His face was all smiles. He was looking very smart and every bit the country squire in green coat and moleskin breeches. She was glad she’d taken care with her own appearance, but she couldn’t disguise her dismay at the sight of him.
His arms moved to hug her but she refused to halt her stride and so he fell into step beside her. “I’ve come to pick up the car,” he began, and she cursed herself for not having thought of it. “It’s around back,” she told him ungraciously.
“You don’t want a car in London,” he said, “The parking alone is a nightmare.”
And Candi must want the car in the country, thought Scarlet, but she managed to say nothing. Ian fell openmouthed at the sight of the large cobblestoned back court of Miss Bottomley’s residence. Parking was clearly no problem.
“You’ve certainly fallen on your feet,” he murmured. There was enough room for ten cars.
“You’re right,” she said, unlocking the car, “I don’t want a car in London.”
He stood awkwardly by the driver’s side.
“I just wanted to see where you live and perhaps catch a glimpse of Nick.”
Her heart smote her. She should have been ready for this! If she had walked through the kitchen to reach the back court instead of out of the front door she would have driven off without even seeing him! What would Enid and Miss Bottomley have done then? But it was no part of her plan to keep the child from his father.
“I really think you need to make an appointment,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat, “While things are so awkward. Anyway, I must be on my way – I’ve got to see my lawyer.”
She couldn’t resist this last.
“I’ll drop you,” he said amiably.
That would put her at the solicitor’s office far too early.
“I have to go to Foyle’s first,” she admitted so he said, “Get in. I’ll take you.” Mr. Bossy or Mr. Agreeable? She couldn’t be sure, because she no longer trusted him.
Into the silence he injected, “You’re looking well.”
“I’m feeling well,” she lied after her sleepless night. But she appreciated the compliment. I’m as starved as Miss Bottomley, in my own way, she thought. Lots of deprivation and loneliness going round.
“So…are you all moved in?” He made conversation.
“It was furnished,” she responded.
“And probably pretty well judging by the neighborhood.” He whistled. “How’s the editing job?”
She tried not to laugh. “It’s quite involving. Exciting and unexpected.”
He seemed amazed she’d acquired anything but drudge work.
“And the old lady? How’s she holding up?”
“I got someone to look after her,” said Scarlet, struggling not to sound smug but feeling it. Would he ask about the nanny? I mean, here she was, so SOMEONE must be looking after Nick. Did he understand? Did he care?
Apparently not. He evidently thought a house of old ladies and old lady minders could look after an infant. I despise this man, thought Scarlet a bit angrily. I actively despise him!
“Well, I’m moving into the BBC flat,” he said. “It’s dreadfully big for me.”
Should she remind him he needed a room for Nick and possibly for a nanny as well? She should ask Enid if she’d consider staying with Nick elsewhere. Would Nick be swarmed instead by Ian’s girlfriends – Scarlet felt certain that to the extent he thought about it at all, THAT was his plan, to fob Nick off on a series of impressionable girls. That wouldn’t do at all, but she knew Pelham would want her to say nothing. But there was SO MUCH she wanted to say! About his detective, for example! Trying to horn his way into Miss Bottomley’s! But she realized there was no point – he’d disavow knowledge, certainly. Anyway, why question a committed liar?
“Would you like to…help furnish the place?” He asked this respectfully, almost shyly. “I could use your assistance.”
Scarlet stared at him. He’d had plenty of ideas about Wyvern House! So why the sudden dearth – the need for her help and intervention now?
She experienced an unnerving thrill of power. Was that his goal? Or was he admiring her, courting her even, for refusing to lie down and accept ill treatment?
She hadn’t considered this possibility – that once she no longer wanted him he would want her again – but she realized she should have. It had been true of all her boyfriends in the past. Probably some quirk of the male character – they always wanted to be the one to walk away. “I’ll help you do Nick’s room,” she offered.
He pulled up to Foyle’s while traffic flowed around them. “This is fine,” she said, and jumped out of the car before he could argue. Parking really was a nightmare around Foyle’s – buses were everywhere. Once through the glass revolving door she watched him grinding gears as he swept into the roundabout. She wanted to make certain he was really gone.
And then she saw a redhead step out of a cab – a strawberry in sunglasses – surely that wasn’t Candi? It looked like her! She pulled away from the glass as if fearful of contamination.
Miss Bottomley seemed amazingly welcoming to this new body arriving to stay beneath her roof. Scarlet didn’t even manage to sink the fact that Enid was a fan into the conversation before Miss Bottomley was asking her new acquaintance, “Do you know anything about cats?”
Enid Rumson, as it turned out, knew quite a lot about cats and she was full of suggestions for why The King of Wessex might be off his feed. She didn’t think a diet of cream and pancetta was helping him expel his hairballs properly and suggested serving a “fatty fish” as a curative or, if desperate, olive oil.
“We have both,” said Scarlet.
“Oh, God bless you!” cried Miss Bottomley, wringing her hands, and Scarlet showed her the pile of tinned sardines Pom had insisted on throwing into the cart – because, as he said so wisely, “You never know.”
The King allowed himself to be tempted and was soon hawking and gulping while all three women gazed at him fondly.
“We can certainly use YOU around here,” Miss Bottomley said thankfully to the new recruit. “By the way,” offered Scarlet, “Mrs. Rumson is a great fan of your work.”
“Call me Esmé,” said Miss Bottomley, offering a hand.
Scarlet did her best not to feel offended. This sign of favor had not yet been extended to her! On the other hand, Enid was older, and not directly in Miss Bottomley’s employ so perhaps it made sense.
Enid was suitably impressed by her quarters.
“You can stay on the third floor if you’d like a private bath,” Scarlet offered.
“No, thank you,” said Enid, “I want to be as close to this dear little boy as I can get.” It took a couple of trips to get all four of her ancient, heavily loaded suitcases upstairs.
“Sorry,” puffed Enid, “You see, it’s because I’ve already decided that I’m never going back.”
Scarlet, equally out of breath, said, “It’s fine. I’ve been wanting to get back into trim. These stairs are so much less expensive than a health club.”
Now that she had someone to watch Nick she told Miss Bottomley that her first order of business would be to arrange a meeting with Mr. Mountjoy of Coltsfoot and Briggins so that Scarlet could find out exactly what his plans were.
“In the meantime, I’ll make dinner, shall I?” suggested Enid. Nick was enjoying a bottle in the carrycot. They were standing in the kitchen at the time. “I love cooking and at the Embassy I never got the chance. I can tell you I’m very tired of mutton, olives and couscous.” Enid turned to Miss Bottomley and asked, “What’s your favorite meal?”
Mutton, olives and couscous sounded heavenly to Scarlet but Miss Bottomley gazed at Enid reverently. “Shepherd’s pie,” she sighed. “With minced lamb. Order anything by phone and you will see they just deliver.”
“Oh, do they? Shall we then have apple tart to follow? I’m a dab hand with pastry.” She flexed her burly arms.
Miss Bottomley turned eyes swimming with tears to Scarlet. “As long as Enid is our cook, please consider her compensation covered by me.”
“It’ll never interfere with looking after the baby,” Enid promised, and Miss Bottomley agreed, “Babies come first. Everyone knows that.”
As Scarlet turned away to hide her glee she heard Miss Bottomley confide to her new chef, “You know, it turns out that I am quite a rich woman.”
Nigel Mountjoy had an opening that very afternoon, and it’s no wonder, thought Scarlet, after puffing up the six flights to Coltsfoot & Briggins’ three room suite beneath the eaves, because business seemed definitely to be on the slide. The partner’s (Mr. Briggins’) door was closed, (“he prefers to work from his club”), the receptionist’s desk was empty (“Miss Plympton only works half-days”) and in case she missed these symbols of deterioration, Mr. Mountjoy, a sad-eyed hound-dog of a man in his fifties, treated Scarlet to a long disquisition on the essential, desperate unprofitability of publishing.
“We’ve had a modest success Westernizing adventure yarns,” he told her, as he spread a series called “Reverend Rod to the Rescue” across his desk. In the new version, Reverend Rod had dropped holy orders and become, it seemed, a free-lance spy as well as something of a ladies’ man. Scarlet tried to conceal her revulsion by sipping the lukewarm Earl Grey tea Mr. Mountjoy had made himself. Seemingly no one had ever told him that the water needed to actually boil and she feared he was probably applying this same makeshift attitude to literature.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said enthusiastically. “Not to put too fine a point on it, I knew the old girl wasn’t up to it. She’s almost ninety for heavens’ sake and hasn’t written a thing for years! It’s a miracle she’s not gaga, but confusion is setting on apace if you catch my drift.
