?”
D’Arcy raised a blocking hand.
“Nothing until we get a better sense of your husband’s assets. I also suggest we establish a trust with you as the trustee, and you write a will.”
“Why a will?”
“It’s part of establishing the trust. A trust allows you to open a bank account in your own name which your husband won’t have access to – which I’m afraid you will find difficult otherwise.”
“I’ve got even fewer assets than he’s got,” Scarlet sighed.
“I beg to differ. I believe you said something about an infant child?”
Scarlet brightened. “Yes, there’s always Nicholas.” An asset indeed.
The session ended warmly on a handshake.
“I suggest you obtain a separate address your husband doesn’t know about,” said D’Arcy. “Until you notify me I will await your call here or at my home – here’s the number to exchange news. And I’ll take that hotel bill, by the way.”
The last train came in at nine o’clock, but why would Ian need it? He had the car, and Scarlet hadn’t seen it at the station. He could be anywhere. She heard nothing from him. As she gave Nick his bath she wondered what she should do. Should she call Candi and ask about his plans? But there seemed no more reason to expect her husband’s girlfriend would be any more truthful than Scarlet’s own husband had been or that he even told the truth to her. Maybe David – Candi’s husband – was the one she should call. Or how about Margalo?
“Hello – we haven’t met – I was just wondering –“ No wonder country wives got such a bad reputation as jailers: they were both jealous and clueless; perpetually the one because they were the other. Day late and a dollar short as the Americans put it.
Even some disguised query about job or flat would be ridiculously transparent. Her private job, as Nick’s mother, was to figure out just how much of this she would tolerate, and what she would do about it. She knew marriage was no bed of roses but she had not expected so many thorns.
Scarlet, the writer, so long buried, had nothing to say. Her only role was to be oblivious, unworldly and unassuming. Scarlet surrendered her thoughts and fell asleep.
Nick awoke, like clockwork, at one in the morning. She fell back asleep while feeding him. She dreamed she stood at the junction of several dark, long tunnels. Which offered the best way out? In the distance, she heard a roar of water – but from which direction? She would drown – she felt a laggard inertia – the horror of such hopelessness awakened her. It was already light out. Here she was in Nick’s bedroom so freshly decorated with the hopeful yellow paint she’d applied herself just before his eagerly anticipated birth. There was no threatening water, no terrifying tunnel. The future that awaited her was terrible enough – or maybe just sad, really. But at least there wouldn’t be a drowning at the end of it.
She placed Nick carefully in his crib and went downstairs to the cold kitchen to make coffee and light the boiler: what Ida called “the heart of the house.”
Outside a fresh coating of snow had settled over the drive. She shivered, making toast, skipping butter but slathering plenty of tart, orange, homemade marmalade. She remembered exactly what insanity had brought them here. It was Ian’s dream of power, and she had eagerly embraced them hoping for a by-product of happiness. What had it wrought instead?
She carried her coffee and toast to her bed to find Ian sprawled beneath a pile of blankets. He must have come in during the night, and she hadn’t heard him. She moved his clothes from the armchair to the valet and settled down to watch him. He was in a deep, deep sleep. She herself was wide awake, although she felt odd, as if hung over. After effects of a restless night. Her brain was buzzing.
Miss Clew couldn’t help, the lady detective having no assistance to offer to those who willingly immerse themselves in intolerable situations. She needed someone who understood how you could be pulled one way and another till paralysis inevitably set in. She settled a lap robe over her knees and opened Muriel Spark’s The Comforters.
She must have fallen back asleep because it was past ten when she awoke. Ian sighed and rolled onto his back. Now, she thought, the light will wake him. If he can still be affected by the light. She checked on Nick – right above the kitchen he was in the warmest upstairs room – and then went downstairs to bring up more toast, warmed milk, and the coffee thermos.
When she returned to the bedroom, Ian was in the bathroom. She shivered reminiscently as she heard water running. She placed the tray on his recently vacated spot, poured herself another cup of coffee and returned to the lap robe and armchair.
He wore only boxer briefs, his big body seeming somehow more hairy and sprawling. He yawned theatrically but she noticed his eyes skittering nervously over her face. Then he smirked with reassurance. Why was that? His wife’s lack of splotchy tears or visible distress?
“Thanks for this,” he said, crawling into her side of the bed and helping himself to coffee.
“I went to the Carpathian,” she said. “I was surprised to find you’d checked in with a Mrs. Wye.”
