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.
Pelham sat in the second client chair and feebly patted Scarlet’s heaving shoulders. “There, there now,” he murmured. “You would think as a matrimonial solicitor I would be more prepared. I must do better – I assure you my heartlessness was purely thoughtless. It won’t happen again.”
Gotobed produced a cup of tea and biscuit tin. “I’m sorry about the baby bottle”, he chuffed, but Scarlet had located Nick’s pacifier, what the English call a “dummy.”
“That’s all right, Gotobed,” said Pelham. “But make a note to purchase – er – one of those things.” “Yes, sir.”
They were alone again. Silence fell as Scarlet sipped the strengthening brew.
“I think I’m the one who should apologize,” she said finally. “I really thought I had given up on my marriage. It goes to show I hadn’t. Please go on – what were you saying? Why exactly is this such good news?”
But now Pelham was frightened by his client’s possibilities of distress.
“Well,” he began nervously, “Your husband knew you were applying for employment in London. He had given his permission, correct?”
“Correct,” agreed Scarlet, annoyed that she would need her husband’s “permission” to get a job. “With his girlfriend in residence, you’ve been evicted, so to speak. We shall argue that you can’t stay in a home where your husband has installed his girlfriend. Most judges I know of would agree. And you certainly can’t bring up an infant there!”
“He’ll say she’s not his girlfriend.”
“Our man Bogswell will get the goods on them. No one will be fooled.”
“But I left first,” argued Scarlet, playing devil’s advocate.
“Didn’t you come up to London to rent a flat and get a nanny under your husband’s advisement?”
“Well, yes, I did.”
“Is your room connected with your employment?”
“Well, yes.”
“Do we not have documentary proof that your husband was the first to transgress?”
She thought of the Carpathian Hotel.
“Quite true.”
“Well there you are.”
Scarlet sat silent for awhile, drinking tea while Nick sucked vigorously with an annoyed look on his face. He apparently already knew when he was being fobbed off with something that was not quite real.
But those days are over for me, thought Scarlet. I won’t be “fobbed off” anymore. “Thank you,” she said gratefully to her solicitor. Pelham visibly relaxed.
Gotobed inserted his head into the room as narrowly and as tactfully as it was possible for a human to do. The man had a head like a flounder; completely flat, with eyes on either side.
“Lady Lechmere has arrived,” he murmured unctuously. Pelham vaulted upwards, helping Scarlet assemble her things.
“Take Mrs. Wye to the Partner’s Room, please.”
Lady Lechmere was so old and bent her gaze was permanently fixed on the floor. What could a woman that elderly possibly need with a matrimonial attorney, Scarlet wondered, wishing she could ask Pelham. But she did recall that Pelham’s specialty was said to be “marriage contracts” and Lady Lechmere doubtless had one of those. The intriguing possibilities would set any novelist or short story writer’s mind to spinning!
Nick couldn’t settle, so as she walked him up and down in the waiting room she wondered how her own contract with Ian would read. Possibly that was the problem – she felt there was a marriage contract – it had been explicated by the vows – but Ian felt otherwise. If he had told her what he really intended, she would never have married him. Would she? But deeply in love, hadn’t she been in the mood to risk anything? Ian seemed so as well. That was the hell of love. You might fall in together, but you fell out at different times, and under different circumstances.
Before the sniffles got any worse, Scarlet betook herself and Nick to the Ladies Cloakroom, two flights down. Miss Bottomley was just coming out of Bob Thomas’ office when Scarlet returned from the Ladies Retiring Room, and Bob Thomas was every bit as unctuous in handing her off as Pelham D’Arcy had been with Lady Lechmere.
When she saw Scarlet, Miss Bottomley brightened excitedly and placed a finger to her lips. She could barely contain herself – as soon as they were in the hall and the office door closed behind them she hissed, “Do you know, Scarlet, I am a very rich woman!”
Scarlet laughed. “That’s what I heard,” she said.
“Mr. Thomas told me the estate is mine free and clear and I can do anything I wish with it which is most certainly NOT what Mr. Inkum told me! Do you know, that man actually lied to me? He is simply the estate manager ‘per my pleasure’ – and I don’t think I want an estate manager who LIES to me!”
“I feel sure you can do better,” agreed Scarlet.
“That’s what Mr. Thomas said,” Miss Bottomley said comfortably, “He told me there is nothing whatever wrong with my mind and I am as sharp as a knife!”