We usually put these things out to bid – it’s astonishing how little money is required to set a writer to work – but there’s no reason at all why you might not do as well.” (And Miss Bottomley would be paying for it! thought Scarlet. Win-win from his point of view.)
“I’ve taken the liberty to jot down some requirements.” He proffered a handwritten page. “First, twenty chapters instead of the twenty-five she used to have. Boil the thing down. Speed is of the essence. Have every chapter end with a cliffhanger – our Rod the Spy fellow is very good model there. Here, take a copy. Gratis. This fellow Clovis is quite willing to do Miss Clew but we felt it requires the feminine touch.
Then, language. Our target audience has an O-level education – no point using words they’ll only have to look up. They want something that can be read in a couple of railway journeys.”
He opened up The Poltergeist Problem to a random page and pointed to the word “deleterious.” “See what I mean? Nothing double or triple-barreled like that, use your thesaurus to find some other term” – he shuffled through a well-thumbed Roget’s – “There you go. “Bad.” First word out of the gate! Everybody knows what that means!
Secondly, update the era. Get rid of the Victorian stuff – nobody wants those dreadful memories – we’ve been fleeing them ever since the First War. Make Miss Clew younger, and she doesn’t need to be a spinster. Get it? I’m giving you a free hand here – insert some romantic interest. Keep it light – a different chap for each book would be ideal. No reason she can’t be a bit of a siren – that attracts the male reader as well as the ladies, see.
It’s a stroke of luck that you’re American – perhaps Miss Clew could have an American mother – appeal to our cousins across the pond. We’ve had no luck getting Rod picked up there but this could break the ice between us and our Boston counterparts – they’ve been freezing us out if I may be so honest. They want to get into “youth” textbooks and religious publishing – we’ve got no market for that sort of thing going here.
Most of all, mood. Keep it upbeat! It’s the modern tendency to be devil-may-care, not take things too seriously.”
He tried to smile when he said this but his droopy face couldn’t cooperate – the result was ghastly, even sinister, like a funeral director mewling mawkishly about “loved ones.”
“I just re-read the series recently – well, not all of them, I confess, there’s a limit to what a fellow can stand – and it’s very difficult going. The woman has – not to put too fine a point on it – an axe to grind. Everybody’s always in the wrong. World saturated with evil – that awful revivalist point of view. People today don’t read to be told life’s some sort of grim masquerade, but to have fun, learn something new and feel a part of some previously unknown but thrilling world that takes them right out of their worries, cares and fears. Follow me? I’ve always found this little volume helpful.” He extracted a slim book from the bookcase behind them, Pack Up Your Worries.
“This is non-fiction, of course, but we’ve had an amazing success with this modest little book published a dozen years ago – right after the war. It keeps the lights on around here, I don’t mind telling you.”
As if disagreeing, the lights flickered at just that moment.
Mr. Mountjoy cracked the book open to pages of lists in what Scarlet considered suspiciously large type. The thing was more like an “expanded pamphlet” than a real book.
“Here, take this copy. I’ve benefited from this advice myself, everyone has. It’s common sense really, no self-pity, no wallowing, each day a fresh voyage of discovery. Appeals to people right across ages, classes, this fellow’s amazing. Sorrowfully Bonamis died a few years ago – he was an untreated diabetic – but we’ve the rights to his name if you’d like to attempt to carry on. You Americans are wizards at this sort of thing. According to him it’s your surface mind you should be cultivating. Ignore the “depths” – whatever dark things are lurking down there. Just the opposite of that fellow Freud, who’s done a lot of damage in my opinion. Keep your chin up, see? Whistle a happy tune even when you don’t feel like it – because modern science has conclusively proven that it’s possible to cheer yourself up by overlooking all the depressing stuff you can’t do anything about anyway.”
Her pushed the book at her and opened his datebook.
“I’ve had a lot of experience with the ghostwriting racket and I can tell you the secret is not to wander too far in the wrong direction. Why don’t we meet once a week to see what you’ve got and we’ll discuss. If you wander off the path I can set you right. Think of me as your tutor talking about essay ideas and looking over your first attempts with a view to a “First Class” ranking for the pair of us.”
He beamed at her, showing a gap between his front teeth that made him resemble a gargoyle. It was all Scarlet could do to keep from blanching.
“How about Monday? Fresh from the weekend, eh?”
“How about the following Friday?” Scarlet gasped, trying not to choke.
“No Friday – nobody’s here on Fridays – the place is a desert. Thursday, then? Four o’clock? I think we can spread out a bit more when Miss Plympton is gone.”
“Fine,” said Scarlet with no intention of ever seeing this man again if she could possibly help it. “Don’t forget to take your books,” he sent her off, rubbing his hands together. ‘This has been a MOST productive meeting.”
Scarlet would have thrown the books into the nearest trash can if she didn’t need them to show Miss Bottomley. Who would believe any of it, otherwise?
As she clung to a strap and braced herself on her Tube journey – the work day was just ending and seats were invisible – she wondered at how far she had come already. How long ago was it – days really – that she would have jumped at the chance to be that writer or that receptionist slaving for that pittance! What a different world Miss Bottomley had opened up for her! And the best thing about it was that she clearly needed Scarlet every bit as desperately as Scarlet needed her.
After all this excitement Miss Bottomley wanted to return home for a nap, so Scarlet cabbed alone to the nanny agency. Nick was unhappy in the stroller and needed skin to skin contact, so she was forced to carry and jiggle him as she told the receptionist she had arrived for her appointment with Miss Gorgon. Miss Gorgon’s name wasn’t actually Miss Gorgon – it was really something like Bourgoyne – but she was apparently so shocked, so downright appalled by everything Scarlet said that she would be Miss Gorgon in Scarlet’s memory forever after. No nanny could be found for a newborn this late in the game – newborn nannies were engaged as soon as a due date was decided. No nanny would enter someone else’s home – a residence owned by someone other than the employer’s for a temporary three month stay! Miss Gorgon was insulted by the very idea. Such a thing was QUITE out of the question. Scarlet was recommended to try Talliver’s who handled nursemaids, companions and au pairs. She MIGHT find something suitable there. Mrs. Rumson was going there also, so if she hurried, perhaps they could go together. “Mrs. Rumson!” Miss Gorgon called into the waiting room where a plump middle-aged woman with reddish silver hair and an unfashionable and too-tight tweed suit was sitting on a side bench drinking muddy tea from a thick china cup. At the sight of Miss Gorgon she slid her feet guiltily back into her shoes. “Mrs. Wye is going to Talliver’s also,” said Miss Gorgon. “Perhaps you could guide her.” And slamming the door, she visibly washed her hands of the pair of them. “I hope it’s no trouble,” said Scarlet, trying to figure out Mrs. Rumson’s place in the scheme of things. If she was the office go-fer, why the uncomfortable shoes? “Not in the least,” said Mrs. Rumson. “Allows me to start practicing my “companioning” right away, so to speak. You know, fetching and carrying, holding tickets and maps, reading guidebooks aloud – I’m a very experienced traveler. Oh, what an adorable baby! He’s so new!” “Eight weeks,” admitted Scarlet. Mrs. Rumson sighed with ecstasy. “May I hold him?” Scarlet gave Mrs. Rumson a second – then a third – look. “Certainly,” she said, handing him over. Mrs. Rumson – “Call me Enid” – handled him so expertly Nick didn’t mind or even seem to notice the change. Scarlet snapped the stroller shut with some relief. It was SUCH a problem on the stairs. “And why are you going to Talliver’s, if I may ask?” inquired Enid, as they descended. “Because I’ve just been told I can’t have a nanny,” said Scarlet. “And do you know, I don’t really WANT a nanny. I want someone trustworthy to watch this baby so I can do a job of editing.” “Well,” said Enid boldly and perhaps a tad hopefully, “Perhaps what you need is a companion.” This was rapidly turning into a job interview. “Have you had lunch?” inquired Scarlet. “I have not,” agreed Enid. “But won’t you be late for your appointment?” “I don’t have an appointment,” Scarlet admitted. “I feel I’m on my “last chance” so to speak. And I don’t like the feeling.” “Welcome!” laughed Enid. “Last chance” isn’t such a bad place. I’ve been there quite awhile by now.” They hied themselves to the nearest restaurant, a self-serve cafeteria with an Oriental theme and special on meat pie and sprouts. “I should have a salad,” sighed Enid Rumson, “But it’s been SUCH a day. I feel I must fall on my food before I fall on my sword.” Scarlet admired the expert way she handled tray and baby – she showed no inclination to give Nick back and Nick didn’t seem to mind. Scarlet would have almost felt jealous if she hadn’t been in search of exactly such a person. Enid bravely ordered the special, Scarlet chose the baked beans on toast with coffee. Scarlet insisted on paying and they found a quiet corner table. “Have you been companioning long?” Scarlet enquired officiously. “Not in the least – I’ve never actually companioned at all. Bourgoyne’s told me it’s all that I’m good for so I’m just starting out in the game. I actually wanted to be a nanny – I love babies – had five of my own – but Miss Gudgeon told me I didn’t qualify. Whereas with all my travel experience –“ “You had five children?” “Yes. Only one daughter in England – she’s at college for physiotherapy – the rest are very far flung. No surprise since they grew up all higglety-pigglety. Such is the life of the foreign service.” “You were in the foreign service?” The coffee really wasn’t bad. Scarlet was feeling better every moment. “Yes and no. That is, my husband was – is – and there’s quite a lot of work – unpaid, naturally – for wives to do. I’m just back from Morocco, actually.” “Morocco?” “I hope you don’t think me odd for bringing this up – thank goodness you’re an American – they have such a free and easy way – but I just discovered –“ she paused delicately, a lost pastry crumb falling unnoticed to her substantial bosom – “that my marriage is a sham. I can’t decide how to tell the children – so I told them instead that I just needed a complete rest – but I fear –“ she took a long sip of coffee – “This coffee is good – I fear my husband doesn’t really care for women.” She gave Scarlet a meaningful look. Scarlet’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension. Enid nodded. “He says he’s tried us, he didn’t like us and I don’t think he’s ever coming back,” she confided. “I think Bert has found his – nirvana was the word he used. Among the young Arab boys.” Scarlet put a hand on Enid’s, noticing the mark of an absent ring as she did so. And Enid – who was quite sharp – noticed her noticing. “Sold my wedding set first thing,” she said. “For money in my pocket –hotels and trains, you understand.” “Surely…” Scarlet was shocked by this, “Your husband’s income at this point is more than adequate for two.” “Correct. But he’s not in the mood to share. He has – other expenses – according to him. Especially if I leave and he has to cover – er – hostessing.”
