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!
Scarlet was rather hoping Ian would be jealous when he found out about her dinner party, but sadly, she turned out to be the jealous one. She could hear him whistling as he came in the front door and she rushed in to meet him so he wouldn’t wake the baby.
He was waving a thousand pound cheque from his father’s account. Scarlet caught a glimpse of Nicholas’ name in the memo line before Ian whisked it away.
“For the baby?”
“Of course, for the baby!” Ian seemed irked. “Everything’s for the baby, which is to say it’s for us.”
Scarlet hoped Ian’s father wasn’t under the impression that he was starting some special bank fund for Nicholas but feared he probably did. Ian often misled people about the finer points of his spending, implying he was a saver and an investor when he most assuredly was not. However, protecting Ian’s parents could not be her concern when she had too much on her plate already.
At exactly that moment, Ida and Fern – riding with her grandmother today, thank God – showed up and Scarlet made the introduction. An expression of coy simpering Scarlet had previously imagined and dreaded did appear on Fern’s face – reflecting her babysitter’s appraisal that Ian was a fine figure of a man. But even worse from Scarlet’s point of view was the expression on Ian’s face. In spite of the girl’s youth, he paid clear tribute to her beauty.
“Challenging your game,” Ian murmured, digging an elbow into Scarlet’s side. She had to struggle to keep from rolling her eyes. In what universe could she and a rural seventeen-year-old school leaver ever be rivals? She tried telling him about her dinner with Pom but he yawned with boredom. She could only hope he wasn’t as mentally finished with her as he obviously was with Pom. Ian considered a case of wine no more than his due -“He owes us” and when she mentioned the cherry tart he poked her middle and said jestingly, “No more of that for you!”
But he really got under her skin when he called Pom a “poofter.”
“Surely you can tell,” he drawled. No hope making him jealous of Pomeroy Bronfen!
She wanted to argue the point, but realized it made her ridiculous. She honestly DIDN’T know – the only “evidence” she actually had that Pom appreciated ladies was the way he had made her feel – beautiful, interesting and intelligent. She stomped away in a huff which all too obviously gratified Ian.
With Fern present she could at least go to her tower room and write. But she didn’t want to. She needed to get out of this house. She resolved to visit the bookshop Pom had mentioned and locate a copy of Perrault’s fairytales.
“The Fruitful Browser” turned out to be Scarlet’s favorite kind of shop – from the tray of books outside to the shelves inside it was crammed with interesting finds. Not for the first time Scarlet asked herself, ‘Why should I bother to write when there’s so much to read?”
The only thing she didn’t like was that she was alone in the store. Usually bookshops swarmed with incompetent help, though in this case the lone leonine woman behind the desk asked, “Anything I can help you with?”
She looked to be in her 60’s with a big blunt face, broad nose, no makeup, and curly grey streaked hair streaming out around her like a nimbus.
“Perrault’s Fairytales?” Scarlet asked. “In English. Er – adult version.”
The woman tossed up a corner of the countertop and hasted out to shake her hand. “Welcome,” she said. “I’m Francesca Joringel. Follow me.”
Her broad, booted, stumpy body was swathed in shawls. As they walked, Scarlet noticed the shop was carefully arranged and labeled – “Poetry”, “Literature,” “Biography” and some unusual ones: “Bloody Mystery” “Bloodless Mystery” and “American Crime.”
Bet she knows what a paradigm shift is, thought Scarlet.
They had arrived at “Story Therapy.” “Story Therapy?”
Francesca – “Call me Fran” – turned to face her.
“You are perhaps familiar with Viktor Frankl’s book Man’s Search for Meaning? No? Oh, every visitor to my shop who’s unfamiliar with that book gets a free copy. This shelf represents all my research for my forthcoming tome; Woman’s Search for Meaning.” She waved a hand. “I use folk-tales to back up my theories.”
“Which is?” questioned Scarlet.
