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.
On her way to pick up Fern she bought all the London papers. Scarlet found herself unable to return the newsagent’s “Happy Christmas” with anything more than a nod. It was NOT a merry Christmas. The most that she could give thanks for was that Nicholas was too young to notice. She phoned Pom from a call box and luckily, he was in.
“I wonder if you could suggest a London solicitor,” she asked.
“What’s it in aid of?” Pom inquired, very reasonably. “Purchasing more real estate?”
She had actually hoped not to get into it but she realized now she needed to simply rip the bandage off.
“We’re getting a separation,” she said. “I’ll be moving to London so I think I should find a solicitor there.”
“Oh, my God,” said Pom. “This is all my fault.”
Good thing she had phoned him instead of dropping by. How humiliating if he saw how her cheeks suffused with red – she could never explain properly and he could never understand. If it was Pom’s fault it was the world’s fault. How could she ever explain about the photos – the detective – how utterly disgusting Ian was and how low he was willing to go. His enraging method of manipulating and ruining everything. But Pom continued smoothly, “Selling you that awful house. I ought to be shot.”
“No, really,” she gasped, almost grateful for his thorough misapprehension. “It isn’t that. I think it was Nicholas being born. He says now he never wanted children.”
“Well, he’s an arrant idiot. Forgive my caterwauling, no one sees inside a marriage, do they? My solicitor’s Bob Thomas in Maida Vale – he’s the best – and he’s got several partners. I’m sure he would recommend the right person. He’s jolly easy to talk to – he just lets me wail and then offers sane, useful suggestions. Should have been an alienist, I always tell him.”
“Alienist.” Strange expression. Like ‘Alienation of affections…’
“I’m a shoulder to cry on, don’t forget,” Pom said as he gave her the number. “Two shoulders, really. And I don’t judge.” If he only knew what she’d involved him in. But somehow, she didn’t think he’d be angry. She scribbled in her datebook and rang off.
Bob Thomas’ clerk Mr. Gotobed said “Mr. Thomas” never handled “matrimonial,” that was Pelham D’Arcy and he had an opening tomorrow at twelve. After that, nothing for a week. Scarlet chose tomorrow at twelve.
When she stopped in at Mrs. Mugle’s the other woman said she would be “most pleased” to take Nicholas tomorrow. She had Ladies Union – would it be all right to take Nicholas along? Naturally Scarlet agreed and Mrs. Mugle all but jumped up and down in her excitement. She did not enquire why Scarlet needed to go up to London again – seemingly taking it for granted that leasing a London flat was a complex endeavor.
Back at Wyvern House, Ian was closed in behind the library door, making himself scarce. She could hear him murmuring into the phone. Fern said, “I’ll take the babby for a walk, shall I?” and Scarlet hastily agreed. She took the newspapers up to her tower room to peruse them in privacy. And there, in the window, was a round stained glass rondo depicting a medieval hunter – possibly Robin Hood – setting an arrow to his bow while a fox peeped out of the luxuriant shrubbery. Candi was the hunter and Ian was the fox? Or was Scarlet the prey?
Scarlet felt so faint she almost fell back down the stairs. She picked up the offending object from its chain – it was quite heavy – and battled with herself not to open the window and fling it out onto the courtyard.
However. It was glass. Pointless to assist Candi in wreaking yet more havoc on Scarlet’s household. She wrapped it in the political news and taped it up so she wouldn’t have to look at the thing. The right method of disposal would come to her. Grinding it up and putting it in Candi’s food? Dropping it on her head from an airplane? Concealing it on Ian’s side of the bed where he would break it with his big, no-longer-desiring, no longer desirable body?
All these revenge modalities threatened unforeseen consequences. The solution came in a flash – church jumble. Exactly the right thing to do with a houseguest’s gift you had previously begged them – by telegram – not to assault you with.
She pushed the object away and opened Situations Vacant.
Nothing. Nobody wanted to hire an American poet to do anything. Teachers, even nannies, were expected to have extensive, specialized qualifications. Scarlet couldn’t imagine herself even pretending to keep house or cook to request. “Companions to the elderly” paid worse than kennel maids. Sewing and laundry facilities sounded like sweatshops – she couldn’t support Nicholas on that kind of pay. Librarians’ assistants were expected to be British and bookshops and galleries requested “equity” investment in the business – YOU paid THEM. Jewelers and antique shops wanted “bonding”. Fashion and advertising firms wanted “portfolios.” Even clerks’ jobs seemed to require a civil service exam. Selling door to door was “commission only.” The only hope appeared “typing pool” – if she could pass “the test.” But poets don’t cultivate speed – slow deliberation is the necessary pace. “Maybe I could speed up if I had to,” she thought. And then she saw it – a boxed advertisement in the top corner:
Editorial Ability – Temporary.
Possibly, thought Scarlet.
“Editor required to update Victorian novels. Three months’ employment. Present qualifications in person to:
No telephone number! What did THAT mean? In America, this kind of “cattle call” meant they wanted to take a look at you. Scarlet felt hope for the first time. Thank God, she’d bought those new tweed suits. At least she could look the part, although it was certainly possible that she would be rejected simply for being American. It really depended what kind of Victorian novels these were. But she might be able to talk her way into it – whatever it was. She had a good knowledge of Victorian literature, had indeed studied Mrs. Humphrey Ward as well as all the poets. Literary qualifications were the only kind of qualifications she really possessed. And a three-month job might give her exactly the kind of entrée, recommendations and resumé to try for better positions.
She began hashing out a list of “qualifications” and immediately ran into the problem of references. Her American references seemed pointless and outdated. All her London connections were more Ian’s than hers. Gossip about their separation would soon be rife: who could she trust? Rather desperately she wrote Pom’s name feeling he was the only human being she could truly depend on to represent her well. She felt too embarrassed about it to even call him. She called Francesca Joringel, instead, at The Fruitful Browser and explained her difficulty.