He cocked his head. “I suppose you made a scene? Screaming and sobbing – “I’m the REAL Mrs. Wye!” he chortled, munching toast. “A right show to entertain the tourists. Give ‘em what they came for.”
She felt the hot blood bubble in her veins – as surely he intended – but she fought it down. He wanted her to get angry – to give him the upper hand. Many people preferred the relief of rage to the pain of mourning. She refused to oblige.
“I found the receipted bill,” She told him, “You lied about where you stayed. I wondered why.”
“If I don’t tell you everything – come to Jesus and confess every sin of thought and deed like one of your poor rubes at an American tent revival, does that mean I “lied”?” He scoffed. “You don’t tell me everything.”
She gasped like a fish. She hadn’t expected this return attack. But that, of course was precisely why she should have.
“I don’t have a boyfriend and a hotel bill!”
He rose portentously, snapped open his dispatch case and produced a manila envelope from which he extracted grainy, full-size black and white photos. It took a moment to uncover the sense in them, but finally she recognized shapes – herself and Pom, going in and out of his flat, at the Soho restaurant, at the Cumberland Hotel. Riding in his car. She could scarcely believe her eyes.
“You were SPYING on me?”
“They don’t do that in America? Home of hardboiled Sam Spade? We call it alienation of affections here. At the very least. Possibly criminal conversation.”
She was at a loss for words. She had definitely not expected this. “I ran into Pom in town! It was entirely coincidence.”
“Says you!” He jeered. “Look darling –“ he reached out a hand to touch her shoulder but she shied away. “Don’t you see the birth of our son puts our relationship on an entirely different footing?”
“No, I don’t.” She rose and paced away from him.
“It’s an American fantasy that a young couple with a squalling newborn is still enjoying honeymoon sex, don’t you see? It doesn’t happen anywhere else, it’s never happened anywhere else – I wager it doesn’t even happen in America but Ladies’ Home & Garden or whatever slop you read won’t admit it. It really is possible to love two people, three people, even seven people at once, just not in the same way. Adultery strengthens marriage. Read Lawrence.
Seriously, try to view this objectively. You get Nicholas, and I’m guessing the odd passade with a sychophantic poofter – and I have…my dollies. Little bits of fluff. That’s what’s done. I can guarantee you it won’t interfere with our family life. I think I can promise that I won’t invite them to dinner – how about that?”
“No,” said Scarlet, taking a breath and trying to remain stone-faced. “I want a separation.” Was she angry because he wasn’t jealous? Because he wanted her to be a cheater too?
“Oh, that’s how it is, is it? You’ll be moving out?”
“I’ll live in the London flat.”
“That you won’t. It’s leased by the BBC for me and my –“ he paused delicately – “Household. I could give you permission to live there, of course. But you can’t keep me out – or anyone I choose to invite. I’ve already accepted a position with the company.”
She was filled with horror. She couldn’t keep him out of this house either – and she didn’t want to, really. Where could she be safe? She just wanted out.
“We’ll see,” she said and it sounded feeble to her own ears. “All I know now is that I can’t trust you.”
“By all means seek counsel,” he said. “Someone to explain the realities of British marriage. But don’t let it be so very expensive. If you’ve determined on a separation I think you’ll find your allowance won’t stretch very far. Luckily women are masochists. According to Freud.” “I’ll get a job,” she said loftily.
“All right then. And I’ll get Nicholas.” He backed away. “Not that I ever wanted children. But you were so determined. There’s no talking sense to a woman in heat.” At the sight of her face he finished, “Move to the guest room, shall I?” His eyes swept over he with…was that disgust or nauseated disinclination? He closed the door in just enough time to miss the bookend that was thrown at him.
“I’m certain you’ll like this one,” said Jane as both women drove in Jane’s Ford Anglia toward Hampstead Heath, “No garden but such a view! It’s a second floor maisonette – two whole floors with a bit of a balcony. Lots of room, considering it’s a London flat. Be honest if you take against it – I’ve got four other possibilities – it’s just that this is the one with the most space.” The yellow stone-faced outside bore a plaque honoring the building – or at least the location – as one of William Blake’s London residences.
“Promising augury for poets,” said Scarlet, resolved to love the place and get this over with. “Of course!” agreed Jane, who clearly had never noticed the plaque before. Possibly a disorganized, half-crazed ancient mystic was not the type her usual clientele yearned to emulate. “So, you write, too?”
“I’ve been a bit absorbed in the baby,” said Scarlet. “But I have hopes.”
The entrance was cramped and unphotogenic– obstructed as it was by dustbins – and the narrow staircase was clearly impossible for prams.