“The more I hear about Bob Thomas the better I respect him,” said Scarlet.
Miss Bottomley nodded. “I had the same thought myself. He agreed that I need a trust – or several – but said they should serve my ideas and not Mr. Inkum’s!”
She expressed herself so explosively Scarlet was afraid to ask what those ideas actually were. In her experience, 88 year old women could sound very cranky, and Scarlet wanted nothing to interfere with her respect for her employer, so she only commented, “Just as it should be.”
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.”
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.”
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.
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.
Scarlet asked Frankie to stop at the church so she could drop her package at the jumble sale. “And what is it, ma’am?” he inquired, eyes sharp.
She displayed Candi’s stained glass creation.
“Oh, that’s lovely, that is! See his fine red coat! Matches the foxes’ fur! I’d accept it in payment, ma’am, if you’d be willing. I’d be proud to put it in the window of the garage.”
Scarlet thought that would be perfect. So pleasant to imagine Candi coming to town, stopping at the garage and seeing her own handiwork showcased between the neon, the Michelin man and the Pirelli tire girls.
“Excellent,” she said.
Pelham D’Arcy was a youthful man trying to make himself seem older – or so Scarlet assumed – by dressing and posing as some kind of a revenant from the nineteenth century. He had the most extraordinary moustache – as carefully trained as a miniature bonsai bush – and he had a way of stroking it when speaking which meant Scarlet couldn’t take her eyes off it. He first apologized that he handled marriage contracts as a usual matter, but he did have a “small” practice in divorce. “Marriage contracts?” Scarlet collapsed exhausted into a chair, feeling that if she had any strength left she would just walk out of there. Marriage contracts? And I there was I, innocently thinking wedding vows would cover everything! Ian had promised before God to cleave to her before all others, to worship her body with his body until death did them part. If a man was ready to go back on THAT, what help could a contract possibly be? She feared the worst about all solicitors, but at this particular moment she was far too dispirited to seek further. She summoned up as much energy as she could manage and asked a question.
“What good is a marriage contract?”
“Well, I am afraid that under our laws the wife and children are entitled to only one third of the husband’s income,” he confirmed. “Any income she makes would be added to that pool – she still gets only a third. A marriage contract would guarantee that in the event of – er, negative outcomes – the wife gets a fairer disposition.”
Now she could see the point. Too late, of course. She explained her situation. “Plus, I don’t currently have any income,” said Scarlet faintly.
“What is your husband’s income, if I may ask?”
“I don’t really know,” Scarlet admitted. “He’s negotiated something with the BBC. It seems to include a flat.”
“Well that’s unfortunate,” said D’Arcy, “decidedly unfortunate. What’s to prevent them cutting you out?”
“Why would they cut me in? Are you saying the BBC would conspire with my husband to cheat me?”
“Goodness no,” he gasped, “I am saying no such thing. On the other hand, if your husband is seen as a desirable acquisition they will attempt to accommodate his needs. If not, they may of course, simply get rid of him. This is a most awkward time for the pair of you to decide that your marital difficulties are insoluble.”
Scarlet looked at his hands – no wedding ring to be seen – only a sizeable carnelian pinky ring that looked to have just been dipped in the red wax seal of some Top Secret document.
“I just gave birth to our first child,” she said as calmly as she could, “And my husband has announced that he has a girlfriend, he’s keeping his girlfriend and he will always have girlfriends. I don’t want to be in that kind of a marriage. If I get a separation, first, instead of a divorce, there’s a chance – just a possibility, mind you, that Ian will come back to sanity.”
It wouldn’t happen. She could no longer force herself to believe it this possibility. How could she ever trust him again? Wouldn’t he simply wait for the next time she was incapacitated and vulnerable to spring something similar – or something even worse, if that could even be imagined – upon her?
“I can’t recommend marital gambits, I’m afraid.” Said D’Arcy in a decidedly chilly manner. “Possibly your doctor –“
“Separation or divorce,” said Scarlet, matching his cold tone, “Which do YOU recommend?”
“Separation definitely,” he agreed, “If what you say is true.”
“Do you have any law female partners? At this firm?” Scarlet was rapidly losing patience with this troglodyte.
He drew back as if her question was improper and she had somehow insulted him. Then with an effort he seized control of himself, stiffened his upper lip, (thinking of England, presumably), and mustered up a calm facade.
“I’m afraid we do not, nor do I know of any I can recommend.”