“I really need someone to testify to my familiarity with Victorian literature,” she said shyly.
“I think I can testify to more than that!” Francesca said with unexpected loyalty. “They would be lucky to get someone so well-spoken with such wide interests. Now, who are they exactly?”
“I don’t really know,” said Scarlet. “I’ll be finding out about them while they’re finding out about me.”
“Some kind of literary jobbing would be perfect for a new mum,” offered Francesca, “Particularly one whose husband works for the BBC.” Gossip jumped from the rooftops while truth struggled to put on its spats. “I’d be honored to speak for you, and I’m easy to reach. I’m always here, working on my manuscript.”
So comforting.
“We’ll see,” Scarlet sighed. “Thank you. It may all be a mare’s nest.”
“Or,” said Francesca, who loved Mystery, Adventure and Thrillers best of all, “It could be the Opportunity of a Lifetime.”
Ida answered the phone. “I don’t know where he’s gone. The babby’s safe with my girl.” Scarlet was too dispirited to ask if Ida meant her daughter or her granddaughter. “I suppose I could take a cab if the bank’s open and I could cash a cheque,” Scarlet sighed. The bank’s hours were so bizarre. She didn’t relish dragging these boxes up the street. Maybe she could deposit them in the left-luggage room.
“You stay right there and I’ll call down to the garage for Frankie to get you,” said Ina. “He’s coming to fetch me anyway – just add it to my pay – he charges less than a cabdriver anyhow. Would you like to pick up the babby?”
“Yes,” said Scarlet, suddenly teary. “Thank you.”
Here was the Scarlet Pom couldn’t know, the kind of desperate idiot who needed a cleaning woman to solve all her problems. If she’d been able to think she could have laid in some grocery items. As it was, all she was showing up with for was a pile of expensive, useless, yet-to-be-paid for clothes.
No wonder Frankie dubbed his flivver a “gypsy cab” – the aging Singer looked held together by string. But he was certainly obliging – even willing to stop for bread, milk, ham, green beans and tomatoes. And when Scarlet was reunited with her “babby” the world magically righted itself. Nick had been at Mrs. Mugle’s, naturally, the center of a group of admiring ladies. He had just been fed and smelled powerfully of Amazing Baby Ointment. We’ll never be parted again, thought Scarlet fiercely, hugging him to her chest. But she thanked Mrs. Mugle as politely as she could. For a wonder, Mrs. Mugle disclaimed payment.
“It’s a joy to touch a sweet baby like he is,” she said, her whole face shining. How could anyone muster hostility against such a woman? Scarlet’s heart melted and she had the grace to realize that her unwillingness to allow another woman to “mark” her child was nothing more than atavistic jealousy. She herself would always possess the powerful priority of motherhood. No one could take that away.
“Shall Fern come up at three o’clock?” Mrs. Mugle inquired. “The library switched her to the mornings.”
Gritting her teeth, Scarlet agreed. It reminded her that the Fern situation was temporary – whenever the library gave her extra hours she’d drop baby-minding like a shot. Scarlet actually preferred Mrs. Mugle’s attitude. But beggars can’t be choosers and delivering her baby to a house eight miles away so that she could write in her tower made little sense.
As for Frankie, after he’d unloaded patiently at Wyvern House she gave him all the rest of her cash as a tip.
“And there’s more coming through Ida’s cheque,” she promised. She showed him her empty coin purse. It occurred to her – too late of course, the way every other insight seemed to come – that she could have cashed a cheque at the hotel. She’d skulked out of there like a street drab from an assignation.
But Frankie was cheery. As she took down the garage phone number he offered, “Everyone spends all their cash in town. That’s what towns are for is what I figure.” Her heart warmed to him. She wrote Ida a cheque. Thank God for the glorious English invention of the “overdraft.”
Now she must confront her enormous exhaustion at the mere sight of her own home. From a tiny three-room flat she and Ian had been acquiring real estate in a frenzy – there was no way they could actually take care of all they possessed. Where was Ian now? Gone! Where was Ian planning to be? Gone!
It was just so crazy Scarlet dreaded trying to explain it to her sister in one of her long, newsy letters home. Better wait to see how it played out. The approaching confrontation would go better if she were calmer. She heated a can of soup and made herself a sandwich. While she ate the high and low points of her London trip danced through her memory in a blur, seemingly as if they’d occurred to someone else, or were part of the film she’d seen. The food helped her feel better.
Now she felt silly and sad as she put her new clothes away. What need had she for party gear in her new life? She tried imagining Ian contrite and promising fidelity: would she even believe him? She was grateful to be rescued from her thoughts when Nick awoke, hungry. She was even able to produce milk for him. She relaxed into his body as he melted into hers.
She missed the first train; overslept as if resting up for coming trials. The simplest breakfast order (croissants and coffee) seemed to take this hotel forever; they couldn’t believe she didn’t want their “nice kippers” and “fried tomatoes”. Managing all her new boxes proved impossible until the concierge fetched twine and roped them together into a still threateningly unwieldy parcel. Why wouldn’t she have them sent? Impossible to explain that these clothes suddenly seemed more intimate, more “hers” than the pre-pregnancy and shabby maternity clothes awaiting her at that castle. She definitely required the services of a porter. Scarlet had come up in the world. Unfortunately, she missed the second train, too.
Sitting in the third train – it was lunchtime as this point – she felt dull, self-accusatory, downright stupid. Her buyer’s remorse was so severe she couldn’t even open Miss Clew. She’d managed everything so badly.
Ian didn’t know when she was arriving. Oakhampton was too far to take a taxi. She’d have to call him from the station and hope he answered the phone. She was feeling nervous about all this shopping. London clothes in the country? What was the idea behind that? Was the best way to deal with Ian’s sudden aristocratic craziness to get crazy too? The Merry Widow was especially embarrassing.