“Furniture comes in through the windows,” said Jane, and when Scarlet commented, “Like Holland” she agreed, “As you say.”
Jane was too agreeable – it was beginning to make Scarlet’s skin crawl. What would Jane would say if a male client asked to squeeze her knockers? “As you say?” Or is that just my cynicism, Scarlet wondered. Have my husband’s predilections ruined my temperament?
After the hard work of stair climbing they stepped into a lovely, light filled flat, large as promised, with a full bathroom on each floor. Scarlet wanted it at once. The kitchen was miniature with the usual unacceptable Stone Age English appliances – but there was a bedroom off it – “Servant quarters” according to Jane – which would do for an au pair. Scarlet fantasized that if you got rid of the huge Victorian bathtub and installed a shower instead the downstairs bath could contain a modern washing machine. Three large reception rooms, and upstairs three big-windowed bedrooms. Off the largest bedroom was a tiny balcony with room only for a pair of chairs but with a glorious view all across London.
“We’ll take it,” said Scarlet and Jane crowed with satisfaction, “I thought you might.” There was nothing to sign and no mention of money.
“We need Margalo to negotiate with the builders,” said Jane, “She’ll tell them what’s what. I’ll give her the green light, shall I?”
“How lovely,” sighed Scarlet. Was this what spending was like for rich people? Minions took care of all details, while your sole obligation was to consult your pleasure. “Shall I drop you at your hotel?” queried Jane.
“No,” said Scarlet. “Montcalm Ladies’ Clothiers.” She couldn’t say, “I have a date.” And after all, wasn’t shopping what ladies were expected to do when they came up from the country? Scarlet needed London clothes for her new London life.
“I can find it,” Jane said confidently.
Two suits, two cocktail dresses, a long black velvet skirt and a brocade gold top were what Montcalm Clothiers’ fashion wizard Stella told Scarlet she would require, and Scarlet quite agreed. Two tweed suits – for town and country – thrown into the bargain. Scarlet sat on a miniature Louis Quinze sofa, accepted a cup of weak China tea (no milk, sugar or lemon) and watched a parade of garments. The dark blue chiffon cocktail dress made her heart beat fast but, “I don’t think I have a waist yet,” she sighed.
“Nonsense,” said Stella brusquely, “Where would any of us be without our corsets?” And she produced a buff and black merry widow complete with stocking suspenders. “Give it a try.” It worked.
Stella said, “We don’t sell proper jewelry here, just a few outfit-finishing costume pieces but nothing better instructs a man what to give for Christmas and birthday when he contemplates the shortcomings of your jewel box.”
So that’s how it’s done, thought Scarlet. Clever girls!
A brooch, a necklace and a wonderful pair of dangly jet earrings were consequently chosen.
Scarlet felt most important. No mention of Margalo here – but merely – “Would you like to open an account? We need a few items of personal information.”
These included references. Scarlet gave Margalo and both the London and Oakhampton bank managers.
“Shall we bill the country or town home?” Stella was good. She was almost as good as Jane but, because she was older and consequently wore a lot more makeup the tension lines around her lips gave her away.
“The town home,” said Scarlet, “We’re not moving into the London flat till February 1st.” Stella’s face relaxed and she purred like a kitten as she took down the address. “Wyvern House” did sound quite chi-chi.
“Shall I send these along to your hotel?”
“Will there be delivery by five?” asked Scarlet and when reassured, gave her address. Mentioning the Cumberland seemed to seal – not queer – the deal.
In the end, Ian insisted on looking after the baby himself, saying, “Don’t worry. I have Fern to help me.”
Scarlet couldn’t imagine her husband changing a diaper but how could she object to a father willing to spend time with his infant? She could tell by his smug face that he appreciated her dilemma. Any claim from an English husband for a desire to spend time with his son should be a dream come true to an American girl. But Ian’s “tells” – specifically his exaggeratedly “innocent” expression – were present in full flower. She suspected him of attempting to make his mind impenetrable to hers – the exact opposite of what their relationship had been in its most satisfying phase, when their love had been redolent of sharing, empathy and transparency. He had yet to touch her sexually – and now she too refrained out of some fatalistic curiosity to see just how long he would make her wait.
She must allow him to look after his own child. In her dreams, they would always be a “two-parent” family, and never a lord, a lady and an infant in thrall to a succession of aging nannies, fake nannies and wannabe nannies.
She insisted on staying at a hotel. Just as he had done she knew the exact argument to use – “Candi and David’s place is so tiny – remember we moved because it gave me claustrophobia!” He couldn’t argue with that.