“It’s just that I’d just like to start with a solicitor who doesn’t call me a liar.”
“I am not “calling you a liar”, madam” – he seemed to put the words in quotes as if afraid he was soiling his mouth, “I am accustomed to ascertaining the facts of the case.”
“The facts of the case are, that my husband spent the night with another woman who masqueraded as Mrs. Wye at The Carpathian Hotel. I have the receipted bill. When I challenged him he admitted it, saying it would continue because of Modern Marriage and stated further that he’s a man of the world, or some such thing, and showed me some photographs a detective took of me meeting a platonic male friend in London.”
D’Arcy perked up and looked interested in spite of himself. “Your husband was having you followed?”
“Apparently. For all I know it’s still going on – I didn’t see anybody but because I’m not doing anything, I wasn’t really looking.” I’m never doing anything, she thought disgustedly.
D’Arcy stroked his moustache. “About this friend –“
“Pomeroy Bronfen – the man we bought Wyvern House from – we ran into each other on the street by the sheerest coincidence. He invited me to dinner and a movie, and because he had a car, he ended up driving me around.”
“I believe you, of course – I would hope that goes without saying – but I also think it would be sensible on your part to keep some distance from – friendly men.”
“Should I stay away from all men?” Scarlet asked and D’Arcy looked physically pained. “That will be difficult as I’m looking for a job.”
“Don’t ride in cars with them, don’t have dinner alone with them, don’t sit in darkened theatres with them,” said D’Arcy huffily. “It is not that I don’t trust you,” he emphasized the word – “It’s a question is what a judge might think.”
“And what might he think?”
D’Arcy sighed. “In England, ma’am, it is not possible to get a divorce for adultery if the spouse has been compliant or collusive.”
She let those terms sink in. This was what she needed to know, this was why she was sitting in this dreadfully overheated room listening to this silly little man. She needed to find out what game Ian was playing.
“You mean if we both have affairs?”
“If neither one of you – such is English law – truly can be considered an injured party.”
She stared at him. She wanted to tell him what she thought of English law – what a bunch of idiots they all were – but she knew that wouldn’t help.
“I gather your husband doesn’t desire this divorce,” said D’Arcy.
“You gather correctly. And it isn’t for any reason flattering to me, it’s because of this division that exists in my husband’s mind between “wives” and “girlfriends.”
“I see. He doesn’t wish the categories to – collide, as it were.”
Was there a human being buried inside this pompous little twerp after all?
“Exactly. And I want no part of it.”
“How refreshingly American,” said Pelham D’Arcy, shuffling papers.
“American?” Was he insulting her again? She bridled.
“It’s very American to want to be both wife and girlfriend,” said D’Arcy. “But I must say my wife shares your view.”
Scarlet felt enormous relief. Perhaps this man would do after all.
“Hopefully the world will come around to our opinion,” she said. “So, given all this, what do you recommend?”
“Under the scenario you describe, I recommend we hire a detective of our own, get the goods on hubby so to speak – romantic and financial – and you file for divorce. A settlement contract will prove a more productive path than separate maintenance which allows him to play bloody hell with your allowance. And he seems to be a gamesman. I’ve got an excellent fellow – er, detective – er, Bogswell.”
“Thank you,” sighed Scarlet. “What do I owe you?”
D’Arcy raised a blocking hand.
“Nothing until we get a better sense of your husband’s assets. I also suggest we establish a trust with you as the trustee, and you write a will.”
“Why a will?”
“It’s part of establishing the trust. A trust allows you to open a bank account in your own name which your husband won’t have access to – which I’m afraid you will find difficult otherwise.”
“I’ve got even fewer assets than he’s got,” Scarlet sighed.
“I beg to differ. I believe you said something about an infant child?”
Scarlet brightened. “Yes, there’s always Nicholas.” An asset indeed.
The session ended warmly on a handshake.
“I suggest you obtain a separate address your husband doesn’t know about,” said D’Arcy. “Until you notify me I will await your call here or at my home – here’s the number to exchange news. And I’ll take that hotel bill, by the way.”
On her way to pick up Fern she bought all the London papers. Scarlet found herself unable to return the newsagent’s “Happy Christmas” with anything more than a nod. It was NOT a merry Christmas. The most that she could give thanks for was that Nicholas was too young to notice. She phoned Pom from a call box and luckily, he was in.
“I wonder if you could suggest a London solicitor,” she asked.