It now seemed to her like angry, “revenge” shopping, which was exactly what it had been. She couldn’t forget that spectral look in the eyes of Stella, manager at Montcalm Ladies’ Clothiers, inciting her by acceptance and flattery into playing the “wealth game”. Scarlet had only been too glad to comply. Was that what it felt like being Ian, taken advantage of by all the broadcasters and auctioneers he hoped to impress?
Even the London flat seemed now more like a will o’ the wisp than a solid achievement. How had she let a giggly young estate agent maneuver her into the biggest place on offer, without getting any idea of its actual cost? If she was behaving just like Ian, then his behavior was hardly extraordinary. This is how people go bankrupt, she lectured herself. And how on earth could she ever explain any of it to India?
Ian had done all he could to make his new job sound big and important, but were new people really treated this way at the BBC? In her experience the English workplace was decidedly cheese-paring. She couldn’t help feeling there was something else on this table, something she wasn’t getting. What if everything was just another one of Ian’s rather terrifying but hopeful daydreams, like winning a football pool?
She calmed herself. She hadn’t signed for the flat. Jane was only “talking” to Margalo – surely you can’t accept responsibility for something so evanescent! If Ian’s employer didn’t give a green light, nothing would happen.
She found herself longing for the ordered world of Miss Clew who alone, it seemed, possessed the razor-sharp standards to brush all this confusion aside. The world of the Victorians was famous for its explosion of pretense, imposture and hypocrisy keeping right up with every new marvel of the technological world. But somehow, Miss Clew always saw through to real motives and intent. Eagerly Scarlet opened the next book in the series and prepared to disappear inside. After all, no amount of money could be considered “within their budget” because Ian staunchly refused to make one or even explain or plan his income.
Yet even this book flatly refused to come to life with her head in such a whirl. What were her exact fears? She looked blindly out the carriage window and resolved to list and face them. If leasing a tiny hole in the wall meant she’d be cheek by jowl with the man she was currently feuding with, that would certainly be money down the drain. But this selected flat could potentially be shared – one parent “up” and the other “down” – for the benefit of the children. It seemed like in many ways the best solution, she comforted herself.
The real question was, why did she feel so awful? Such a failure? Because of Pom, dammit! Why was this man so interested in her and why was so she so dependent on that fact? Because her own husband was ignoring her. Dammit, dammit, dammit.
At the hotel salon, she had just enough time for a wash and set. She refused to let them cut her hair so Angelique swept it up into a stiff French roll that Scarlet knew would showcase her new dangly jet earrings to perfection. Angelique didn’t want money either; just her room number.
“This is almost too wonderful,” thought Scarlet. “I definitely see why people claw at each other like crazed rats just to enter this world.” However, Angelique didn’t object to a tip.
Scarlet stopped at the front desk for her parcels: “In your room, madam.”
Well THAT was a bit creepy and unforeseen. She WAS a rube, fresh from the country. A “goober”, India would say. She didn’t care for the idea of strange men entering her room.
Hopefully the bell captain watched while the parcels were unloaded – but if he delivered them himself, didn’t that mean that technically he had access to her room at any moment? Hotels were creepy! She could see that this attractive new world came with a side serving of helpless paranoia.
If you expected to be waited on by anonymous people closely scrutinizing your behavior, wasn’t that like inviting permanent spies? Could the loss of privacy ever be worth it? wondered Scarlet. Already she missed her anonymous old free-wheeling self – independently setting herself up as a critic whom it would never be worth anyone’s time to criticize back.
The idea for a play began to stir inside her – people following a treasure hunt finding terror instead and unable to warn the optimists still coming. Eyes glittering with an imagined future, like something out of a om painting – endless warnings but no one would listen! Hmmm.
Ten minutes to change meant a “whore’s bath” in Ian’s unlovely terminology: just a once over at the sink. She hadn’t brought perfume but the hotel’s lavender and cucumber soap left a pleasant enough scent. She wore the brocade top and the long black velvet skirt – she wouldn’t need the merry widow for that – what a pity she hadn’t thought to purchase a new pair of gold high-heeled sandals. Her old black court pumps would just have to do.
The phone rang: a gentleman awaited her in the lobby. The brocade top came with a matching evening bag – and once she had a room key and a handkerchief she didn’t really need anything else. That, she realized, was because she trusted Pom. He wasn’t a masher or a blackmailing cad – she felt certain he wouldn’t stand her up or strand her anywhere. On the other hand, if the hotel staff wandered in and out of her room at their pleasure, then she needed to add her coin purse and datebook, jut in order to feel confident nothing “truly Scarlet” had been left behind. Just another anonymous hotel room filled with a day’s shopping.
Pom glowed with a fresh shave and a deep crimson tie set off by his dark suit; no paint stains in evidence. Funny, thought Scarlet, we each removed a layer of skin and donned unaccustomed finery to spend the evening together.
“New outfit?” he inquired. “You look smashing.”
The doorman opened the passenger door of his battered Dorset with a flourish and Scarlet climbed in. “I suppose you know what Thoreau said about new clothes,” she teased.
“Thoreau?” He pronounced it “thorough.” “Your naturalist fellow?”
“He was a philosopher. He said to beware enterprises requiring new clothes.”
“I hope you don’t feel that it was truly a requirement,” drawled Pom. “Certainly not by me. You know, we English also have a philosopher: Keats.”
“Oh, and what did he remark?”
“That beauty is its own excuse for being.”
No doorman at Luigi’s, the dark little restaurant in Soho whose shrimp scampi came so highly recommended.
They shared a dark booth, a bottle of chianti and an antipasto salad. Scarlet ate with an appetite.