“But he wouldn’t want word of his – er – peccadillos getting out.”
Enid looked shocked. “But that’s blackmail! I would never do that! Think of the children!” “Not blackmail exactly,” Scarlet soothed. “It’s just that you shouldn’t end up being punished for wanting the values of your wedding vows.”
“What an American way of putting it,” sighed Enid faintly, taking up a big glob of pudding. ‘You need a good matrimonial attorney to point this out to him,” Scarlet went on, itching to get this case under Pelham d’Arcy’s purview. On the face of it, it certainly looked easier than hers. “And I know just the one.”
Enid flushed very red. “I really have no money left,” she gasped.
“It’s perfectly all right,” said Scarlet. ‘Your husband will pay.” And PAY, she thought, righteously. “Are you staying at a hotel?”
“I parked my bags at the Paddington left luggage,” said Enid. “I thought it was the best plan to come to the agency first thing, in case they wanted to send me out of the city.”
She looked a bit dashed as she admitted this fact, but for the most part she was braver and more confident than Scarlet thought she herself would be in the same situation.
“We are in similar circumstances,” Scarlet confessed. “My husband just announced he plans to enjoy a mistress. Preferably several.”
“What a cad!” Enid remarked. “Funny how often men seem to wait to make that announcement until they’ve rendered us utterly helpless.” She leaned forward. “But we’re not helpless, are we? I will certainly see your matrimonial – er – agent. But what I’d really like is for you to explain about this job you have going.”
“Are you – by any chance – familiar with a book series about a detective named Miss Clew?” “I grew up with them!” A happy light of reminiscence broke over her face. “My brother actually called me “Our Miss Clew” when I was growing up, because I was always very nosy. Wanting to know everything about people. Life’s such a mystery, isn’t it, to the young? And I went on to I miss the biggest one right in front of my face! You know I actually wished my husband DID keep a mistress – that’s how bad things were. It’s terrible to be told your partner has always found you secretly disgusting and had to force himself to carry on and think of England. Are you the new Miss Clew?”
“Miss Clew is very much alive,” said Scarlet. “I’m taking you to meet her and then you can decide if you want the job. It’s just three months to start with but it’s live-in. Looking after Nick so I can help Miss Bottomley get on with modernizing her work.”
“I’ve landed on my feet, haven’t I?” gasped Enid, “What a fairy godmother you turned out to be!” “Just one thing,” said Scarlet, “I’m calling you a “nanny” instead of a “companion”, if you don’t mind. Miss Bottomley is elderly and I don’t want her to feel –“
“Oh I quite understand,” agreed Enid. “Battlefield promotion for me! Nanny it is!”
Scarlet was convinced she had chosen exactly the nanny she really needed. Better for Enid in the long run. She was certain to get a settlement from her husband – Scarlet felt sure her story was not a new one for Pelham D’Arcy – and she would make a much better nanny than a travelling companion, since she was clearly built for comfort, not for speed.
Scarlet gave Nick his bottle right at the table and Miss Bottomley eagerly joined in. She ate like a starved person, which it turned out, she was. The bacon and cream Scarlet had seen in her refrigerator were for the exclusive delight of The King of Wessex. Scarlet determined to shift him to tinned cat food and begin charging groceries to Miss Bottomley as Pom suggested. Feeding the old lady and the cat would have definitely bankrupted her.
“These apples are delicious,” said her employer. “What are they called?”
“Sops of wine,” Scarlet told her. “Who could resist that?”
“Most romantic,” Miss Bottomley agreed.
Pom said he must be on his way and refused a lift. Miss Bottomley closely watched Scarlet change Nick. This became less embarrassing when her employer confided her nursing experiences from World War I. The things she’d seen were worthy of a memoir. Scarlet began thinking her new employer was starved for human contact, too.
As soon as a clean Nick was stomach-down on the rug Miss Bottomley changed the subject.
“I do like your Pom person,” said Miss Bottomley, whose still-sharp eyes apparently missed nothing. “Hiring a detective, indeed! Seems so drastic. Is that husband of yours a dreadful Heathcliff? A would-be tenant of Wildfell Hall?”
“I’m no longer certain,” said Scarlet. “I thought I was in an equal marriage but he seems to have been playing a long game to maneuver me into a corner.”
“Into his harem,” Miss Bottomley agreed. “Men often do that, I find. Their excuse is that they must decide for us because we’re so supposedly “emotional”. But in my interviews with Mr. Inkum he’s always the one to fly off the handle! After all these years if I’ve learned nothing else I’ve learned how to keep my temper, I can assure you.”
“May I look at those documents the solicitor wants you to sign?”
Miss Bottomley fetched a blue legal-looking folder, settled down by the kitchen fire and promptly fell asleep.
Scarlet had discovered there was a telephone extension upstairs in the serving area and she put in a prompt call to Pelham D’Arcy at his home number.
“Miss Bottomley’s inherited some dreadful solicitor pretending to represent her but as far as I can see he’s representing himself. He wants her to turn her estate into a trust with himself as sole trustee!”
“Sounds most unsavory,” agreed Pelham. “Tell you what, Bob Thomas is our wills & trusts man – the old ladies love him. I happen to know he’s free tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
“We’ll be there,” promised Scarlet. She had had enough excitement for one day.
It wasn’t difficult to convince Miss Bottomley that she needed “a second opinion” in the matter of solicitors.
“Why of course I do,” she said, “Someone who represents my interests to the best of my ability and who’s willing to explain to me what those are. But how to find him was my dilemma? Who to trust? When anyone learns out about this estate they become so overly deferential – I don’t know how else to explain it – I feel certain they’re disguising their true face. Dilemmas of the wealthy! Who’d have thought?”
“I don’t actually know my solicitor’s partner,” said Scarlet, “but he works with my solicitor whom I like very much. Just use your instincts – we’ll interview as many solicitors as you feel you need to get a true perspective.”
“How refreshing!” said her employer. “I love options! It’s such an extravagance!”
“There’s been a development,” said Pelham meaningfully to Scarlet, after hands had been shaken all round. Bob Thomas looked more like a farmer than a solicitor with his round, cheery red-cheeked face and gleaming bald head, but Miss Bottomley seemed to take to him. Scarlet left them alone so that they could study the papers Miss Bottomley brought and transact their own business. Nick was decidedly fussy. Scarlet wasn’t sure he’d calm down enough for a conversation. He insisted on being the center of attention. Scarlet walked the floor with him, apologizing. “I’m interviewing nannies today.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Pelham. “I’ve got four of my own. I’ll make tea while you settle him.” Fortunately, he did settle, allowing Scarlet at least sit down and look at the grainy black and white photos he spread before her.
“As I informed you, we now have a detective of our own.”
Scarlet gazed at the photos uncomprehendingly, as if these were stills from some bizarre English version of La Strada. A man, a woman, suitcases and parcels – a big house – Ian. Here was his unmistakable face – looking guilty. Rather an uncommon expression for him. Had she ever even seen it? Who was this dark-haired female with the too-tight skirt stretched over the too-big bottom? Then a face shot – expression unreadable beneath Cleopatra makeup.