“What’s it in aid of?” Pom inquired, very reasonably. “Purchasing more real estate?”
She had actually hoped not to get into it but she realized now she needed to simply rip the bandage off.
“We’re getting a separation,” she said. “I’ll be moving to London so I think I should find a solicitor there.”
“Oh, my God,” said Pom. “This is all my fault.”
Good thing she had phoned him instead of dropping by. How humiliating if he saw how her cheeks suffused with red – she could never explain properly and he could never understand. If it was Pom’s fault it was the world’s fault. How could she ever explain about the photos – the detective – how utterly disgusting Ian was and how low he was willing to go. His enraging method of manipulating and ruining everything. But Pom continued smoothly, “Selling you that awful house. I ought to be shot.”
“No, really,” she gasped, almost grateful for his thorough misapprehension. “It isn’t that. I think it was Nicholas being born. He says now he never wanted children.”
“Well, he’s an arrant idiot. Forgive my caterwauling, no one sees inside a marriage, do they? My solicitor’s Bob Thomas in Maida Vale – he’s the best – and he’s got several partners. I’m sure he would recommend the right person. He’s jolly easy to talk to – he just lets me wail and then offers sane, useful suggestions. Should have been an alienist, I always tell him.”
“Alienist.” Strange expression. Like ‘Alienation of affections…’
“I’m a shoulder to cry on, don’t forget,” Pom said as he gave her the number. “Two shoulders, really. And I don’t judge.” If he only knew what she’d involved him in. But somehow, she didn’t think he’d be angry. She scribbled in her datebook and rang off.
Bob Thomas’ clerk Mr. Gotobed said “Mr. Thomas” never handled “matrimonial,” that was Pelham D’Arcy and he had an opening tomorrow at twelve. After that, nothing for a week. Scarlet chose tomorrow at twelve.
When she stopped in at Mrs. Mugle’s the other woman said she would be “most pleased” to take Nicholas tomorrow. She had Ladies Union – would it be all right to take Nicholas along? Naturally Scarlet agreed and Mrs. Mugle all but jumped up and down in her excitement. She did not enquire why Scarlet needed to go up to London again – seemingly taking it for granted that leasing a London flat was a complex endeavor.
Back at Wyvern House, Ian was closed in behind the library door, making himself scarce. She could hear him murmuring into the phone. Fern said, “I’ll take the babby for a walk, shall I?” and Scarlet hastily agreed. She took the newspapers up to her tower room to peruse them in privacy. And there, in the window, was a round stained glass rondo depicting a medieval hunter – possibly Robin Hood – setting an arrow to his bow while a fox peeped out of the luxuriant shrubbery. Candi was the hunter and Ian was the fox? Or was Scarlet the prey?
Scarlet felt so faint she almost fell back down the stairs. She picked up the offending object from its chain – it was quite heavy – and battled with herself not to open the window and fling it out onto the courtyard.
However. It was glass. Pointless to assist Candi in wreaking yet more havoc on Scarlet’s household. She wrapped it in the political news and taped it up so she wouldn’t have to look at the thing. The right method of disposal would come to her. Grinding it up and putting it in Candi’s food? Dropping it on her head from an airplane? Concealing it on Ian’s side of the bed where he would break it with his big, no-longer-desiring, no longer desirable body?
All these revenge modalities threatened unforeseen consequences. The solution came in a flash – church jumble. Exactly the right thing to do with a houseguest’s gift you had previously begged them – by telegram – not to assault you with.
She pushed the object away and opened Situations Vacant.
Nothing. Nobody wanted to hire an American poet to do anything. Teachers, even nannies, were expected to have extensive, specialized qualifications. Scarlet couldn’t imagine herself even pretending to keep house or cook to request. “Companions to the elderly” paid worse than kennel maids. Sewing and laundry facilities sounded like sweatshops – she couldn’t support Nicholas on that kind of pay. Librarians’ assistants were expected to be British and bookshops and galleries requested “equity” investment in the business – YOU paid THEM. Jewelers and antique shops wanted “bonding”. Fashion and advertising firms wanted “portfolios.” Even clerks’ jobs seemed to require a civil service exam. Selling door to door was “commission only.” The only hope appeared “typing pool” – if she could pass “the test.” But poets don’t cultivate speed – slow deliberation is the necessary pace. “Maybe I could speed up if I had to,” she thought. And then she saw it – a boxed advertisement in the top corner:
Editorial Ability – Temporary.