“Why not The Royal Grenadier?” she first suggested, only to hear that it served only men. This must be the reason for the receipted bill from the Carpathian Hotel she had found in his jacket pocket and which was currently residing in hers. She hadn’t asked him about it because she didn’t want him to wrest the bill away – which he would have. She had a different plan in mind.
“Oh, I’m sure the Royal will suggest something,” she told her husband confidently. “They have to put the ladies somewhere. I also need to find an estate agent.”
“Oh, here.” Ian searched his trousers pocket, proffered a card. “We’re using this friend of Margalo’s. She’ll know all about the BBC job.”
“Jane Lumley, Lumley & Lumley. WEStminster 2012.” Read the card.
“Toney,” was Scarlet’s comment.
She made sure he heard the call she placed to the Royal Grenadier.
“Can you recommend a hotel for ladies?” was her polite enquiry.
Old buffer on the other end sounded gobsmacked. “Most ladies stay at their clubs,” he harrumphed.
Scarlet thanked him smoothly, reholstered the phone. “He suggested the Carpathian.” She pulled the earpiece off its socket and began dialing but she was covertly watching Ian’s face. Ian’s face told her all she needed to know. He had gone as white as a sheet.
“Not the Carpathian,” he gasped, “What a dreary dump. I’m certain we can do better than that. How about the Cumberland? It’s in Marylebone, right next to Broadcasting House. Has a lovely bar.”
“Perfect,” said Scarlet. “I can say hello to Margalo.” His face relaxed. That meant Margalo was not The One. This was what she had come to – what must inevitably happen when Ian closed himself off: suspicion. So Scarlet reserved a room at The Cumberland.
On the train she found herself staring curiously into the closed faces of the other riders. None of them appeared to sense that she was facing a personal Rubicon. Possibly everyone was sealed into their own private nightmare and the pessimistic existentialists had been right all along. She had always pushed away such dreary cynicism – life was just too pleasurable. But now it seemed that every pleasure had its “morning after.”
She welcomed the chance to open a Miss Clew book – nothing suited her present mood so much as the pursuit of justice. Miss Clew was an elderly spinster with a clear mind and an untroubled righteousness who found herself pulled into one mystery after another. She was never fooled and she was never stymied. She thought the worst of everyone and she was never wrong. Scarlet found her very refreshing.
At Waterloo she took a cab straight to the Carpathian. It was not, as she had been told a “dreary dump” but a rather discreet looking and charmingly small hotel tucked into Knightsbridge near Cadogan Hall. Convenient to Sloane Square – was that the reason for its choice? Scarlet knew Sloane Square was the location of Candi’s gallery.
She raced up the stone steps of what had obviously once been a private house. The reception desk was a real desk, behind which sat a little bald man in a slick grey and gold uniform. She slapped the hotel bill on the polished oak surface.
“I am Mr. Ian Wye’s assistant,” she began, but he interrupted her,
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “We haven’t found it.”
“You haven’t found it?” Scarlet stared at him stupidly.
“Mrs. Wye’s petticoat. We’ve looked everywhere. Will Mr. Wye expect a discount? We try to guarantee –“
She staggered backwards and snatched the bill away, as if attempting to replay this scene. As she did she saw a sympathetic look of understanding come into his eyes. Suddenly it seemed that he knew exactly who she was and what was happening – it had occurred before and was probably occurring at this very moment in hotels all around the world. For all she knew hoteliers fended off heartbroken wives on a daily basis. She couldn’t speak: she turned bright red. She simply turned and fled.
She began to walk, trying to sort her jumbled feelings. She had once considered London “her city” but now she felt herself on utterly unfamiliar, even hostile terrain. Why was this happening? Since she had been so fearful that exactly this might occur – how could she then be so astonished? And yet she was.
Also terrible and completely unexpected was that strange man’s pity. A complete stranger had pitied Scarlet Wye at what should have been the peak of her life. Scarlet Wye, American girl with a country castle, a hunky husband and a healthy new baby, currently canvassing London to shop for a pied à terre was an object of pity to a hotel flunky.
She saw now that she had only postponed all her emotions of grief and rage, by telling herself not to feel them until All Was Lost.
Was all lost? It felt that way. Talk about “paradigm shifts”! In spite of the universal belief that one act of infidelity could never signify “the end” of a long-term, committed relationship, to her American mind it was the end. They had pledged before God and the rector of St. Barnabas’ Church to worship each other with their bodies until death do them part, not to worship other people. Now all bets are off, she thought, recalling the casino warning: Rien ne va plus.