“Candi!” Scarlet gasped.
“Moving in to your marital residence!” Pelham rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “It’s really the greatest good luck for us. Your husband went back to town,” Pelham confided, “So I transferred our detective’s attention to her. I must say I do hope she’s planning a long stay.” Scarlet burst into tears, waking Nick, who wailed as well.
Pelham was aghast. He rushed around the desk wielding a handkerchief.
“You must think me an insensitive monster! I do apologize!” He threw open the door and called to his clerk, “Gotobed! Fetch a cup of tea and a baby bottle immediately.”
As they selected cheeses, cake, apples, biscuits and the components for what Pom described as a “strengthening soup”, Pom remarked, “I adore old-fashioned places like these. All the grapes and calves’ foot jelly.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” said Scarlet, adding grapefruit marmalade and fish fingers to their hoard.
“Fish fingers?” Pom questioned.
“Everyone needs a fast, easy dinner,” said Scarlet. “That’s what freezers are for.”
“I don’t have a freezer.”
“But Miss Bottomley does. Quite an up to date one.”
“And then there’s the problem that fish have no fingers.”
“We call them ‘fish sticks’ in America.”
“My, that does sound irresistible. A stick of fish. Such cleverness you Yanks have. I wonder what is the correct wine with “sticks”? Allow me to purchase for you a nice rosé. Or would you prefer champagne?”
“No wine at work, thank you,” said Scarlet. “I need to keep my wits about me.”
As soon as the grocer heard it was for Fourteen Norfolk Crescent he insisted on delivery.
“She’s our landlady,” he told the astonished pair. “She owns everything round here.”
Pom kept an admirably straight face during this disclosure.
Scarlet carefully set up her own account and stressed that it was her responsibility alone.
“Don’t be in such a hurry to pay for everything,” said Pom when they were safely back inside the Dorset. “Sounds like she’s rich as Croesus, much as she doesn’t look it.”
“All the other interviewees thought she was the housemaid,” admitted Scarlet. “It just makes me all the more determined to do my very best for her. Those books of hers are just plain wonderful, and where else in the world would I ever get such a perfect job?”
And she shared with him the dramatic tale of Miss Bottomley’s late-acquired wealth.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” she begged. “I didn’t even tell Ian.”
Pom’s eyes widened. “I can keep a secret. Honored that you chose me. But are you certain the pair of you don’t need live-in bodyguards as well?”
“I’m sure we do,” said Scarlet. “And heaven knows there’s room. Are you offering?”
“I don’t think I’d be any good at that particular role,” said Pom.
“I think you’ll find Miss Bottomley very averse to strangers,” said Scarlet. “Maybe as time goes on I’ll be able to talk her round. I’m currently in favor because I was the only one who’d actually read her books. She’s not used to money and she doesn’t like solicitors. I hope Pelham D’Arcy might offer assistance but we’ve got to give it time.”
It turned out the grocer’s van had gone around to the kitchen entrance. Off the kitchen was a scullery with new-looking washer and drying machines.
“They’ve got me running off my feet answering doorbells here and doorbells there,” complained Miss Bottomley as they brought the groceries in. “First it was that strange friend of yours -“
Scarlet seated Miss Bottomley to toast her toes by the gas fire. Pom almost sat on the King of Wessex.
“Meet Ceawlain,” Scarlet explained.
“Sue-Allen?”
“No,” said Miss Bottomley and Scarlet both together, “Ceawlain, King of Wessex.”
Scarlet inquired, “What strange friend was it that came to the door?”
Miss Bottomley considered. “Well, he was quite silly. He certainly didn’t guess he was speaking to an authoress of detective novels, because he used quite a transparent ruse to try to get into the house.”
Scarlet and Pom stared at each other, appalled.
“What did he say?” asked Scarlet while Pom said, “He could have simply thrust you aside!”
“I’d like to see him try,” grumped Miss Bottomley. “I’d have skewered him with a hatpin and summoned help with my police whistle.”
And she displayed these items for their inspection.
“This is ghastly,” said Pom and Scarlet asked, “Doesn’t that door have a chain?”
“Obviously one must take the chain off when one answers the door,” said Miss Bottomley. “And a peephole?” wondered Scarlet.
“I’m too short for the peephole,” sighed Miss Bottomley. “The peephole is too tall for me.”
“Here’s an idea,” suggested Pom, “An intercom. You won’t be run off your feet that way. You’ll be able to ask who it is and get them to describe themselves. Tell them to put a letter requesting an appointment in the mail slot.”
“Oh, I do like that idea,” gushed Miss Bottomley. “Takes a man to look at problems from the engineering point of view.”
“I’ll look into it for you, shall I?” offered Pom, and Miss Bottomley seemed relieved.
“But what did he look like?” Scarlet poured a tin of vichyssoise into a saucepan while Pom sliced cheese and pears.
“Very smartly dressed, I must say. Bowler hat and all found. He said he was from an architectural publication and he wanted to take pictures inside the house. He asked to see the Missus. I didn’t tell him I was the Missus, I just said no, no, and no.”
“Did he give up?”
“He most certainly did not. Tried slipping me a five-pound note!”
“He really did mistake you for the housemaid,” laughed Scarlet and Miss Bottomley laughed with her.
“I rejected it. Played along. Told him I valued my “position”. But he wouldn’t leave. He had his foot in the door.”
“But this is a horror story!” Pom gasped and Scarlet said, “You should have used your police whistle.”
“Perhaps I should. But then he started asking questions about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Wasn’t there a young lady in the house and when was she due back. I said, “Here she comes!” and when he turned to look, I shut the door!”
“That was clever,” said Pom, and Scarlet said, “Worthy of Miss Clew.” And Miss Bottomley reddened with pleasure.
“But who could it have been?” asked Pom. “It doesn’t sound like Ian.”
“It’s that detective of his,” said Scarlet. “He took pictures of us last week and Ian threatened me with them. I explained to him that we’re only friends.”
“Utterly uncompromising pictures,” Pom assured her but Miss Bottomley was nonchalant.
“I should have known there would be a detective or two hanging about any modern girl,” she remarked. “Keeping me up to date!”
Pom refused to shake off his anxiety.
“You be sure to tell your solicitors,” he suggested. “Both of you.”
“I’ll tell Pelham,” agreed Scarlet, thinking how lucky she was that Miss Bottomley wasn’t sufficiently intimidated by all this bother to choose another assistant, but Miss Bottomley scoffed.
“Oh, my Mr. Inkum, he’s a perfectly dreadful man! Always trying to get me to sign documents and when I said, “Don’t I need a solicitor?” he answers, “I’m your solicitor. This is for your OWN GOOD.”
“Funny how when people say that it’s never true,” mused Pom, as they settled at the table for a delicious meal.
“That’s what I thought,” said Miss Bottomley. “I told him to leave the papers with me so I could think about them and he said, “Don’t think too long!”
There followed the happiest, most relaxed afternoon Scarlet could recall since – well, girlhood!
With the baby in a shawl-sling they explored Jane’s old house in the company of a large, friendly group of Japanese tourists all oohing and ahing and picture-taking.
“I didn’t know she was only forty-one when she died,” said Scarlet, feeling sadder than she’d felt since her own separation, “She seemed so mature.”
“Luckily, she left sufficient books to delight us,” said Pom. “Not just tantalizing glimpses, the way it is with most artists who died young.”
“I think you’re agreeing with me,” said Scarlet.
“I suppose I am. She seemed fully formed.”
They gazed in awe at Jane’s “writing table,” a small, round, unremarkable piece of wooden furniture.
“Looks uncomfortable,” commented Scarlet. “Where would she put the finished pages?”
“She must have broken each novel down into small, manageable bits,” Pom suggested. “Just the opposite of the way I work, as you have seen. I like to mess up every part of the studio, as well as the canvas.”
Scarlet, who had always aspired to work at a beautiful desk, said, “I always end up doing my best writing on my lap. In the train, or a café, or somewhere.”
“Poets are lucky,” Pom said. “You can give yourself to inspiration. In my case it’s a hard, disgusting slog – usually for nothing. First you must commit to some physical piece of canvas – prime it and so forth. Too bad for me that I hate drawing, watercolor – nothing easy for the Bronfens.”
“I do wonder what I may be getting into in my new job.”
“The editing doesn’t sound as difficult to me as the old-lady wrangling.”
“That’s just what my husband said.”
Pom sniffed. “Well I certainly don’t want to be like HIM.”
“You’ll meet my employer if she’s in residence. And I don’t know why she wouldn’t be.”