Possibly, thought Scarlet.
“Editor required to update Victorian novels. Three months’ employment. Present qualifications in person to:
No telephone number! What did THAT mean? In America, this kind of “cattle call” meant they wanted to take a look at you. Scarlet felt hope for the first time. Thank God, she’d bought those new tweed suits. At least she could look the part, although it was certainly possible that she would be rejected simply for being American. It really depended what kind of Victorian novels these were. But she might be able to talk her way into it – whatever it was. She had a good knowledge of Victorian literature, had indeed studied Mrs. Humphrey Ward as well as all the poets. Literary qualifications were the only kind of qualifications she really possessed. And a three-month job might give her exactly the kind of entrée, recommendations and resumé to try for better positions.
She began hashing out a list of “qualifications” and immediately ran into the problem of references. Her American references seemed pointless and outdated. All her London connections were more Ian’s than hers. Gossip about their separation would soon be rife: who could she trust? Rather desperately she wrote Pom’s name feeling he was the only human being she could truly depend on to represent her well. She felt too embarrassed about it to even call him. She called Francesca Joringel, instead, at The Fruitful Browser and explained her difficulty.
“I really need someone to testify to my familiarity with Victorian literature,” she said shyly.
“I think I can testify to more than that!” Francesca said with unexpected loyalty. “They would be lucky to get someone so well-spoken with such wide interests. Now, who are they exactly?”
“I don’t really know,” said Scarlet. “I’ll be finding out about them while they’re finding out about me.”
“Some kind of literary jobbing would be perfect for a new mum,” offered Francesca, “Particularly one whose husband works for the BBC.” Gossip jumped from the rooftops while truth struggled to put on its spats. “I’d be honored to speak for you, and I’m easy to reach. I’m always here, working on my manuscript.”
So comforting.
“We’ll see,” Scarlet sighed. “Thank you. It may all be a mare’s nest.”
“Or,” said Francesca, who loved Mystery, Adventure and Thrillers best of all, “It could be the Opportunity of a Lifetime.”
The last train came in at nine o’clock, but why would Ian need it? He had the car, and Scarlet hadn’t seen it at the station. He could be anywhere. She heard nothing from him. As she gave Nick his bath she wondered what she should do. Should she call Candi and ask about his plans? But there seemed no more reason to expect her husband’s girlfriend would be any more truthful than Scarlet’s own husband had been or that he even told the truth to her. Maybe David – Candi’s husband – was the one she should call. Or how about Margalo?
“Hello – we haven’t met – I was just wondering –“ No wonder country wives got such a bad reputation as jailers: they were both jealous and clueless; perpetually the one because they were the other. Day late and a dollar short as the Americans put it.
Even some disguised query about job or flat would be ridiculously transparent. Her private job, as Nick’s mother, was to figure out just how much of this she would tolerate, and what she would do about it. She knew marriage was no bed of roses but she had not expected so many thorns.
Scarlet, the writer, so long buried, had nothing to say. Her only role was to be oblivious, unworldly and unassuming. Scarlet surrendered her thoughts and fell asleep.
Nick awoke, like clockwork, at one in the morning. She fell back asleep while feeding him. She dreamed she stood at the junction of several dark, long tunnels. Which offered the best way out? In the distance, she heard a roar of water – but from which direction? She would drown – she felt a laggard inertia – the horror of such hopelessness awakened her. It was already light out. Here she was in Nick’s bedroom so freshly decorated with the hopeful yellow paint she’d applied herself just before his eagerly anticipated birth. There was no threatening water, no terrifying tunnel. The future that awaited her was terrible enough – or maybe just sad, really. But at least there wouldn’t be a drowning at the end of it.
She placed Nick carefully in his crib and went downstairs to the cold kitchen to make coffee and light the boiler: what Ida called “the heart of the house.”
Outside a fresh coating of snow had settled over the drive. She shivered, making toast, skipping butter but slathering plenty of tart, orange, homemade marmalade. She remembered exactly what insanity had brought them here. It was Ian’s dream of power, and she had eagerly embraced them hoping for a by-product of happiness. What had it wrought instead?
She carried her coffee and toast to her bed to find Ian sprawled beneath a pile of blankets. He must have come in during the night, and she hadn’t heard him. She moved his clothes from the armchair to the valet and settled down to watch him. He was in a deep, deep sleep. She herself was wide awake, although she felt odd, as if hung over. After effects of a restless night. Her brain was buzzing.