She realized she was standing directly across the street from the Escarpa Gallery staring at it without comprehension. Some part of her subconscious had brought her unerringly here. Its main window featured an enormous, glittering, swirling green and blue abstract – an impressionistic ocean, perhaps. And out the front door as just if her echo of “paradigm shifts” had summoned him up, strode Pom, black leather portfolio in hand.
He saw her at once, raised a hand and dashed through traffic.
“Well this is a surprise,” he said, taking her arm and her train case in one smooth gesture, “May I take you to lunch?”
Somehow, they were walking. Away from the gallery. Scarlet sighed with relief. She need not confront and unmask the false “Mrs. Wye” today.
She couldn’t speak and he seemed not to expect explanation. She pressed his hand gratefully. Pom steered her immediately into a Steak and Egg where he first tried to sit by the window but when she shied away from that he guided her to a small dark booth.
“Never been here before? I love these places, they let me sit as long as I like. I conduct all my town business in that very front window. Let me get you a cup of tea.”
The English conception of “tea” was black sludge with plenty of milk and sugar, just the way Miss Clew recommended it. And as Miss Clew promised to her suffering clients, it felt amazingly strengthening.
“Seriously, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is it me? What happened?”
He was so charming! She fought an overwhelming impulse to tell him everything. How could she possibly trust him? He was a brief acquaintance, an unmarried Englishman at that! They were strangers to each other. She tried getting a grip on herself.
“Why were you in the Escarpa?” she asked him, flat out. He didn’t seem insulted or confused by being intimately questioned and answered promptly.
“I had an appointment with Chipster,” he said. “The manager. Showed him my work.”
“And?”
“They all say the same thing. “Maybe someday.” He laughed and she managed to laugh too.
“I’m so sorry,” she apologized, “I just had an upset. Did you see a strawberry blonde with Cleopatra eye makeup?”
“I might have.” He looked a bit more guarded.
“I think she might be my husband’s girlfriend. Candi.” The nerve of Ian to suggest she board with Candi! She trembled with rage.
He kept his poker face while the attendant delivered a pair of sandwiches. Looked to Scarlet like a hamburger with a fried egg on top. Pom shook a bottled sauce all over his. Scarlet began separating out the ingredients carefully with the assistance of a plastic fork.
“I’m sorry,” said Pom finally. “He’s a fool.”
The hamburger was acceptable. The egg was another story. Scarlet finished her tea. Pom waved a hand in the air.
“They don’t really wait on you here,” he said, “but they do wait on me.”
Pom’s a natural aristocrat, thought Scarlet, smiling. The soap manufacturer’s poor artist grandson, temporarily flush from selling the family estate.
“I didn’t come up to confront Candi,” she said, realizing as soon as the words were out of her mouth that they weren’t true. She took a panicked look at her watch, then sighed with relief.
“I’m meeting an estate agent,” she said, “At two o’clock. We’re looking at flats.” She gestured at the portfolio. “I’d love to see your work.”
“Not in this light,” said Pom. “Whirlwind visit? Or are you staying somewhere?”
“I have a reservation at the Cumberland,” she said. “But I haven’t checked in.”
“The Cumberland’s miles away,” he said. “Whereas my flat is right around the corner.”
An independent married woman invited to a bachelor’s London hideaway? Thought Scarlet. Yes, please! Served Ian right!
“I have never been so happy to say goodbye to people,” said Scarlet when at last she and Ian were alone and driving home.
“They’re not so bad,” said Ian smugly. “You must appreciate Candi’s determination to have a good time. Quite the little Cleopatra, isn’t she?”
“Don’t fall,” said Scarlet sharply and her husband answered, “As if I would sink so low! She’s not my class at all.”
How Scarlet wished he’d said, “YOUR class.” Did he even think of his wife as sexy? Desirable? Feminine? HUMAN, any longer? Instead she asked,
“Why on earth did we invite them, then?”
And Ian answered complacently, “Just an experiment to get your rusty skills up to speed. One must make plenty of daring social experiments to test the field.”
Scarlet was struggling with the horror of that comment when just at that moment Nicholas woke up mightily discontented with everything about his life, requiring Scarlet to crawl into the back seat and minister to the one male who indisputably put her first.
On Wednesday, the mail contained two thank you letters – one addressed to each of them. She couldn’t bear waiting – she had to open Ian’s, unfolding a sheet of empty pink letter paper stiff as cardboard and ornamented with a single gold “C” – and a shower of rose petals. Not a word.