Pom was suitably impressed by her new home’s location, but Scarlet began to worry as she inserted her new key for the first time in the bright green front door. Esmé Hope Bottomley stood on the other side.
“I’m sorry,” gasped Scarlet, “I was hoping not to startle you. Should I have rung?”
“Not at all. I saw you drive up. I was just beginning to think I’d imagined you – a stitch in time, as they say, so long desired.”
“Allow me to present Mr. Pomeroy Bronfen,” said Scarlet, “A neighbor who offered to help. He’s a painter.”
“I’m accustomed to wrestling vast canvases upstairs, so I’d hoped I could be of moving assistance,” said Pom, as he took Miss Bottomley’s hand.
“Any extra pair of willing. manly arms is always welcome at our vast estate,” said Miss Bottomley, blushing like a girl. Handsome Pom was having his effect. “Scarlet – may I call you Scarlet? will show you round.”
“You’re a lucky girl,” he commented appreciatively as he helped her move her trunks to the upper floor.
“I do seem to fall on my feet,” Scarlet agreed. But she warned, “Remember, it’s just for three months. A try-out for us both.”
Her few items were soon moved in. Miss Bottomley had prepared tea downstairs, offering a carefully segmented orange and a sadly stale wholemeal loaf.
“Thank you,” Scarlet sighed as they sat down, “This is very welcome. It reminds me I’ll need to get to the grocer’s.”
“And you do have a nice big car,” said Pom. “If Miss Bottomley needs anything.”
Miss Bottomley positively flirted with him. “Scarlet is fortunate to have such uncommonly attractive errand boy, Mr. Bronfen,” she said.
“I am an errand man,” insisted Pom. “And please call me Pom.”
It turned out that Miss Bottomley had her small weekly allotment of groceries delivered by Sawditch & Sawditch – her bacon, apples, oranges and cheese barely took up one drawer of the vast refrigerator. She offered to “watch” Nick, napping peacefully in his carrycot.
“Simply rock him if he wakes up,” Scarlet suggested. And when she was alone with Pom remarked, “I think we must buy some fresh vegetables. I worry Miss Bottomley isn’t getting her nutrients.”
Pom’s fond comment sounded indulgent rather than censorious, as it would have been had Ian phrased it. “More Americanisms. I must say I like it. Too many old people subsist on spam and tinned peaches.”
“And that’s only the most fortunate,” said Scarlet. “We’ll see what they’ve got.”
When he insisted on taking the wheel even although the grocers were right around the corner Scarlet teased, “Why Mr. Bronfen, how very American you are becoming.”
While feeding Nicholas in the “ladies’ retiring room” Scarlet read in the available pamphlet all about the antique pub. “Lady Catherine’s Garden” was named after a character in Pride & Prejudice and was originally built by a fan of Jane Austen’s work. Chawton, the author’s last home, was situated nearby. Today the weather was too cold to sit in the garden but the glass tearoom built almost to the river’s edge offered a suitable summer illusion of swans and willows. From his collapsible stroller, an alert and cleaned up Nicholas seemed riveted by the sunlight playing on the tile floor.
“It’s just good pub food,” Pom apologized in advance, “Though of course some people say that’s the best English cooking. But look at this view!”
Scarlet looked. A snow-free water meadow spread out endlessly before them.
“Seems like it’s always spring around here,” she agreed.
They ordered tea and ham salad sandwiches. The waitress was very young and did not recognize Pom. He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well, there’s one fear that didn’t come true,” he said.
“Tell me about the last time you visited,” Scarlet prompted.
“Three years ago. There are charming rooms upstairs. We made use of every one of them but not – I hasten to add – on the same day.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy Bronfen?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy Bronfen.” He did not blub.
“So, you thought she was a wolf and she turned out to be a dog.”
“That’s not it. Because she was cheating on her husband I knew she was a dog. I just tried not to care.”
“But you did care.”
“I wanted what I wanted and I ignored every warning until finally I got a warning I couldn’t ignore.” “Was it a “shop closed” sign?”
“Oh no. She was willing to continue after her wedding – which, by the way, she invited me to. I don’t know what I would have said during the, “Speak now or forever hold your peace” part, because I didn’t go.”
‘Did you try talking her out of it?”
“Oh, yes. She tried completely humorlessly to clue me in on the deadly importance of cash and titles.”
“Sounds like she’s some kind of third animal in your bestiary. The sharing kind? Or the devious kind? Maybe a cuckoo?”
“She certainly took me for a cuckoo. She offered possibilities like the plot of a Henry James novel. “He can’t last forever! We could enjoy his money together.”
“Those novels always end badly,” she agreed, feeling illiterate in Pom’s presence. Which James novel could he be referring to? The Golden Bowl?
“I can’t rid myself of the idea that I should have warned the poor old thing,” Pom said seriously.
“The Catholic peer? Surely not.”
“But what if he ends up dead? What if she gets her next teddy boy to kill him?”
“Oh, Pom! I’m starting to appreciate your interest in Hitchcock. But do people really do those things?”
“Yes, Scarlet,” he said seriously. “They do. I actually don’t know of a single aristocratic family without a murder in its history.”
“Good God!” Why was she surprised? Miss Clew wouldn’t have been! She brought herself into the conversation. “Very Turn of the Screw. Reminiscent of my situation, that temptation. Why couldn’t having a castle and a flat in town compensate me for losing my husband’s fidelity?”
“Oh, Scarlet, you American girl,” he said it admiringly. She felt a gush of gratitude. Was this the first time in England that “being American” hadn’t seemed a social liability?
“How much were you actually tempted?” she asked him.
“I’ll never know. I might have considered it if she hadn’t started going on about how much she “loved’ me. It was the first time she’d ever used that word.”
“Traitor!”
“Exactly how I felt. Stomped away in a wounded huff. That sort of thing.”
“Haven’t contacted her since?”
“I have not.”
“And she?”
“Total silence. I’m sure she replaced me. I did read about Her Ladyship’s wedding in Country Life. Couldn’t resist that.”
“I can see it would be difficult.”
Their food arrived.
“In the spring they have watercress,” sighed Pom nostalgically.
“This looks nice.”
Nicholas’ eyes had drifted shut.
“They’re very easy at this age.” said Pom.
“He’s being particularly good today. I’ve heard they like traveling in cars. It’s the motion.”
“So,” said Pom, “Now you owe me a story. You’re really going to have to tell me about how you and Ian met.”
How long ago it seemed! Four whole years. How different she felt now from that long-ago girl. “I too ignored all the warnings. Ian was considered the prize at Oxford, a real heartbreaker.”
“But you thought you’d be different.”
“He told me I’d be different. And then he married me so I thought I must be. I was so proud of having bagged him.”
“One does tend to think in these big-game metaphors.”
“It would be good to get over that,” she reflected. “And stop trying to “capture” people. It turned out he assumed I came from a rich family!”
“Brits think all Americans are rich.”
“It must be because we try to pretend we are. Everything new. We call it, Keeping up With the Joneses.”
“There’s another thing we all have to get over,” agreed Pom. “This competitive furor.” “We call it the capitalist fervor.”
“Obviously that has to go!” agreed Pom. They both laughed. Pom went on, “This is exactly why friendship is so important. Why I’m willing – I hope this won’t embarrass you – to wait for you.” It did embarrass her. She blushed the color of her name.
Pom went on smoothly, “You know, I never had any female friends at college. Coming out of an all boys’ school of course it’s different. Girls seem so exotic. Did you and Ian share a tutor? Or did he see you from afar and think – rare species? I’m sure the big game metaphor operates here as well.”
“I doubt it. He made me work for it. We shared editorship of a student literary publication – lasted a mere three issues – the St. Euphrosyne Review.”
“Good Lord! There was a Saint Euphrosyne?”
“It’s a bad joke. I think the joke was on us female students – apparently St Euphrosyne disguised herself as a man to become a monk. That’s the legend.”
“Irksome.”
“I’ll say. We Americans don’t put up with that sort of thing. We’re coeducational all the way. I was always wrestling with Ian to get him to respect my poetry – we just didn’t have the same taste. He really felt “female poet” was a contradiction in terms.”
“But suddenly he stopped wrestling?”
“Suddenly he let me win. I should have known.”
“I’m sure he was in love.”
“As much as he could be, I think, which isn’t enough, I’m afraid.”
“They do say people can only respond to another’s depth to the extent of their own.”
“Meaning there’s a lot of shallow people in the world.”
They smiled at each other.
The sandwiches were delicious. Scarlet produced the advertising brochure she’d been reading.
“Know what it says here?”
“Remind me.”
“Jane Austen’s house is nearby and I’ve never been.”
“Must you arrive in London at any specific time?”
“No. How about you?”
“Never anyone to please but myself.”