She supposed any comment about the depthless hunger of breastfeeding Moms would dampen the conversation. Just thinking about Nick made her breasts leak. Perhaps she wouldn’t dry up after all. “Is there anything I should know about this film?”
“No,” said Pom. “Hitchcock introduces the problem very elegantly. A fresh mind is all that’s required.”
“But that’s a lot,” said Scarlet. “Then tell me about the first time you saw it.”
“And the only time. Let’s see: it was two years ago – I just happened on it at The Rialto. The picture of James Stewart with a telephoto camera was intriguing. I think I assumed it was about blackmail, gangsters – you know, typical American. Then I saw the wheelchair.” He grimaced. “You’re tricking me into giving away the plot.”
“I’m not trying to. It’s just hard to get you to talk about yourself.”
“That’s a very English quality. I think we’re raised to be self-deprecating and make fun of ourselves.”
Not Ian, thought Scarlet. He always said no one toots your horn if you’re too shy. Maybe it was a class thing. But she certainly didn’t want to discuss her husband tonight.
“But ask me anything about cricket, shooting, or the ancient Greeks and Romans,” Pom continued. “The joke’s on my parents who spent all their assets qualifying me for a club I don’t care to join. Quantum ille canis in fenestra?”
“Family motto?”
“I suppose it ought to be. How much is that doggy in the window is what it really means.”
Scarlet burst out laughing. “You can see I’m deficient in dead languages.”
“They’re dead for a reason. There’s a credible theory that the English became great conquering explorers just to get away from their bad weather, repellant nannies and disapproving headmasters.”
“I heard something about the pursuit of sunlight. Warm weather.”
“Sadly, it seems we carry our inner darkness with us. All this “white men’s burden” stuff was really about trying to make seemingly happy people as miserable as we were.”
“I love your iconoclastic approach to history,” said Scarlet. “Learning iconoclasm is Artist’s Job #1 in my book.”
“Amen. How else could the whole colonial adventure have gone so horribly wrong? They gave us so much and we gave them so little. Sterno-flavored tea and cricket paddles explains everything.” The scampi was worth waiting for. The shrimp were tiny, but encrusted with garlic and pecorino like so many little nuts.
“This is divine,” gasped Scarlet. “But I’m afraid I’m going to reek. What if they refuse to allow us into a public place?”
“This is Soho,” Pom explained. “Everyone in the theatre will have dined on garlic and onions.” If they had, Scarlet wouldn’t be able to tell, but of course that was the wickedness of garlic.
The film was unexpectedly funny. Scarlet had expected something very dark and shocking but it was in full color and seemed to focus around an entire apartment house of fascinating relationships.
“Like an ant farm,” she whispered to Pom, but his, “Pardon?” seemed to suggest this was just another incomprehensible American reference.
“We used to get ant farms for Christmas,” she explained as the credits rolled. “Dirt encased in glass. You watched ants digging tunnels and rushing their little eggs around.”
“Sounds awful,” said Pom. “I was spared American excitements. It was all nuts, oranges and socks for the likes of us. I think I got a compass one year.”
They were silent until they found themselves sitting in the Dorset on the way to her hotel.
“So what did you think of the film?”
Her mind was bursting with complex impressions.
“Could we stop at a coffee bar? This is going to take some time to hash out fully.”
It was a mews flat – small and tucked away above a car barn.
“You can’t seem to get away from the auto motif,” was Scarlet’s comment as she climbed the steep stairs.
“I do keep my vehicle downstairs,” said Pom, “So it’s right handy.”
It was a cute little space elegantly furnished with modern Scandinavian fittings. Tiny bedroom, tiny bath, a kitchen separated from the lounge by a polished wooden pub top.
“Looks like the only wine available is burgundy,” he said as he uncorked it. “I was cooking boeuf bourguignon last night. Or trying to.”
Scarlet readily accepted a glass. “You cook?”
“I’m taking a cookery class. Let’s say I wish I cooked. I hate interrupting my work to travel out for forage. Ideally, I’d like a big pot au feu I can dip into, but it needs to taste like something other than burned. I see you’ve got the roses back in your cheeks. Ready for the studio?”
She averred that she was ready. The studio was a big empty room on the other side of the stairs – well lit by skylights. Canvases were stacked against the walls and a big unfinished one hung from the ceiling. Pom slung a tarp over it.
“I can’t bear comments before I’m ready,” he said. “I’m sadly impressionable. I always end up seeing it their way, get completely derailed and end up with a buggered mess.”
He tossed some drawings aside and spread the portfolio open on a paint stained table.
She studied the picture before her. The paintings she had previously seen were all about color – these were different. Black and white with a slash of red.
“It’s like… an eye.”
“Yes. Reflections.”
He leafed through the collection slowly. She wasn’t sure she liked them so she didn’t know what to say.
“I know,” he said. “My abstracts are a lot more popular. I suppose your husband’s money – your money – has given me the courage to risk rank unpopularity. I’ve always been rather ashamed of my brushwork so I’m attempting to evolve. Using my palette knife more. I’m playing with – not needing beauty. With … whatever’s the opposite of beauty.”
“They’re scary,” she said finally. Who would have guessed! So unlike his social presentation. He zipped up the portfolio. “I’ll accept that,” he agreed. “Life has a decidedly dark side.”
“Doesn’t it,” she agreed. “When did you…evolve?”
“Truthfully, you had something to do with it.”
Was he blushing? He seemed to be studying her face, looking at her hungrily, as a portraitist looks. Suddenly she regretted the good lighting.
“Lady Scarlet to the Dark Tower Came,” he said softly. “You’ve instigated a good many of my sleepless nights.”
She quivered. She couldn’t face it – turned to flee.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said when he grabbed her shoulders.