Candi hadn’t written a single word! Scarlet was humiliated to have to pick up every damn petal – there were thirty-six of them. She took them into Ian’s office where he was working on his accounts (or, as he called it “cooking the books”. It was only his own father he was fooling.)
“This is yours,” she said, dumping them in his lap. “Sorry. I thought it was for the both of us.” He just laughed.
Scarlet’s letter was more substantial, less suggestive and if that were possible, even more aversive. MORE cards from the Escarpa Gallery, fashion trunk show invitations, fulsomely effusive words about the weekend and an onionskin pattern drawing for a stained-glass window “picking out the colors of your study” – some kind of hunting scene.
Scarlet couldn’t focus on the huntsman picture, she was so appalled by this barrage. She knew Candi wanted her to think Ian had taken her privately up to Scarlet’s study. Damn the woman! And in the guise of offering this idiotic “gift” she was literally daring Scarlet to complain.
“We’ll never invite them back,” Scarlet thought. But did she actually have that much power? She could already hear Ian’s voice insisting they must entertain, make friends, cultivate acquaintanceships with people they didn’t like at all. Why had she done this to herself? She should have realized a castle came with a heavy psychic as well as financial mortgage.
She toyed with the idea of needing to be “in London” on weekends when the unbearable was expected – but didn’t that cede the field to Candi? Wouldn’t she love to play hostess? Back in their London days Scarlet considered their coupledom as a unit, indissoluble, because they loved each other and wanted and valued the same things. It just didn’t feel true anymore. She felt embarrassed and humiliated by the pink honeymoon cloud that once has obscured the entire sky.
She shouldn’t catastrophize. She should play it cleverly. How many women like Candi were there in the world? Couldn’t she figure out some way to keep them at bay? She needed to come up with some clever way to tell Candi she didn’t want this damn “gift.”
Should she say she hated modern glass? Loathed hunting scenes? Something would occur to her but first things first: she must order stationery bearing the name Mrs. Ian Wye. No, no, that wouldn’t do – anyone could be Mrs. Ian Wye. Mrs. Scarlet Wye sounded as if they were already divorced. Ian and Scarlet Wye? That was so American – she could only get away with it if Ian never saw it. Her maiden name was the name she wrote under – Scarlet Stavenger – her “business name” she supposed – but taking away her married name seemed to concede the field. Scarlet Stavenger Wye – that was what was required.
Oakhampton Stationers told her the order couldn’t be ready for two weeks at least, so she sent a telegram to Candi’s gallery.
“No stained glass for me thank you – appreciate the thought.”
They all rose late. David insisted he’d slept “very well” but Ian’s eyes were shuttered against Scarlet’s inquiring look and Candi seemed smugly triumphant. It went against Scarlet’s grain to question them but if you didn’t tell foreign sexual adventuresses that your husband was off limits, how could they be expected to know? Candi’s barbed words – “glad to know another couple with a truly modern relationship” – came back to haunt her like some sly promotion of infidelity as sophisticated, international and superior. Scarlet felt certain husband David wasn’t on board with that.
They drove to Oakhampton after a late and hasty Continental breakfast prepared by Ian, (wonder of wonders) – the “girls” in the back of the estate wagon with Nick in his carrycot between them. Scarlet struggled to find words that would be politic yet reproving, fearing that if she missed her chance, she’d be silenced forever.
But Candi forestalled her.
“You must come up to London soon,” she gushed, “Now that you have a nanny.” Scarlet struggled with the concept of Fern elevated to this pinnacle while Candi hurried on; “So we can have a real heart to heart.”
Which of us is being courted now? Wondered Scarlet. A nightmare world appeared to her inner eye where her personal good fortune; talent, beauty, husband, house, son – laid her open to invasion by this succubus scheming to supplant her.
Candi placed a cold hand with terrifyingly long, red lacquered nails on Scarlet’s hot, stubby, hang-nailed paw.
“I have discounts at all the best places. Now that you have your figure back we must suit you out.” “Lovely,” quivered Scarlet, revolted by virtually everything about this patronizing sentence. She knew immediately that the truth was of no interest to Candi, who sought always to perpetrate a façade, and who took it for granted other people did too. She seemed confident Scarlet would never correct her, never insist that she was large, baggy and leaking milk in all directions. Her presentable caftan at the restaurant for dinner out could be considered “maternity wear.” She would rather die than ever shop with Candi, didn’t want to resemble her and hadn’t planned to buy anything new until Nicholas was weaned.