“What a fortunate state of affairs!”
“It has its highs and its lows. Shall we go then?”
Scarlet and Nicholas drove Ian to the station. Scarlet felt certain her determined plan to shake off the dust of this country house and leave him forever must shimmer on her in an unmistakable miasma but he seemed irritatingly smug, as if any plans of hers were unimportant and risible, no concern of his and must inevitably go awry. It was all she could do to prevent revealing the boiling anger which was probably his real goal but she somehow managed it and was rewarded with a patronizing kiss and a wink to all the other business commuters as if to say, “We’re well out of these teacup tempests, blokes!”
She stopped at the garage to top the tank with petrol. What pleasure it gave her to see Candi’s “gift” hanging in the window, slightly to the left of the neon Pirelli sign. She chuckled so loudly that Frankie commented, “You’re in a good mood today.” Scarlet responded, “You know, I really am.”
A few more items packed in Nicholas’ suitcase and her own, a change, a wash, a feeding for Nicholas and then she was ready to go. She packed his bassinet, the book boxes, the trunk – she left his crib. She left all her dishes, taking only the ancient butter molds India had sent to bless her marriage. Seemed like they had been unsuccessful. And they were off.
At the gate, she almost struck another car – Pom’s aging Dorset. He jumped out, whistling as he saw her load.
“Looks like the French are leaving Moscow,” was his comment. Tears sprang to Scarlet’s eyes. This meeting was something she hadn’t reckoned on and it felt emotionally loaded. “I’ve got a job,” she said sniffed, despising herself.
“And you’re driving up to town?” He cast his eyes over the situation and she could see him summing up her dilemma in his head. Accurately, she had no doubt.
“Well, this is wonderful luck for me,” he said, falsely, Scarlet felt certain. “I need a ride up to town and it looks like you could do with an extra pair of hands at the other end.” Scarlet gulped, unable to speak.
“I’ll even do the driving,” he offered. “Come on, what do you say? Less worry on the roundabouts.”
English roundabouts – everyone driving with demented entitlement – were particularly nasty. “It’s that you all persist in driving on the wrong side of the road,” she laughed, hearing the tears in her own voice.
‘It’s not the only thing we do wrong, either,” he said. “Meet me at the garage?”
Following his car gave her time to collect herself. Pom gave some brief orders to Frankie and slipped him a pound note. They looked cozily complicit. She was re-positioning Nicholas’ carrycot and saw the whole thing.
“What was that about?”
“He won’t mention that you gave me a ride. We don’t want the wrong people drawing the wrong conclusions.”
“That we don’t,” she agreed. She wondered, where was Ian’s detective now? Hiding behind one of these lace-curtained windows? Concealed behind a hedge? Should she warn Pom that he might be on camera?
“Don’t you have any luggage?”
He waved the open basket of shortbreads and jams he was carrying. “You don’t call this luggage?”
“I certainly don’t.” She sat in the passenger seat as he assumed the controls.
“Well, you’re right. I have plenty of clothes at my flat. This is my formal and very inadequate apology for my not telling you that nasty old house has broken up every marriage it ever got its misbegotten claws into. I wonder you don’t sue me.”
Scarlet burst into tears.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, “I would have rather – This isn’t your burden.”
He touched her hand briefly. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends boo-hoo in front of friends. You’ll see plenty of my sniffles and wails when I’m turned down for the Art Moderne Juried Show.”
“It’s definitely your turn,” she laughed.
“Didn’t I sob and shriek throughout Rear Window? Because that’s my memory.”
“You did NOT.” There was something so amusing about this man. He always reliably boosted her spirits.
“You didn’t notice in the dark. I assumed you didn’t care.”
“What on earth about Rear Window would make anyone sob?”
His face turned serious.
“Isn’t it the story of a poor crippled man – one who asserts some pretense of professionalism, even artistry I should note – looking on at life, unable to participate? That’s me.”
“That’s you? Impossible! Explain.” She hastened to add, “Unless you don’t want to.”
“Certainly, I want to. I brought it up, buddy. Pal. Whatever it is you Americans say. How long do you think I had to loiter around your gate looking for an opportunity to insert myself into your family drama?”
She was utterly nonplussed. He MUST be joking. “I don’t know – how long did you?”
“Long enough so that here I am. Ready to confess my horrible secrets. I guarantee they more than equal yours.”
“Dubious.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He shifted as smoothly from comedy to seriousness as he shifted automotive gears.
“Spill.”
He drove in silence for a moment and she didn’t interrupt his thoughts. Finally, he said, “You must wonder why I’ve never married.”
“My husband said you were a poofter.”
“His type would.” He ground his jaw, then said, “I suppose now you’ll defend him?”
“I’ll never defend him again. I’d like to think his awfulness can no longer surprise me.”
“All right, I’ll tackle his defense. I mean, who can blame him? We inveterate bachelors get this a lot. Add a British public school education and it’s really a wonder that I’m not as queer as a jellied eel. But no. The truth is I conducted a thirteen-year affair – thirteen sad, wasted years – with a woman who was married to someone else.”
When he fell silent, she prompted, “And then?”
“And then her husband died and she married another bloke. It was – the biggest shock to me. I can’t describe.”
“A paradigm shift.”
“Exactly.”
“You didn’t know about – the other fellow?”
“I don’t think he was part of the previous picture. He’s actually a very upright Catholic peer. I doubt he’d have sprung for matrimony if he knew about me. Certainly, he would never have even approached her if she hadn’t been a widow.”
“Sounds like you could have sunk her if you’d wanted to.”
“Could I?” He considered. “That didn’t occur to me. After I saw how she really was – after I had my re-visioning – I really wanted nothing further to do with her. After that, I was too absorbed in my self-hatred to tackle anybody else.” She thought of the sudden change from impressionistic color to black and white rage revealed in his paintings.
“Why hate yourself just because she was using you? I don’t waste my time hating myself for not being more like Candi. I pity her, actually. My husband called her his “bit of fluff” and insisted she was completely unimportant and he felt nothing for her. I doubt THAT would make any woman proud.”
“Possibly your inner strength is the reason I admire you. Add that to your deep intellect and your outstanding beauty and anyone can see why I cling.”
She refused to allow his seductive teasing to change the subject. The more the conversation shifted to her, the less she would find out about him.
“It’s all very Branwell Brontë,” she said finally. “The exact same thing happened to him.”
“Did it? How unflattering. I seem to recollect he was a falling-down drunk and an epic family disappointment. Luckily I have no family left to disappoint.”
“He let it destroy him. As you’re so obviously not doing.”
He looked at her with an expression of immeasurable sadness. “Yet here I am inserting myself into yet another marriage. Like a reflex.”
“I would have said you’ve inserted yourself into a divorce.”
His eyes seemed to plead a question.
“Are you so certain?”
She felt a bit shocked by his naked emotion. “Let me explain.” He would never understand if she didn’t. “My husband just told me that all men have girlfriends. Furthermore, he plans to always HAVE girlfriends. He doesn’t care what I do! He’ll pretend otherwise, if I insist. He certainly feels free to lie to everyone involved because, apparently “everyone” does it.”
“All men? Or just English men?”
“Oh, he’s very scathing about Americans, tied to their mommies and wives. Let’s say he claims all men who are really men have as many girlfriends as they possibly can. He says adultery strengthens marriage.”
“How Victorian.”
“Is it?”
“Well, the Victorians argued that the only way to have good girls is to have bad girls too.”
“The Victorians?” Scarlet laughed. “Ian told me to read Lawrence.”
“D.H. or T.E.? What dreadful taste he has.”
“He told me I can lump it or leave it. So, I’m leaving it. I’ve –“re-visioned” him. And I don’t want what I see.”
“He’s aware you’re leaving him?”
“Not yet.” She chewed her lip, uncertain what to reveal. Yet having someone in her corner – especially after the disappointment of India’s letter – was too alluring. Necessary, in fact. Habit-forming, even.
“You know that solicitor you sent me to –“
“Bob Thomas?”
“Actually, his name is Pelham D’Arcy – he’s the matrimonial guy with the same firm. Anyway, I think he’s wonderful.”
“I’m glad.”
“The deck’s stacked against me as a mother so I have to be careful. Anything I tell you is in the strictest confidence.”
“They couldn’t get it out of me under torture.” He squeezed her hand again.
“I hope that’s true. I mean, I don’t actually hope you’re tortured –“
“They could hardly do anything to me I haven’t already done to myself.”
“Well, stop it. We need clear heads.”
“Clearing, clearing…” He expertly negotiated a roundabout. “Cleared. Continue.”
“Ian had us followed.”
As she had foreseen, he couldn’t take it in.
“He had US followed? But there is no us!”