“I find it’s best to wait storms out,” he suggested. They stood quietly for a moment. “Then assess the damage. If you’re staying in town, there’s a Hitchcock movie I’d like to see again.”
“Really? Which one?”
“Rear Window.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“Then you should. What’s your favorite meal?”
“Shrimp scampi. Are you going to try to cook it?”
“I most certainly am not. But I do know the perfect Soho restaurant with exactly that specialty. Now you will experience the pleasures of running a car in town.”
“As long,” she said, “As the car doesn’t run you.”
“Touché.” They smiled at each other, relaxed into complete understanding. Somehow the dreadful moment had been averted. She wants…she doesn’t want… how could Scarlet explain herself to herself, let alone anyone else?
“Now let’s see – where’s this estate agent?” He studied the card. “That’s almost Kensal Green. Let’s check you into the hotel and then I’ll run you over.”
She didn’t argue. When the English said, they would run you over they offered a favor, not a traffic accident. She trusted him more each minute. His company felt like a benison.
Why was she so completely certain “everything would work out?” The confidence Pom lent her must surely be misplaced. Squarely faced, the facts were bad. Ian had a girlfriend – that was terrible enough. Worse, he had met her in a London hotel. And when he came home, he was not interested in sex with his wife. Could she ever get the old Ian back? Did she want him?
She stepped thoughtfully into Pom’s 1950 Austin Dorset two-seater. The bucket seats were so low it was as if they sat directly on the road.
“Do I get goggles with this thing?” she queried.
Pom laughed as she tied up her hair.
The Cumberland was huge, impersonal. They seemed unconcerned about single ladies. No one cared that she had only a dressing case, and no one watched Pom carry it to her room. “I’m not tipping you,” she said.
“Yes, you are,” he insisted. “By coming to dinner with me. It will have to be early because of the film. Six o’clock?”
Could she choose a flat in four hours? How could she still contemplate a London flat? Yet one seemed preferable to The Dark Tower she realized. It functioned as some kind of promise that she wouldn’t be abandoned in the country with a baby while her husband swanned about ordering room service.
She was ten minutes late to the estate agent’s, but as Pom had insisted, estate agents don’t care. After all, it was only young Jane Lumley and her very elderly father who seemed more like her grandfather. Jane was fresh, pretty, a real English rose. Scarlet looked at her sadly with Ian’s eyes.
Was there any girl left in the universe whom she could trust her husband not to desire?
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!
Because Ian’s train came in at the dinner hour, Scarlet hoped to turn the event into a sorely needed romantic date. Fern agreed to look after Nicholas if Scarlet dropped the baby off in his carrycot at her parents’ home. Fern’s mother oohed and aahed over Nicholas and offered to give him a bottle of warm, diluted condensed milk if he cried.
She seemed so motherly Scarlet agreed. It was glorious to be set free for the evening, to imagine herself young and carefree with her whole life ahead of her. Those had been such good, such memorable days – she needed their nostalgic power to propel her through this crisis. When she dared to fall for an acknowledged heartbreaker, she told herself his bad reputation had grown out of disappointed spite. Every girl was attracted by Ian’s glamor but it was the shy American girl who had captured his heart.
She had dressed carefully for this evening. Technically they weren’t supposed to “go all the way” tonight but what could twenty-four hours possibly matter? A whisper of the forbidden could spice up routine. According to Scarlet’s thinking this was the second time the future of their relationship required her to throw caution to the winds.
She wore a low cut glittery velvet top – tight, her nursing bra pushing her newly inflated breasts upward. Now that she possessed such a pair of gaudy bosoms she might as well flaunt them. Her black velvet skirt was a bit long, forcing her to wear heels, but Ian liked high heels anyway – didn’t all men? If they danced high heels guaranteed they’d be cheek to cheek. Careful makeup, swinging gold leaf earrings, a fleecy wrap and her pale hair brushed fine and down. She had certainly caused favorable remark at Fern’s house:
“Smashing!” declared Fern’s brother.
She needed this confidence, she realized, as she waited for the train.
The train was on time and she was a bit discouraged to see Ian step out of the dining car, his cheeks lit with comfort and good living, talking and laughing in a gaggle of male strangers. He waved goodbye as she flashed her lights at him, then she climbed out of the station wagon. “I hardly recognized you,” he offered.
She hoped it was meant as a compliment but didn’t feel sure. She clambered, heels skittering across the icy cobblestones.
“Steady on!” He grabbed her elbow. “Did you start the celebration without me?”
That’s my line, she thought, almost angrily. “No, I made reservations Sous les Arbres. I thought we deserved a night out. How about you?”
“Suits me,” he said, answering the wrong question, but she left it at that. At least he hadn’t dented his appetite which was something to be grateful for. And he didn’t seem visibly impaired. She must firmly reject that role of critical wife, Xantippe to a pathetic Socrates. Probably he’d had no more than a Guinness. Or two. Drink rounds were a rigid English social requirement in the club car ethos – especially if the “friends” were new.
Scarlet plunged ahead – straight, she hoped, into their shared new life.
“So, tell me the good news! I’m dying to know!”
“I got the job!” he said, grinding the gears into reverse. “It’s a great opportunity. They love my modern mythology series idea. “Jupiter in Your Office!” They ate it up. They created a brand new position, just for me, based on me bringing in all my contacts. Director of New Programming. Fresh people, fresh ideas – cultivating movers and shakers. If we make it our business to know everyone it guarantees our place at the top of the game.”
“Oh honey, I’m so glad!” and she kissed him. It really had worked out all right, then, after all. Buying this impossible house in the country hadn’t been the end of everything, but a more exciting beginning. Sister India had been entirely wrong – she just didn’t understand the English system of presentation, perks, honors and rewards.
“Tell you what, you go up tomorrow and look at flats,” he said.
“What can we afford? What are they paying you?”