But she felt a horrid certainty that Ian would side with Candi; that one must always “put on a show”. Was she being penny wise and husband foolish? Something to consider. Perhaps she could spring for one outfit – but certainly not alongside Candi! Tatiana had a pair of velvet toreador pants Scarlet coveted. “Divorce insurance” – distasteful as that might be. And she desperately needed a warm winter coat – something better than this shabby red anorak she wore everywhere.
Breakfast had been so late and Ian’s porridge was so stomach-churning nobody could think of food or even a cup of tea at the café. In desperation, Scarlet suggested visiting the bookshop instead to purchase “something to read on the train” and all agreed with this idea.
The Fruitful Browser was fortunately open Sundays. It might specialize in old, antique and “used” books but there is no such thing as a “used idea”. Francesca even offered a respectable cup of coffee which she called, charmingly, “café americaine.” She gave Scarlet’s guests – and then Scarlet – a look that could only be described as “conspiratorial.” Baby Nicholas cooperated by staying sound asleep locked safely in the car.
“Literature by the yard! I see!” said Candi, who appeared personally insulted by the very concept of used books. “But I suppose if you’ve got shelves to fill” – until Ian commented,
“Here’s a lovely section of pocket Trollopes.”
That’s what Candi was, thought Scarlet. A “pocket trollop!”
Seemingly Candi wanted anything Ian wanted. Her acquisitive eyes lit with lust.
Scarlet left them to it while she and David happily perused the Golden Age of Crime novels – tuppence a copy. David was thrilled to find a series Scarlet had never even heard of.
“Our Miss Clew,” he said, “These are glorious. I think there were only ever a baker’s dozen and I’ve been missing five! Here they all are!” To Scarlet he hissed conspiratorially, “Don’t tell. They could sell the full set for substantially more.”
Scarlet had to assume Francesca knew her business. In any event, she personally dropped a guinea in this store on her every Oakhampton shopping trip. She snapped up the five David didn’t need.
“I see you love Miss Clew,” Francesca remarked, adding up their purchases. “They really must issue reprints – these inexpensive editions – “railway” they called them – fall to tatters far too soon.”
Scarlet could only agree – her copies appeared to be restored with what she, as a new homeowner, recognized as friction tape.
Candi had chosen a first edition of Frank Harris’ Life and Loves which, horribly, Ian insisted on purchasing for her.
“I shall have to think up a really special bread and butter present,” said Candi. “This has been the most wonderful weekend of my life.”
Lord Verne confessed – If you call taking an Alford plea a confession – Got 40 years on each count. He refused to “alocute” – Describe how he did it – And got away with that too.
I don’t care about that – He would have blamed Mirabel. In court for sentencing he refused My gaze. Mirabel – Jace now that she’s Ambisextrous – should have given A victim impact statement – I asked her but she said no.
Said she was “Full of new life” Designing jewelry and training To be a yoga teacher. Mom and Dad could have spoken but They’re not over the shock. “You write it,” said Derek So on my phone I wrote this all down and Made Derek laugh.
“Too long” – he critiqued – “I like it but Not for court. Just hit the high points.” First question with any writing is Who are you talking to? Ravi Krutupian was right there in court – Watching me like I’m The New Mirabel. This isn’t for him.
And the press Hot and curious, needing details – Wanting me as the new Mirabel This can’t be for them. I felt how Mirabel felt, that day she was naked In the cage with a thorn in her lip. But I looked down at Derek Who smiled encouragingly So I hissed, “This is for you.”
Cleared my throat, told the court On a hot summer day I went into the city To bridesmaid my sister at her Beautiful wedding to a British aristocrat. Instead I saw fear and heard lies – Met a jealous, angry man Who made people vanish. I lost my only sister and discovered Her beautiful life was one living hell.
That knowledge is now part of me, A scar that I wear that my friends envy Because some of them think -” Flashed a look at my Derek – “That knowledge is beauty. But the only reason I can stand here and speak is Because he’ll be locked up forever So we can be safe.
Thank you, justice For doing your job.” I sat down. Derek squeezed My hand and my eyes filled with Sadness and gratitude –
Sorry the universe is like this but Grateful for having a big sister Who went through all this So I didn’t have to.
Her eyes slid away Fearfully assessing. “Did anyone follow you?” “No. I guarantee. No hiding stalkers On this tiny island.” For the first time she gave me The old Mirabel smile.