“I saw photos of our day – and night – in London. Complete with me going into your flat. Pelham D’Arcy said it can’t continue.”
“Oh, my God!” He was stunned. And silent.
After awhile, she said, “For all I know the detective is still after us.”
Pom checked his rearview. “I’ll try to see if any of these cars are following. Mind if I take a circuitous route?”
“Yes,” she said frankly. “I do mind. I would prefer that you help me unpack – in the full blaze of afternoon, before the eyes of anyone who cares to know – then we part company, and I don’t go to your flat and we have no more dates, we should be all right. Then I can insist we are only friends. If it comes to that. Do YOU mind? You can see I’m taking more advantage of you than you could ever take of me.”
“I’m honored to be your pack mule,” said Pom, “As well as your buddy and your friend. However long it takes.”
She hoped she could ignore this last remark.
“It’s not all bad news,” she informed him in a welcome change of subject. “I’ve gotten a wonderful job that comes with a new place to live.”
“The Kensal Green lady?”
“No. That was the BBC realtor, who it seems works only for my husband. My new job came through a newspaper advertisement – some wonderful eighty-eight year old author wants help updating her work but nobody who applied for the job had ever heard of her. Except me.”
He gasped appreciatively. “You were a shoo-in!”
“I was!”
“Who is she?”
“Esmé Hope Bottomley.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have gotten the job. Is she English?”
“She is, and the funny part is – I’ve only just discovered her! She was recommended to my by – of all people – Candi’s husband!”
“Candi has a husband?”
“Sad to say.”
“What a mess.” He shook his head. “Miss Bottomley expects you to live-in?”
“She’s all alone in the most fabulous house she just inherited. I get the whole second floor – I guess the Brits call it the “first floor”. She never goes upstairs.”
“And that’s the Norfolk Crescent address?” He whistled. “Pricey. My only concern would be you’ll end up caring for a very infirm old lady.”
“I don’t think so,” said Scarlet. “She’s got tons of cash, and besides, it’s only three months to start with. Anyway, I told Ian all that – he would know I’m taking Nicholas if he thought about it – but I didn’t make a point of it. He seems to think I’ll fold.
But I’ll never give in to this philosophy that men get mistresses and women get houses – as a booby prize, presumably. My theory is, of course I get Nicholas who’s only seven weeks old. My solicitor wants me to stop communicating with Ian. He says he’ll do all that dirty work.“
“Can you resist monitoring Ian and telling him off?”
“I hope so. I don’t want to know what he’s up to and I don’t want to hear his lies. Silence suits me perfectly. The solicitor did say you and I must be careful with our friendship.”
“I only hope you know what you’re doing.”
She felt a flicker of panic.
Another subject change was called for.
“Tell me the truth. Do all men have girlfriends?”
“I’d say it’s time somebody explains to you the difference between dogs and wolves.”
“One’s tame and the other’s wild. I know that much.”
“That’s not it. The interesting part is, the wild ones are monogamous and the tame ones – aren’t.”
“Wolves are monogamous? I guess I didn’t know.”
“It’s a well-kept secret.”
“Very well-kept. American girls call predatory men “wolves”.
“See how deceptive language can be?”
“Truly. One needs a native guide.”
“Fortunately, you have one.” He gave her a meaning look. She laughed.
“I think you’re saying that you’re a wolf? In the scientific sense, of course.”
“Well, I have been so far. I prefer loyalty over selfishness. In the long run, it’s better for the tribe.”
Nicholas muttered and sputtered. Pom turned off on the Farnham exit. “Sounds like somebody’s ready for lunch. I think we all could use a bite.”
“Got an idea where we’re going?”
“I do. Used to be my favorite place but –“ he shook his head. “No blubbing, I promise. I haven’t been back in awhile.”
“You can blub all you want,” Scarlet said generously at which Nicholas’ muttering turned into outright crying.
Scarlet’s sister India’s Christmas package arrived on the same day as a rejection from Nigel, who said the magazine was “going in a different direction.” Had Ian spoken with him? Scarlet couldn’t put it past him. India’s little gifts were nostalgic food items like pfeffernusse and windmill cookies and an unexpected present for Baby Nicholas – a collection of the sisters’ broken-backed, well-loved books from childhood. Scarlet pushed Ian’s gift aside (a joke tie probably, considering India had never liked Ian) and stroked the worn book covers sadly. There was so much imagination in childhood that it seemed the power of youth and yearning itself was magic.
She had not even bothered to set up a tree but Ian could hardly expect one now. Perhaps she could make an effort for Miss Bottomley – see what the old dame thought about Christmas. Some people disregarded the holiday – others actively hated it, after repeated bad experiences.
Ian and Scarlet’s last apartment – where the Pourfoyles now lived – had been too small and Ian’s family had always focused more on stockings and tiny gifts. Ian was quite comfortable leaving Christmas up to his wife, all the effort and all the blame. It was always the wife’s jobs to meet everyone’s expectations, grumbled Scarlet, even those of her husband’s family whom she didn’t know while men sat comfortably aside and ordered grog.
What a different plan she’d had for Nicholas’ childhood than the desolation that lay before her! But what was her alternative? Ian hadn’t noticed Scarlet sexually or romantically since Nicholas’ birth. He had chosen a different bed. She was in this utterly alone.
Could he possibly expect her to compete with his “bit of fluff?” She couldn’t imagine that in a thousand years. The very thought made her want to enter a Turkish steambath and turn herself inside out in an effort to get clean. The church ought to offer a ceremony for this – instead they acted as if menstruation and childbirth were the defilers instead of a husband’s reckless dalliances and pernicious prevarications. She was done with all of them.
What would happen now? The future was impossible to guess at or see into. She now saw that any belief that she could see into it had wrong-footed her from the start. There were too many other players. Likely life would always be more surprising and unaccountable than she expected or counted on. The most important question was, could she ever trust anyone again? How teach Nicholas about a universe where no one could be trusted?
Favorite Egyptian Tales of Mystery & Magic – Scarlet had loved this particular volume so much it had lost its cover. For years after reading it she told people she wanted to be an “Egyptologist”. After that it was “archaeologist” until she fell in love with literature and poetry in high school and literature and poetry seemed to love her back. Would those, too, let her down? So much depended on the frail elderly shoulders of Miss Bottomley.
She turned the pages slowly, remembering every illustration. Here was the hippopotamus Ammit – “devourer of hearts” – waiting for Anubis to throw him the heavy, most evil hearts to eat. In this religion, only the light-hearted were worthy of heaven. Not a bad idea! When she thought about the challenges ahead, she did feel her heart lighten. She had Pom on her side, and D’Arcy and Miss Joringel and Miss Bottomley.
Ian had Candi and Margalo and whatever drunken buddies he could find to applaud him at the pub. But those were meretricious relationships in the fullest meaning of the word. They were based on Ian NOT showing his true self. Based, really, on his never finding that real self but remaining content to swim with whatever school he found himself in.
Scarlet had always resisted this. She understood perfectly that art required an audience and patrons, but the first requirement was that it be Art. Utterly fresh and new. The time it took to temper the artist – not to mention imagine, create and complete the work – meant finances couldn’t be a consideration. She was being tempered and it was bloody uncomfortable. But seriously, what produced good Art? Seeing Ian no longer caring about courting her – because she was good and captured, she lapsed into “history” – was like seeing the world with its skin off. It was losing part of herself.
But she had gained a new part too, with Nicholas. She was seeing how the world really worked. Promises weren’t enough. Desire wasn’t enough. The question was what you did when people showed their true selves – because that told you what YOUR true self was.
I WANT to know the truth, thought Scarlet. There really isn’t any point going forward if you didn’t know the truth. Obviously, people preferred sentimental fictions, chocolate box prettiness. She couldn’t concern herself with that. She must move forward. Thank God Miss Bottomley’s works were somethings she could enthusiastically admire. Think how grim this would be she was editing one of those writers – sadly, there were many of them, some very famous – whose work she despised. Well, she wouldn’t take such a job. She’d return to America if things got that bad.
She wanted Nicholas to know his father, but she didn’t want to tempt Ian to behave as badly as he was able and he was showing himself quite able. Pelham D’Arcy was right, it was time to make a plan and stick to it like adults. That was the model for Nicholas. That proposed a future he could rely on. Ian had come to America before; he could again.
Were there any warning signs that Ian would suddenly treat her so cavalierly? He had repeated (with so much relish!) the wedding vow to forsake all others and cleave only to her – wouldn’t that have been a good time to mention that mature British males never actually followed that plan and he didn’t intend to, either?
What would she have done if he had? Well the wedding would have come to stop, that’s for certain! But he had consistently represented himself as wanting what she wanted. Truthfully, after their marriage she had had some doubts. She had felt some “pulling away”. It made her a little scared and sad – after all she was in a foreign country – but it hadn’t seemed unnatural or unexpected. They were carving out individual lives as well as one joint future.