“Frankl’s experience at Auschwitz convinced him that terrible experiences can be borne only when we comprehend the meaning that they have for us. Story therapy builds on that – it isn’t my own idea. Six years ago, I was living in London at the point of despair and I was fortunate to encounter a Hungarian psychoanalyst – she was a Jungian – who believed with stories we can foretell the future.”
Scarlet was feeling a bit overwhelmed by this and found herself suddenly needing to sit down. Luckily benches, stools – and in this case an upright kitchen chair – were sprinkled around the store.
“She taught me to apply these stories to the great question: how shall I live? Psychoanalysis is not only about coming to terms with the past, but planning for the future.” She dimpled unexpectedly. “Enjoy.”
Scarlet was glad she needn’t suffer scrutiny as she opened book after book and studied their contents. She settled on Grimm’s Fairytales – faintly remembered, and a large version of Perrault, heavily illustrated.
Fran was waiting for her at the counter with a threadbare paperback of the Frankl book. “Would you like to be on our mailing list for future events?”
“I certainly would,” said Scarlet, and entered name and address in a ponderous volume. It was a warm comfort knowing that Pom had been there before her.
That night a poem came to her.
Sister Anne in the Dark Tower
How you jumped When I upbraided you! Your sightless spyglass – a Sham panopticon – Can’t answer Spirit’s Questions. Summon the Ouija board and Let’s play cards Toss the dice like lovers; If you win I’ll be Forever celibate; Prisoned in an oculus Heated by Rage and Prophecy.
Pom insisted on bringing dinner from the pub – chicken Kiev, green beans with almonds, cherry tart and a case of Gruner Veltliner. “I remember how much you liked it. And that you have a wine cellar.”
“This will be the first wine in it,” said Scarlet.
He carried the case down himself to what he called “the crypt” and racked the bottles while Scarlet studied his strong arms. You didn’t get arms like that from painting – was he a rower? When he turned unexpectedly she knew she must be blushing violently but prayed he couldn’t see it in the gloaming.
He condescended to take a perfunctory peek at the sleeping baby
“Looks like General Eisenhower,” was his comment.
“He does not! Eisenhower never had that lovely tuft of hair!”
“Babies aren’t my purview,” admitted Pom. “Makes me feel like one of those pygmies who can’t see into photographs.”
“He’s changed so much already,” Scarlet confided as they tiptoed out. “He was so long and stringy when he was born – now he’s all compacted. It’s his greediness – he’s a greedy little piglet.”
“I don’t blame him,” said Pom, obscurely. “Life lies virgin all before him.”
Now THAT was a masculine thing to say. Because they were already upstairs she took him to the Tower room, not admitting it was her first visit since Nick’s birth. Luckily the stairs did not seem so hard to climb. And even luckier, the room appeared invitingly glamorous. Not dusty at all.
“This is astonishing,” said Pom. “You can’t think how you alleviate my guilt over selling you this behemoth. Those stairs are a particularly clever addition.”
“Perhaps it’s a case of win-win,’ she suggested. Pom had to have this very American concept explained to him.
“What a revolutionary notion,” he agreed. “We imperialists take it for granted there must be gluttons and losers in any transaction.”
“It’s not popular,” Scarlet admitted.
Pom started up a new subject, one closer to Scarlet’s heart. “I envy your ability to create with a view like this,” he said. “I couldn’t do it.”
“I haven’t written anything yet,” she confessed at the sight of the immaculate desk and the paperless table. “But now that I’ve acquired a babysitter I swear I’m just about to start.”
But Pom was clearly thinking other thoughts.
But it was the windows that drew Pom. She distinctly heard tears in his throat as he said, “You’ve done it. This was the way it was always meant to be. No longer a widow’s walk – it’s become a panopticon.”
Scarlet was aghast at these comparisons.
“Widow’s walk? Panopticon? Those are horrible examples. I think of it as the eye of the house. The oculus.”
But Pom wasn’t through yet with his horrible examples.
“You can’t see anything through an oculus,” he said mercilessly.
She said, “Then why did I buy it?”
She saw him hesitate before bringing up the unpleasant subject. “You didn’t buy it. The house is in your husband’s name alone.”