Miss Clew couldn’t help, the lady detective having no assistance to offer to those who willingly immerse themselves in intolerable situations. She needed someone who understood how you could be pulled one way and another till paralysis inevitably set in. She settled a lap robe over her knees and opened Muriel Spark’s The Comforters.
She must have fallen back asleep because it was past ten when she awoke. Ian sighed and rolled onto his back. Now, she thought, the light will wake him. If he can still be affected by the light. She checked on Nick – right above the kitchen he was in the warmest upstairs room – and then went downstairs to bring up more toast, warmed milk, and the coffee thermos.
When she returned to the bedroom, Ian was in the bathroom. She shivered reminiscently as she heard water running. She placed the tray on his recently vacated spot, poured herself another cup of coffee and returned to the lap robe and armchair.
He wore only boxer briefs, his big body seeming somehow more hairy and sprawling. He yawned theatrically but she noticed his eyes skittering nervously over her face. Then he smirked with reassurance. Why was that? His wife’s lack of splotchy tears or visible distress?
“Thanks for this,” he said, crawling into her side of the bed and helping himself to coffee.
“I went to the Carpathian,” she said. “I was surprised to find you’d checked in with a Mrs. Wye.”
He cocked his head. “I suppose you made a scene? Screaming and sobbing – “I’m the REAL Mrs. Wye!” he chortled, munching toast. “A right show to entertain the tourists. Give ‘em what they came for.”
She felt the hot blood bubble in her veins – as surely he intended – but she fought it down. He wanted her to get angry – to give him the upper hand. Many people preferred the relief of rage to the pain of mourning. She refused to oblige.
“I found the receipted bill,” She told him, “You lied about where you stayed. I wondered why.”
“If I don’t tell you everything – come to Jesus and confess every sin of thought and deed like one of your poor rubes at an American tent revival, does that mean I “lied”?” He scoffed. “You don’t tell me everything.”
She gasped like a fish. She hadn’t expected this return attack. But that, of course was precisely why she should have.
“I don’t have a boyfriend and a hotel bill!”
He rose portentously, snapped open his dispatch case and produced a manila envelope from which he extracted grainy, full-size black and white photos. It took a moment to uncover the sense in them, but finally she recognized shapes – herself and Pom, going in and out of his flat, at the Soho restaurant, at the Cumberland Hotel. Riding in his car. She could scarcely believe her eyes.
“You were SPYING on me?”
“They don’t do that in America? Home of hardboiled Sam Spade? We call it alienation of affections here. At the very least. Possibly criminal conversation.”
She was at a loss for words. She had definitely not expected this. “I ran into Pom in town! It was entirely coincidence.”
“Says you!” He jeered. “Look darling –“ he reached out a hand to touch her shoulder but she shied away. “Don’t you see the birth of our son puts our relationship on an entirely different footing?”
“No, I don’t.” She rose and paced away from him.
“It’s an American fantasy that a young couple with a squalling newborn is still enjoying honeymoon sex, don’t you see? It doesn’t happen anywhere else, it’s never happened anywhere else – I wager it doesn’t even happen in America but Ladies’ Home & Garden or whatever slop you read won’t admit it. It really is possible to love two people, three people, even seven people at once, just not in the same way. Adultery strengthens marriage. Read Lawrence.
Seriously, try to view this objectively. You get Nicholas, and I’m guessing the odd passade with a sychophantic poofter – and I have…my dollies. Little bits of fluff. That’s what’s done. I can guarantee you it won’t interfere with our family life. I think I can promise that I won’t invite them to dinner – how about that?”
“No,” said Scarlet, taking a breath and trying to remain stone-faced. “I want a separation.” Was she angry because he wasn’t jealous? Because he wanted her to be a cheater too?
“Oh, that’s how it is, is it? You’ll be moving out?”
“I’ll live in the London flat.”
“That you won’t. It’s leased by the BBC for me and my –“ he paused delicately – “Household. I could give you permission to live there, of course. But you can’t keep me out – or anyone I choose to invite. I’ve already accepted a position with the company.”
She was filled with horror. She couldn’t keep him out of this house either – and she didn’t want to, really. Where could she be safe? She just wanted out.
“We’ll see,” she said and it sounded feeble to her own ears. “All I know now is that I can’t trust you.”