“That’s not settled but it’ll be something pretty generous. Should we call the Pourfoyles so you can stay over? They offered.”
Did that mean he had seen them?
“I don’t want to be away from Nick overnight. I think I should take him along.”
“Oh Scarlet, stop being such a sentimental American squaw. Face it, the English have a much better system. You wean that baby and give him to Fern. Or Ina. Or somebody.”
Scarlet certainly would not do that but she knew this was not a good time to argue the point. They had arrived at the restaurant where it was time to surrender their battered old car to the valet. “Pas devant les domestiques,” said Scarlet and Ian had the grace to laugh.
They enjoyed a lovely meal. Snails followed by steak Diane set flaming in the pan, and a fine old Bollinger to drink it all down. Scarlet thought one glass was all she could manage – after all her abstemious days, wine seemed to soar straight to her head.
Ian talked about all the new people he was meeting – important people with “royal connections” looking to him to “set the tone.” “They’re planning to really build me up!”’
The champagne gave him the confidence to say, “Margalo really has no idea of quality. I believe I could sell them any damn thing. We should tart up your verse play and pretend we’ve just discovered it.”
“Margalo?” asked Scarlet sharply. She ordered coffee with her cheese. Café americaine. They served espresso instead. Oh well, thought Scarlet, I don’t want to fall asleep immediately anyway.
“Margalo Chalmers,” said Ian. “She’s the one who hired me. Don’t be jealous Scarlet old girl, she’s an unspeakably hideous old lesbian.”
Scarlet knew there was no guarantee whatever that this was true. Margalo was doubtless a perfectly presentable thirty-five-year old businesswoman. Ian had probably flirted with her shamelessly. Scarlet accepted the driving duties as they tottered, flushed, out into the night.
Fern’s Mom – who seemed to have commandeered the baby care – said she thought Nick’s diaper rash was “keeping him awake” and she had “taken the liberty” of applying some ointment the locals swore by. Scarlet sniffed at Nicholas like a mother wolf – she couldn’t help herself – had these people “altered” her child? She thought it much more likely that Nick was exhausted from being passed around to strangers when he should be getting his rest.
The “baby minders” were thanked and coins changed hands, then just at the door Ian announced, “Scarlet’s going up to town –“
“I don’t know,” Scarlet interrupted almost ferociously. “We’ll see.”
As Ian helped her and carrycot into the car he said, “See what problems you make for yourself? That nice lady would love having a “babby” to look after!”
Scarlet hissed at him angrily. “They won’t even tell us what they used to treat our child! Could be deadly nightshade for all you know.”
“Hardly, if all the locals have been using it for years. There can’t be anything dangerous in the preparation or it would never have lasted this long. Naturally they keep their secret recipes proprietary. You should consider partnering with Mrs. Mugle to sell Failsafe Babby Ointment to every woman in Britain – that would be a lot more lucrative than verse plays.”
There was so much umbrage to take at this sentence Scarlet didn’t know where to start, so she chose the better path and said nothing. By the time they got home she would hopefully be calmed down enough to get their “special evening” back on track.
“What I hear you saying,” Ian went on in his most reasonable-sounding way as the car rattled around the corner onto the main road, “Is that you need help but you also want to do everything yourself in your own way.”
Horribly, he was right. Her continued silence would sound like sulking.
“I’m the one who chose Mrs. Mugle,” she said. “At least let’s see if this magic ointment really works before we try her again.”
But if she asked Mrs. Mugle to put aside her own maternal instincts how good a job of baby-minding could she possibly do? Resentment and secrecy must follow any such request. Anyway, Scarlet had really signed on for the services of Fern – who had been nowhere in sight. Scarlet feared these local coven mothers with their unscientific, outdated superstitions. She couldn’t be too careful with her only child.
“Americans fuss too much over their children and then they all grow up weak, delinquent and neurotic,” Ian accused comfortably. “In our country, we don’t believe in all this indulgence and fetishizing.”
Once again Scarlet could barely control herself. Who could possibly be more neurotic than any aristocratic twit nursing his entitlement or for that matter an Angry Young Man seeking fame by proclaiming his grievance? But she knew she couldn’t say this – Ian would only tell her she didn’t know anything about it and the fight would be on. That was NOT her plan for the evening. “I’m bushed,” said Ian, pulling off his tie as she tucked Nicholas into his crib. “I’ll take the guest bath.”
She heard the water running, but she also heard voices. Creeping down the hall she saw he had taken the hall telephone into the bathroom with him and closed the door.
Who could he possibly be calling at this hour? Margalo? Candi? Someone she didn’t even know about? This was insufferable. She’d bitten her tongue all evening, now secret phone calls were too much. The moment for intimacy with her husband– on this night of nights – had passed. Intimacy with her son was all she had left. Too bad her milk seemed to have dried up.
“You can reach me at The Royal Grenadier Hotel” – and he was gone. Leaving her to muse ruefully on all these new positional changes in their relationship.
Hadn’t she always leaned on his preferences and decisiveness? Was it possible that – after all – she HAD masked her true self from her husband and only now was it beginning to emerge? No. She had masked her true self from herself. And it was understandable – the future was aspirational – one yearned to become a “certain somebody.’ It was only later that you found some doors were closed – always would be closed because you yourself really didn’t want them. Really didn’t.
Did this work for men as well, she wondered? Did they know their real selves so little? Ian had been raised with certain expectations – to ‘rise in the world,’ for example – which he was fulfilling. But women were encouraged to adapt in a way men were not and so inevitably, they looked for someone to adapt to.
If Ian’s real, poetic self had yet to emerge she was certain the revelation would take a very long time. It could only happen after he had tried his dream of castle ownership, BBC employment and ‘partying with the right people” – and found it wanting. It could be, Scarlet realized, a very long wait.