He turned as if to deliberately miss her violent blush. “I thought it was strange at the time…for an American wife.”
I must have known this, thought Scarlet. Surely something could be done. After all, I wasn’t there, so my signature was not required. So why am I so upset? Because a stranger pointed it out? Or was it because it was THIS particular stranger?
“I didn’t choose the house,” she agreed, proud that her voice sounded calm. “But I like it.”
He continued looking out the windows. “You weren’t at all what I expected.”
She sat down on the slipper chair, breath suddenly knocked out of her body. “And what did you expect?”
“I suppose an efficient young woman from a cookery advertisement.” “But would Ian marry such a girl?” She smiled.
At last he turned to look at her, and sat down on the desk chair. “I’d like to read your work.”
“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place.” She rose, laughing, opened a trunk and removed a copy of her poetry chapbook, Thistledom. “Be sure to let me know what you think. Somehow I’m sure you won’t hold back.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “I can tell you like the criticism better than the praise.”
“One learns more,” she agreed.
“You’re so right. My recent show had a reviewer who said my pictures were pretty colors.”
“God!” Her jaw dropped. “What an awful thing to say!”
“It certainly had an effect on me. I’ve worked in black and white ever since. Just last week I began adding a bit of blue.”
She was still standing so he too rose, and looking out the windows said mockingly, “Save me, save me, Sister Anne,” And he pointed down the long stretch of road towards the gate. “Don’t you see her riding?”
“Who?” Scarlet felt a flutter almost of panic. Curiosity or dread or both? Where was that quote coming from? Was he about to reveal some horrible tale about the house they had permanently bankrupted themselves to buy? Hauntings? Murders? Wastings away? If there was such a story, she knew she must hear it, even if it broke her.
He turned his pale-eyed, narrow blond face towards her and she thought for a moment what a type he was. Everyone’s picture of clueless, useless English aristocracy – so unlike her handsome, Northern, rugged husband.
“Bluebeard. The Perrault fairytale. Surely you know it.”
“I guess French fairytales aren’t my purview,” she mocked him, she who had been dragged forwards and back through Norse mythology by her husband and was still feeling somewhat bitter about it.
Pom had the grace to laugh, but then stung her again. “You know Disney, with the singing mice. Oakhampton has a lovely bookshop – the Fruitful Browser, which concentrates on folktales. But here’s the short version – Bluebeard used to kill his wives and lock the corpses in a forbidden room, but his last wife – Barbara, I think her name was – found it. He was going to kill her but her sister Anne rescued her. From the top of the house she summoned Sister Anne and saw her riding in. Do you have a sister?”
Scarlet felt like a ship heaving in a storm but she was determined to remain upright. This man was interesting, but difficult. Definitely interesting. Definitely difficult. Possibly dangerous – was he probing for a weakness?
“India. Older sister. No brothers.”
“As an only child, I envy you,” he said, looking as if he really did not. “Sister India, Sister India” – doesn’t quite have that ring. Pomeroy was my mother’s name – she was an earl’s daughter and so I must blame snobbery. Where did your parents come up with your exotic names?”
After the embarrassment of Disney, she was not going to admit to her mother’s addiction to Gone With the Wind, so she provided a quotation of her own, “Oh, brave new world. Americans like everything fresh. We create ourselves. You know how it is.” “I can only imagine,” he said. “I’m so jealous.”
It was past time to return downstairs. She obscurely felt she’d been put through a wringer but Gruner Veltliner and music were sufficient to transform their rocky start into comfortable relaxation. Death and the Maiden played on the gramophone was a big success. Pom admitted he’d never heard it. “I thought Schubert was a waste of time. It certainly sounds very modern.” They listened while they ate.
“You’re the only girl I know who doesn’t try to fill silences with useless cocktail chatter,” he said. Another backhanded compliment? Another scorched heir! She could have told the truth – that her mouth was too full to speak because she was so greedy for delicious food she hadn’t cooked – except that her mouth was full to explain even that! She decided to focus on the word “girl”. That must be a compliment – in her short experience strange men backed away from mothering females as if fearful of a paternity accusation. Scarlet still qualified as “young”. Even though she was now a mother she planned to be a girl for at least a few more years.