“By all means seek counsel,” he said. “Someone to explain the realities of British marriage. But don’t let it be so very expensive. If you’ve determined on a separation I think you’ll find your allowance won’t stretch very far. Luckily women are masochists. According to Freud.” “I’ll get a job,” she said loftily.
“All right then. And I’ll get Nicholas.” He backed away. “Not that I ever wanted children. But you were so determined. There’s no talking sense to a woman in heat.” At the sight of her face he finished, “Move to the guest room, shall I?” His eyes swept over he with…was that disgust or nauseated disinclination? He closed the door in just enough time to miss the bookend that was thrown at him.
Ida answered the phone. “I don’t know where he’s gone. The babby’s safe with my girl.” Scarlet was too dispirited to ask if Ida meant her daughter or her granddaughter. “I suppose I could take a cab if the bank’s open and I could cash a cheque,” Scarlet sighed. The bank’s hours were so bizarre. She didn’t relish dragging these boxes up the street. Maybe she could deposit them in the left-luggage room.
“You stay right there and I’ll call down to the garage for Frankie to get you,” said Ina. “He’s coming to fetch me anyway – just add it to my pay – he charges less than a cabdriver anyhow. Would you like to pick up the babby?”
“Yes,” said Scarlet, suddenly teary. “Thank you.”
Here was the Scarlet Pom couldn’t know, the kind of desperate idiot who needed a cleaning woman to solve all her problems. If she’d been able to think she could have laid in some grocery items. As it was, all she was showing up with for was a pile of expensive, useless, yet-to-be-paid for clothes.
No wonder Frankie dubbed his flivver a “gypsy cab” – the aging Singer looked held together by string. But he was certainly obliging – even willing to stop for bread, milk, ham, green beans and tomatoes. And when Scarlet was reunited with her “babby” the world magically righted itself. Nick had been at Mrs. Mugle’s, naturally, the center of a group of admiring ladies. He had just been fed and smelled powerfully of Amazing Baby Ointment. We’ll never be parted again, thought Scarlet fiercely, hugging him to her chest. But she thanked Mrs. Mugle as politely as she could. For a wonder, Mrs. Mugle disclaimed payment.
“It’s a joy to touch a sweet baby like he is,” she said, her whole face shining. How could anyone muster hostility against such a woman? Scarlet’s heart melted and she had the grace to realize that her unwillingness to allow another woman to “mark” her child was nothing more than atavistic jealousy. She herself would always possess the powerful priority of motherhood. No one could take that away.
“Shall Fern come up at three o’clock?” Mrs. Mugle inquired. “The library switched her to the mornings.”
Gritting her teeth, Scarlet agreed. It reminded her that the Fern situation was temporary – whenever the library gave her extra hours she’d drop baby-minding like a shot. Scarlet actually preferred Mrs. Mugle’s attitude. But beggars can’t be choosers and delivering her baby to a house eight miles away so that she could write in her tower made little sense.
As for Frankie, after he’d unloaded patiently at Wyvern House she gave him all the rest of her cash as a tip.
“And there’s more coming through Ida’s cheque,” she promised. She showed him her empty coin purse. It occurred to her – too late of course, the way every other insight seemed to come – that she could have cashed a cheque at the hotel. She’d skulked out of there like a street drab from an assignation.
But Frankie was cheery. As she took down the garage phone number he offered, “Everyone spends all their cash in town. That’s what towns are for is what I figure.” Her heart warmed to him. She wrote Ida a cheque. Thank God for the glorious English invention of the “overdraft.”
Now she must confront her enormous exhaustion at the mere sight of her own home. From a tiny three-room flat she and Ian had been acquiring real estate in a frenzy – there was no way they could actually take care of all they possessed. Where was Ian now? Gone! Where was Ian planning to be? Gone!
It was just so crazy Scarlet dreaded trying to explain it to her sister in one of her long, newsy letters home. Better wait to see how it played out. The approaching confrontation would go better if she were calmer. She heated a can of soup and made herself a sandwich. While she ate the high and low points of her London trip danced through her memory in a blur, seemingly as if they’d occurred to someone else, or were part of the film she’d seen. The food helped her feel better.
Now she felt silly and sad as she put her new clothes away. What need had she for party gear in her new life? She tried imagining Ian contrite and promising fidelity: would she even believe him? She was grateful to be rescued from her thoughts when Nick awoke, hungry. She was even able to produce milk for him. She relaxed into his body as he melted into hers.
Alysse Aallyn 