She had thought she knew him so well that she could have said exactly what he was thinking at any given moment and that made him the only man for her. But she was beginning to realize that no couple can really know each other because the challenges of marriage itself – of parenthood – must mold their characters. An unchanged soul would be shallow and undesirable for that very reason. They had always been on a journey; it remained to be seen whether they could travel together.
She recalled Ian on their very first date saying as she dithered over Indian food, “Don’t over-cerebrate. Lean on me. That’s what I’m here for.”
Those words – so erotic at the time – now seemed appalling. Naturally, it wasn’t just his words but his face and body, his gorgeously explosive masculinity, the testosterone that dripped off him like cologne – turning both her head and heart. She had suddenly felt confident of reveling in the utter relaxation she required for erotic satisfaction. She could float – she could surrender.
Now she was finding out what exactly what it was she had surrendered to. They had both used her “American optimism” as fuel to stabilize his “English pessimism”. She had literally been the making of him. And she had given herself to the enjoyment of every moment.
Until now. Now she felt unpleasantly certain that he had dismissed her from his mind as he boarded the train. He was whistling. Whistling was his “tell”. Long ago he’d criticized her “bad” poker face, that American refusal to create a social personality – calling out her “giveaways” of furrowed brow and trembling lip. Because he positioned himself as the expert it hadn’t seemed appropriate to explain to him that he had “tells” of his own – an overly rigid “poker face” for example! Only used while playing poker! And the whistling. That was worse. It meant he was going hunting. And looking forward to it.
Having Ian gone was a relief in at least one way – no regular meals. Much easier to diet — “slimming” the Brits called it. Ian loved fried breakfasts, relished cheese, desired iced cakes, dreamed about “old-fashioned English teas” with the “top of the cream”, demanded a constant supply of sandwiches, sweeties and savories. He considered a castle owner entitled to nuts served with his port. It was dangerous (and expensive!) keeping up with him and Scarlet knew she daren’t try. She couldn’t eat any of it and lose this bulky baby weight. Since she couldn’t match him indulgence for indulgence she might as well make up her mind to monastic living.
Ian was a tall man, a big man, perhaps running a bit to fat these days, in the belly, in the chin, but to Scarlet’s loving eyes he was only that much more powerful and desirable now that his solid middle matched his massive shoulders.
The easiest things to give up were alcohol and meat: chocolate was the stumbling block. She treasured that cup of cocoa at bedtime too much to surrender it. Another American habit! She had been sleeping badly, listening to Nicholas cycling through his moods. She required comfort to confront these cooling nights.
The day after Ian left it snowed – the first snow she had seen in England, a country which had previously been uniformly cold, wet, dank and gray. This snow was white, full, American in its lushness. But who could she share it with?
The Royal Grenadier had no telephones in rooms, so she left messages that were never returned. Finally, after four days, a telegram.
“Good news. Home 22 6:15. Love, Ian”.
Scarlet sighed with relief. On the 23rd it would be six weeks since Nicholas’ birth. She had marked that calendar date with a rose.
Ian continued to surprise her. He stood looking down on her humorously, but distantly, as if he were visiting from somewhere else. He had a long smooth patter prepared about how he had occupied himself while in London: cultivating television executives, meeting the right people, offering services, making pitches, being…himself.
Scarlet found this naked pursuit of cash so repellant that she asked no questions, accepting it at face value. What else could she do? They needed money to live. She had agreed to live in this house, she had willingly added an extra mouth to feed. He was her husband, the father of her baby and she needed to accept and support his ideas. In aid of this charm offensive, Ian informed her that he had invited weekend guests.
“Show off your accomplishments,” he oozed, “Let them see we’re a package deal.” To Scarlet it seemed strangely as if his sudden need of her hostessing shifted the power balance between them.
Scarlet wished he’d waited for Nicholas to recover from night-screaming colic before entertaining. She also knew he didn’t want her to become the kind of woman who talked endlessly about baby’s digestive and bowel complaints. Ian had planned a life above the muck and so far she had failed him. But muck was artist’s fertilizer! For the first time in her marriage she felt the need to learn negotiation; or at least some basic bargaining skills.
“If I can have some help with the food,” she requested. “I don’t want to be stuck in the kitchen while you entertain the guests.”
He was smart enough to realize that it was his own insistence on keeping the dining room separate from the kitchen had let him in for this so he capitulated almost immediately. “What kind of help?”
“Remember those dreamy trifles Pom served? They were made by Mrs. Ryquist over at the pub.” “I like your cooking,” he complained, his argument weakened by the fact that this was the first she’d heard it. She pushed her advantage.
“I’ll be doing plenty of cooking. Let’s order fill-ins, say, a ham, some soup, a trifle and a cake for starters. Think how helpful that will be.”
Ian knew when he was beaten. “Whatever you want”.
David and Candianna Pourfoyle were the very couple to whom they’d sublet their tiny flat – Scarlet felt at first relieved when Ian mentioned their names. At least it was someone she knew!
“A practice run,” said Ian, “Polishing our routine before inviting The Big Guns.”
The more Scarlet thought about this, the more unsettled she felt. She even had the paranoid thought: What if the subletting happenstance was planned behind her back and not, as she had assumed, random?
Was this sense of having undergone a radical sea-change what being a new young mother was all about? Scarlet shuddered at even trying to find her sea-legs in this new world when she felt so personally raw and physically overwhelmed.
She had met the Pourfoyles only once it and they seemed so nice – he taught literature and she had some kind of art gallery job – a sublet was all they could afford. Newlyweds are foreigners to each other anyway and these two had been born in different countries. The similarities to Scarlet’s and Ian’s background only made them more simpatico.