“Lovely food,” she sighed, instead.
Over coffee they relaxed enough to discuss their favorite films and books.
“Oh, Hitchcock,” said Pom. “Hardboiled crime. Because of the paradigm shifts, for me it’s thrillers all the way.”
He was full of surprises.
“What’s a paradigm shift?”
“A dramatic re-visioning. Very applicable to artists. Speaking of what’s fresh, – oh brave new world – artists need to SEE differently, be reborn – at least every other day.”
“Like letting go of color. Yes, it’s also true of poets,” Scarlet added. “You don’t dare to ever be comfortable. Emily Dickinson calls it seeing “aslant.” If poets ignore that they get all stodgy. Like Wordsworth.”
“And naturally society likes things stodgy. Likes and wants. Necessary for pigeonholing.”
“And that’s just what an artist DOESN’T want.” She suddenly had the wild idea to discuss the germination of her possible novel with him, but of course she dared not. Possibly a pigeon hole might result – and if one did, it would prove impossible to rest inside with any comfort. She changed the subject, avoiding the dangerous corner like any good hostess.
“I don’t know much Hitchcock but I enjoyed The Lady Vanishes. My favorite is Iris Murdoch. She’s not that good with the paradigm shifts but she does create believable, interesting universes to lose yourself in. I value particularly the way she meanders on and on. One Murdoch will last me anywhere. She could write a book that never ends and it would be all right with me.”
“What a surrealist and philosopher you are – a book without an end. I’ll have to give her a try. But if you didn’t see Notorious or North By Northwest they’re worth going up to London for – much better than any play.”
“What is it exactly that you like about them? You know already the paradigm shift is coming.” He considered.
“His layers of revelation are so elegantly arranged – like a mille-feuille.”
“Is it the pastry you prefer or the cream?” She felt certain no man would admit to preferring the cream.
“I like the way the each plays off against each other.”
He’s so interesting! she thought appreciatively. How unexpected! Could I have I found a friend? Would Ian be jealous? Is it possible for such an exciting man – who responds to me with such awareness of my femininity – to really be a woman’s friend? Instead she said, “Sounds like Iris Murdoch to me!”
“But not if she takes too long getting around to it. Thrillers have to be constructed like this piece of music – they’ve got somewhere to go and they hurry you along. Is your poetry anything like Murdoch?”
“I doubt you’ll think so. Like you, I was getting into a bit of a rut. That’s why I had a baby,” she teased him, “To improve my verse.”
He laughed and laughed. All in all it was a most successful evening.
Fern revealed herself to be young & friendly, garnished with many local references Scarlet resolved to check. Scarlet doubted she’d hear anything against this fresh new face, as she could sense that the country people closed rank against city folk. But she also couldn’t prevent the mounting of a slow, inexorable excitement. Wouldn’t it be heavenly to get back to her desk, especially now that she had such a glamorous new desk to get back to? Did that mean she was a bad mother, failing to bond with her child?
Back when she was a young teenager, shuffled off to a distant and disapproving male psychiatrist for “adjustment issues”, Scarlet grew a very healthy skepticism of mental health practitioners. They all seemed intent on fitting everyone into some grey flannel or Betty Crocker slot no artist could possibly accept. She wanted to get to know and to feel confident in taking care of her new baby, but certainly a couple silent, sacred hours to herself every day was not too much to ask. A bigger problem was feeling well enough to climb those stairs. She wasn’t there yet, and Ida had refused to clean “Up beyond” because “I don’t trust Rocco’s jury-rigged steps.”
Scarlet promised to take care of that part of the house herself. It was better to never need worry about moved or missing papers. Until then she could use her two or three hours a day for a walk and a nap. That sounded luxurious enough.