Vows were meaningful to her. She had been especially careful to extract the word “obey” – after all it didn’t appear in his! The expectation that all accommodations ought to be up to the wife Scarlet repudiated as not what “modern” people thought. Ian’s parents would be bound to blame her now, taking it for granted that it was somehow her “non-traditional, American” ideas that were “at fault” for their breakup.
And weren’t they? The coming days would be consumed with sensitive, difficult negotiations. The law would try to bring her down and Ian would enjoy the spectacle of her humiliation. For Nicholas’ sake she must not allow it.
Enough daydreaming. She forced herself up to her study to pack up all her papers – all her hopes and dreams all fit neatly into one brass bound trunk. She resisted the urge to burn her poetry. It seemed so insipid now – “idiotic” wouldn’t be too strong a word. She mustn’t make such cataclysmic decisions while she was in this emotional state. Some brave new world must lie on the other side of this devastation – some universe she couldn’t see – what form would it take?
Maybe learning how to proceed without hope – was the “putting away of childish things” of which the Bible spoke. When she opened this trunk again what kind of person would she be? She pushed the thought away: now she must concentrate on her job and on Nicholas. That would more than fill her days. Three suitcases, three boxes of books and a trunk – that was all she had to take with her. Goodbye to the beautiful desk – the loveliest thing Ian had ever given her. Except for Nicholas. Even the huge, ornate pram that had been Ian’s family’s gift was much too large to take in the station wagon – luckily more practical India had sent a folding stroller – just the thing for vehicle transport.
She saved India’s letter to read at tea – but it was not the treat she had expected. Naturally, it had been written before her news of separation and new address had arrived but even the usual sisterly comforts were not on offer.
India’s big news was she had decided to be “psychoanalyzed.” She, too, felt the need of a “responsible life partner” just like Ian and someday, a child – just like Nicholas! She said she needed to get to the bottom of the mental blocks she assumed were standing in her way. Psychoanalysis required making herself “unavailable” to others and making no “radical life decisions” for three years.
India might be coming to England in July – but now it was up to her psychoanalyst – to determine if she was “ready.” She was currently deep in their childhood – issues of toilet training and sibling rivalry.
Scarlet didn’t like the sound of this. She knew she couldn’t blame the psychoanalyst entirely – India hadn’t enjoyed the trouble-free childhood that was Scarlet’s legacy – if only because she hadn’t had an elder sister to cushion the parental blows. Now that India was making herself vulnerable to this rather irritating sounding man – a Dr. Weitzkopf – it would be up to Scarlet to “support” her. Scarlet wished she hadn’t written that woebegone letter of – could it have been as recent as yesterday? She must write immediately and soft-pedal her own changes. Now it seemed she couldn’t rely on India. It was a brave new world in every respect.
The upstairs of Number Fourteen, Norfolk Crescent, was as majestic – and clean – as Scarlet could possibly have desired. There was a long reception room facing the square – empty of furniture as if expecting a ball – with a small serving area – complete with ice chest, warming trays and tea kettles – that could actually serve as a Scarlet’s kitchen.
A dumbwaiter probably connected it to the kitchen downstairs. There were four bedrooms and a big bathroom. Scarlet chose “the green room” for her own – it was smaller but she liked the old-fashioned chintz pattern of pear trees in blossom. There was even space enough for a nanny if the thought of strangers in her house didn’t unsettle Miss Bottomley. The furnishings were solid, perhaps a bit duller than the magnificence on display downstairs – mahogany and teak – and the upholstery could do with a freshening – but the portraits were interesting. Scarlet studied the faces, wondering about the sudden disappearance of “the Pursuivant line.”
It was a lucky thing people couldn’t see into the future, Scarlet decided. She remembered herself at her own wedding and her excitement at news of her first pregnancy – what if she had foreseen what would REALLY happen? It would have been too cruel. She had been spared from knowing the sadness that lay ahead – just as these people had been. It was better not to know.
Miss Bottomley was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.
“And when shall we be able to get to work?”
“How about day after tomorrow? That gives me one day to pack.”
“Perfect. I shall enter it into my datebook.”
Scarlet reached out to shake her new employer’s hand, only to be presented with a key.
“I sleep badly, so I dislike being disturbed before eleven,” said Miss Bottomley. “I want you to be able to freely come and go.”
“Thank you, Miss Bottomley,” said Scarlet warmly. And she meant it.
She telephoned Mr. D’Arcy from a callbox at the station.
“I’ve got a job and it comes with a place to stay,” she told him. “And there’s room for the baby but I’m worried Ian won’t let me take him.”
“Don’t ask him about that yet,” cautioned D’Arcy. “Tell him about the job, then insist on getting the name of his solicitor. Make him hire someone and I’ll negotiate with that fellow.”
“Ian will probably use some college crony. Or possibly somebody connected to the BBC.”
“Whoever he chooses, let’s hope he isn’t honest with them,” D’Arcy said blandly. “Giving us considerable advantage.”
Scarlet thought about it. “I’m not sure he knows what honesty is.”
At the station, Scarlet purchased a writing block so she could begin the letter to her sister immediately.
“Dear India – I have both sad and wonderful news,” she began. How lucky that she had waited to write until this unexpected uptick in her good fortune.
Frankie stopped his taxi by the garage so that Scarlet could see the stained glass rondo hanging in the window. He was bursting with pride.
“Looks perfect,” agreed Scarlet, barely able to contain her laughter.
Nicholas was eager to nurse but Scarlet was out of milk. She gave him a bottle as tears rolled down her cheeks. This wasn’t what she had promised him or herself but, it couldn’t be changed. She kissed his forehead as he suckled. As soon as he was asleep she knocked on Ian’s library door. “Come in,” he called. He was listening to the BBC but turned down the radio as she entered, watching her face warily. She was grateful that she could be so calm.
“I got a job,” she said, “Ten pounds a week working with Miss Esmé Hope Bottomley.” She knew he wouldn’t recognize the name and he didn’t. “She has a flat in London, in Norfolk Crescent. I can stay there with her.”
She deliberately neglected to mention the baby.
“Dogsbody?” His brows creased. “Doesn’t sound like you.”
“Editing a novel series for Coltsfoot & Briggins.”
His brow cleared. “That’s wonderful then. But there’s no reason we can’t share the flat the way we share Nicholas. Be reasonable. There are two floors – I’ll take the downstairs if it makes you more comfortable. I won’t ask you to entertain.”
No, Candi and Margalo would compete for that honor. She could see his mind working: glamorous young couple with baby, two important jobs, country place AND he had the freedom he craved, which appeared to be mastering a harem of gullible girls. What could suit him better?
“My solicitor is Pelham D’Arcy in Maida Vale. He needs the name of your solicitor so that they can talk.”
“My solicitor? So they can ratchet up the bills? Darling, ask me for what you want. We can get the life we need. Talk to me.”
She looked at him critically. He was seemingly more confident and handsome now than when she had first met him. Yet he really was a total stranger. She could imagine him doing literally anything, now. You could never trust, or rely, on a person like that.
“I’d rather do this through solicitors. I don’t feel I can trust you anymore.”
“That’s too bad,” he said coldly. “It’s silly to break up over a bit of passing fluff, especially when it means there’s that much less cash to go around.” He turned up his radio as if preparing to ignore her. She raised her voice.
“So? You think you’ll use Harry?” Naming an old college friend.
“I’ll talk to Margalo.” He turned away from her decisively. She knew this was supposed to frighten her, suggesting the massive power of the BBC ranged formidably against her but she thought of Pelham D’Arcy and didn’t feel scared.
“One more thing – “ she braced herself to ask, “When does your job start?”
“I’ll be going up to town tomorrow.”
He hadn’t really answered her question but the information was sufficient.
“Are you taking the car?” she inquired.
“Would you rather I leave it for you?”
“Yes, I would, really. I’m going to have a lot of luggage.”
“I can take the train. Sure, you wouldn’t like the come along? Settle things about the flat?”
“No thank you. I need to go up soon myself, I’m not sure when. I’ll let you know. Through my solicitor.” He sniffed.
“Mind that you do.”
She was amazed that he never mentioned Nicholas once! He obviously didn’t expect that he would have to concern himself with the child. Clearly, he assumed the system would always work to his advantage and grant him whatever he asked; a child when he wanted one, no concerns or responsibility when he did not. She could see that this habitually forgetfulness about his son and heir meant Ian was still taking his wife for granted. As she had once taken him. Suited her perfectly. Having the car would be helpful: ideal, in fact.
She went upstairs to organize Nick’s and her belongings so that packing after Ian’s departure would be a breeze.
Alysse Aallyn 