David was younger than Candianna and Canadian – they’d actually met on an Atlantic crossing – she was from one of those Balkan countries perpetually at war and seemed in need of a safe harbor. David seemed like a sweet, gentle man ready to be a hero – in this case rescuing Candi from a dreadful marriage with a violent man. Candi had actually been married three times previously – Scarlet assumed that to women of Candi’s birth culture marriage was simply an escape.
“Candi” wasn’t even her real name – she had re-named herself but didn’t Americans love re-invention? Scarlet thought she could have picked a better name. But if English wasn’t your first language, wouldn’t you make just that type of error?
Eventually she discovered a way to look forward to the weekend, singing as she planned guest room drapes, cushions and bedcoverings. Deep plum crewel work on a rough, almost canvas backing – courtesy of Tatiana Designs, another little shop she had discovered in Oakhampton. She’d coveted everything there but she couldn’t afford the clothes – the furnishings were being sold off cheap so Tatiana could concentrate on fashion. “We sell direct to Montcalm Clothiers,” Tatiana had bragged.
This emporium seemed good place to guide Ian to when he was looking for a present. He had previously revealed a boring tendency to settle for ho-hum gifts like perfume and necklaces purchased at jewelry stalls. He couldn’t go wrong at Tatiana Designs and even Tatiana herself was interesting, although her Russian accent might be as fake as her Egyptian makeup. But why quibble with poseurs if they made life more fun? They were artists mastering their material.
Candi and David arrived on a Thursday night. They expressed satisfactory appreciation of the house, oohing and aahing at just the right moments and David, thankfully, was a non-smoking light drinker.
“You’re very brave, bringing children into the world, what with the bomb and all,” said Candi. Scarlet, who smiled encouragingly, privately dismissed her as not very bright.
“They’re hard to avoid,” said Ian with unnecessary gloom.
“I’d love having kidlets someday,” David contributed. Poor David. There was something so pathetic about him. Why was Scarlet so certain he never would have kidlets, or really, much of anything at all? He was such a follower.
Scarlet waved a hand at the spiral staircase. “My study’s up there,” she said. An irresistible brag. Candi became goggle-eyed. “I’d love to see it.”
“It’s not fit to be seen.” Truth was, it was just too private. But why did she feel so uncomfortable declaring it off-limits? Because hostesses were obligated to throw open all the doors and welcome anybody in? Scarlet shuddered at the thought of other people’s hands touching sheets of her half-baked ideas – those ideas would be blighted forever. She would never be able to get back to them. It was like people asking you to bathe in front of them. “Don’t mind us!”
“Oh, please,” said Candi and David took her arm restrainingly. Did it come from being foreign, this cluelessness? English as a seventh language?
“At least tell me the color scheme,” said Candi. “I’m psychic about colors.”
“Red and purple,” said Scarlet, suddenly deciding that she really quite disliked this woman. Who wouldn’t be repulsed by her strange trick of bugging out her eyes like a starving Pekingese? It was so corny, so fake, reminiscent of bad hypnotists and unpersuasive stage magic. Did men really fall for this kind of thing? And yet both David and Ian looked at her as a mongoose might gaze at a snake.
“Red for Scarlet,” said Candi. “How unexpected.” Perhaps she wasn’t clueless after all.
A dinner out, a dinner in, two breakfasts, one lunch and another at the station in Oakhampton – Scarlet had never realized how much trouble guests really were. Their small London flat had prevented them from ever having company.
Candi claimed to eat “nothing” yet she was a fount of complaints and requisitions: “China tea, never Indian,” “Can’t abide garlic”; “No tree nuts”; “Cucumbers don’t agree with me” – it would be easier to just show her the kitchen and tell her to forage. Scarlet refrained from pointing out that she must partake occasionally – you didn’t get substantial hips and breasts like those without tucking in. It did turn out that she was very fond of scones with Devonshire clotted cream. Starches and sweets! So that was the secret!
David at least ate heartily, behaving as if he was on a gastronomic vacation, and assisted with the washing up while Ian, who pretended to assist, regaled them with his stories. Candi watched him with overly shiny eyes. She must spruce up her makeup every twenty minutes, thought Scarlet.
The red wine vanished immediately; Scarlet had reason to be grateful for the Grüner Veltliner. She made a mental note to thank Pom again. He would never get any other benefit – Ian accepted all the credit and relished the opportunity to show off his knowledge of Austrian wine.
“I usually buy Traminer but this is drinkable,” he opined. It was all Scarlet could do not to roll her eyes. Fortunately, Candi picked up any and all conversational slack, talking endlessly about her gallery job. She passed around tickets and cards to multiple openings and receptions – painters – all male of course – who seemingly enjoyed picturing women as corpses, robots and birds of prey. Scarlet began to feel the pressure that had triggered some of Pom’s re-envisioning. Moving with the herd was deadly.
On their guests’ last night Scarlet was yawning and ready for bed at eight o’clock. With monumental effort, she held out till eight-thirty.
“I think I’ll feed Nick and turn in myself,” she suggested.
Candi said, “You must be very devoted to risk spoiling your figure.”
“And a lovely figure it is,” David toasted her “To the cook!”
None of it felt complimentary.
Would Ian EVER come to bed? She awoke at two o’clock with a sense of dread. He wasn’t there, and though his side of the comforter seemed disturbed she could have done that herself, tossing and turning while escaping The Dark Tower. At last she rose, donned a pink paisley wrap and drifted downstairs with the excuse of re-filling her hot water bottle.
She could hear whispering but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. She took advantage of the time the kettle took to boil to wander from room to room and as she moved the whispering stopped. Could it be coming from the undercroft – the “crypt” in Pom’s parlance? But it was so cold and uncomfortable down there. If they were getting wine why didn’t they come back? And who required wine at breakfast? Maybe it was just the wind she was hearing.
But Nick’s cry was unmistakable – she filled her bottle and rushed to feed and change him before he woke the house. As if the house had ever been asleep!
Alysse Aallyn 