She needed peace and privacy to think about the novel she might write, something publishers might buy. So far, her only subject was Ian’s courtship of the shy American girl, heart bruised from oppressively football and career-oriented boyfriends searching for “the perfect wife” and subjecting all comers to a gamut of contortionist sexual and social auditions.
This had been followed by an Atlantic crossing with too much alcohol and too many foreign males in “smash and grab” modality. If young men were “angry” about women who expected commitment to fatherhood, didn’t young women also have grounds for rage at their predicament? The problem really was the “happy ending” every woman Scarlet knew of was seeking; a safe place to raise her children. But those “happy endings” only occurred in “Romantic novels”, something Ian refused to ever acknowledge. “Happy endings are unrealistic.” He insisted important literature had always been written by and for males. No Charlotte Bronte, no Virginia Woolf; he wouldn’t even accept Jane Austen.
Now Scarlet was finding herself increasingly bemused by Ian’s rather strange reaction to the birth of his son. He definitely seemed to consider Nicholas a competitor, even if he wouldn’t admit it – and also that Scarlet had been somehow tarnished by this birth. If she could rise above her kneejerk reaction of anger, pain, and revenge, couldn’t some great subject be unearthed? It seemed reminiscent of the ancient Greeks, really, some plot worthy of Aeschylus and Euripides. Ian couldn’t sneer at that!
Well, Freud said life’s not about “finding” yourself but “creating” yourself and about this Scarlet agreed wholeheartedly. Fern’s references in hand, she phoned the Rector’s wife; first name on the list.
“A thoroughly no nonsense girl, very dependable”.
Wasn’t this enough? Why even bother to call the other people? What made Scarlet hesitate? The problem was that Fern was just too pretty. Some might even have called her beautiful, though probably not Ian, who disliked what he called “fat cheeks” on a woman. She was very dark with a lovely high color and those Elizabeth Taylor-like violet blue eyes sometimes found in black haired girls. Fortunately, she didn’t act like a pretty girl. Perhaps she was still too young, or Wyvern-on-Wye just too out of the way of the rest of the world. Was Scarlet afraid of the comparison, especially now, while she was “hors de combat”? Wasn’t the question really, did she trust Ian, or didn’t she? She would have trusted the old Ian, but this new situation seemed to offer some ineluctable yet terrifying new vision of the universe.
She was still undecided when Ian called but she heard herself telling him she’d found somebody local and wanted to give her a trial. Hearing the anxiety in her own voice made her realize she needed that she appeared to need to offer Ian an “accomplishment”, since giving birth to his son hadn’t seemed to be enough.
“Thank God,” said Ian. “I’ve discovered nannies are the most expensive servants in a servantless world. Seems they don’t know they are servants, and their employer is expected to keep the secret. I’d say it’s more like hiring a gang boss. They want to know who beside the parents and baby they’ve got to order around. It’s a status thing.”
Scarlet laughed with relief. Wasn’t this the old Ian back, the two of them strategizing as a couple confronting a dangerous world? It was always like her to panic too soon; she’d been doing that all her life.
Fern certainly displayed her best behavior. She congratulated Scarlet on the house perhaps a little too much, saying, “Lovely. Lovely, lovely, lovely.” And she was more than willing to give Nicholas a bottle so that Scarlet wouldn’t be interrupted. Bliss.
Driving her back and forth was a bit annoying – Scarlet resolved to unload that job on Ian – if he ever came home. Fern didn’t live with her grandmother but actually at the furthest edge of Oakhampton – and then she needed to be dropped at the Oakhampton library – but she was so cheap Scarlet recklessly hired her four days a week.
Fern’s first day went fine – it was a unseasonably warm day so Scarlet took a long walk – but Fern said Nicholas hadn’t even cried. Driving her home Scarlet happened to mention that she was expecting Pom for dinner and was startled to see the disapproval on Fern’s face. “All by yourself?”
“He wants to greet the new baby,” Scarlet hastened to add. It did make her feel funny – guilty almost, but eventually she engineered a way to feel better about it. If Fern had strong old fashioned rules about marital conduct, so much the better. Safer, certainly in a such a pretty girl.
Alysse Aallyn 