“You can see why I love it.” “Derek Lowther knows I’m here. I’m using up his air miles.” Her thin legs in white gauze reached out Pumping our swing higher. I refused to help. “I was there when Verne killed them,” She whispered.
“They wouldn’t give me away, But he heard me screaming.” “He must have followed me From my job – Covered me with their blood – said I’d made it all happen. Threatened me, threatened everyone, so –“
She gulped – “I made him Fall in love with you.” Tears fell out of her eyes as I Gripped her hot hand. “I said you were me without Artifice, made him think You would want him. Verne was always telling me I was ruined, spoiling myself, Destroying our future.
I convinced him you were Unscarred – worthy to be Lady Verne – never told him How smart you were.” “Didn’t it bother him I was only fourteen?” “He liked that. He could mold you.” I recoiled, disgusted. “Why not tell the police?”
Her big eyes shaded blue Gray – ocean color. “They’d lock me up too! He knows too much about me.” “But why wedding fakery?” “That was his plan – make you think I’d gone abroad so you could chase after. That spa sells fake passports.”
She smiled her one-sided smile. “I was right – you were too smart – “Always so confident! Escaped him too fast. You were So good in school! Your brain Just seemed to work right. Helped me with MY homework!” She looked away.
“I thought I had just one thing You didn’t have. “But I was wrong about that, too. You’re more beautiful than I ever was.” I shivered at the horror she’d Subjected me to, degradation Narrowly missed.
“How’d you find me?” She requested. “I remembered You said you loved this place. Now You answer one. How’d you escape?” “My boss’ diamond broker was cheating him. I blackmailed him with the evidence For get away cash.
My passport’s for a boy – I want to start over. Fresh, Just like you. Can you Ever forgive me?” “Not if Verne gets away With murder. How can we Trap him, Mirabel?” She moved her shoulders restlessly.
“Don’t call me that. I’m Jace now. And “I have the murder weapon. Told him I got rid of it. And The shirt he wore – it’s all bloody. In a safety deposit box.”
From around her neck she Hauled up a key – Pressed it into my hand.
Silvery hair just coming in – Glittering studs along the sides of her ears Silver, not diamonds. But those were Mirabel’s Bony shoulders poking through her Gauze shirt. The guru called Shivasena and they Plunged into Corpse Pose –
No one’s talking me into that – I inched around – one student Opened her eyes – gave me The harsh look my inquisitiveness Warranted. But I persisted – the skinny Silent boy lost in meditation Was my sister all right! No jewels, no makeup, Cheapest beach clothing, bony bare feet Scar on her lip fully visible.
The tears that sprang to my eyes told me How much I’d feared that I would Never find her. I closed them Backed up against the stone-washed white wall Tried to mentally connect with her. What could she be thinking Right at this minute?
She was the one looking fourteen Years old, deep in dream land, I find meditation Annoying. I like my own brain And don’t want to escape it. I launched experimental thought volleys Determined to make her feel My presence. That project quenched my tears;
Opened my eyes and forced my lasers on her. Her mouth quivered first – One small tear slid from her eye. I had reached her! I knew it. She stirred. Eyes opened. My sister Mirabel took a Long, long look at me.
I mouthed her name. She ducked her head, Bowed deeply forward, then rose To her feet. A ripple ran through The group and the leader opened one eye In displeasure.
She grabbed my arm And began dragging me downstairs. “My name here is Jace.” Jace? Whose identity had she Stolen? “Don’t run away from me”
I lectured her Refused to unleash as if She could melt back into the Mirage at will. “I never will again.” She squeezed me; “I knew You’d escape him. I wasn’t strong enough.” At the final lighthouse step We burst into the sunlight.
“I thought you were dead,” I hectored her. “You abandoned me!” She pulled me into a big swing Under an awning Siblings swinging companionably – If anyone cared to notice One of them crying.
The crying one was me. She said, “Jace was the name I bought From some West side spa.” So that explained her visits! Scam not disclosed to me.
“I guess without my hair I thought I was invisible.” The joke was on Mirabel – Bald, at her thinnest – she’d Magnified her true self so No one who’d loved her – Could ever mistake it.
“Why’d you give me TO HIM,” I raged at her. “How effing dare you!” I clutched both her wrists Where the purple blood beat. “He wouldn’t kill YOU.”
She said with equal ferocity, “He wouldn’t let me go unless-“ She hesitated. I was being Managed. I can always smell it. “Bur he killed Franny and Jane,” I accused. Her eyeballs slid back –
This part of the story she thought I’d never find out. “But we can trap him,” she said. “The two of us.”
Alysse Aallyn 