Alysse Aallyn

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  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 25. A Mysterious Employer

    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:

    14 Norfolk Crescent, Fitzrovia, Tuesday – Thursday, 2-4 pm only.”

    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.”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 24. A Separation

    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.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 23. Down From Town

    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.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 22. A Train Ride

    She missed the first train; overslept as if resting up for coming trials. The simplest breakfast order (croissants and coffee) seemed to take this hotel forever; they couldn’t believe she didn’t want their “nice kippers” and “fried tomatoes”. Managing all her new boxes proved impossible until the concierge fetched twine and roped them together into a still threateningly unwieldy parcel. Why wouldn’t she have them sent? Impossible to explain that these clothes suddenly seemed more intimate, more “hers” than the pre-pregnancy and shabby maternity clothes awaiting her at that castle. She definitely required the services of a porter. Scarlet had come up in the world. Unfortunately, she missed the second train, too.


    Sitting in the third train – it was lunchtime as this point – she felt dull, self-accusatory, downright stupid. Her buyer’s remorse was so severe she couldn’t even open Miss Clew. She’d managed everything so badly.


    Ian didn’t know when she was arriving. Oakhampton was too far to take a taxi. She’d have to call him from the station and hope he answered the phone. She was feeling nervous about all this shopping. London clothes in the country? What was the idea behind that? Was the best way to deal with Ian’s sudden aristocratic craziness to get crazy too? The Merry Widow was especially embarrassing.


    It now seemed to her like angry, “revenge” shopping, which was exactly what it had been. She couldn’t forget that spectral look in the eyes of Stella, manager at Montcalm Ladies’ Clothiers, inciting her by acceptance and flattery into playing the “wealth game”. Scarlet had only been too glad to comply. Was that what it felt like being Ian, taken advantage of by all the broadcasters and auctioneers he hoped to impress?


    Even the London flat seemed now more like a will o’ the wisp than a solid achievement. How had she let a giggly young estate agent maneuver her into the biggest place on offer, without getting any idea of its actual cost? If she was behaving just like Ian, then his behavior was hardly extraordinary. This is how people go bankrupt, she lectured herself. And how on earth could she ever explain any of it to India?


    Ian had done all he could to make his new job sound big and important, but were new people really treated this way at the BBC? In her experience the English workplace was decidedly cheese-paring. She couldn’t help feeling there was something else on this table, something she wasn’t getting. What if everything was just another one of Ian’s rather terrifying but hopeful daydreams, like winning a football pool?


    She calmed herself. She hadn’t signed for the flat. Jane was only “talking” to Margalo – surely you can’t accept responsibility for something so evanescent! If Ian’s employer didn’t give a green light, nothing would happen.


    She found herself longing for the ordered world of Miss Clew who alone, it seemed, possessed the razor-sharp standards to brush all this confusion aside. The world of the Victorians was famous for its explosion of pretense, imposture and hypocrisy keeping right up with every new marvel of the technological world. But somehow, Miss Clew always saw through to real motives and intent. Eagerly Scarlet opened the next book in the series and prepared to disappear inside. After all, no amount of money could be considered “within their budget” because Ian staunchly refused to make one or even explain or plan his income.


    Yet even this book flatly refused to come to life with her head in such a whirl. What were her exact fears? She looked blindly out the carriage window and resolved to list and face them. If leasing a tiny hole in the wall meant she’d be cheek by jowl with the man she was currently feuding with, that would certainly be money down the drain. But this selected flat could potentially be shared – one parent “up” and the other “down” – for the benefit of the children. It seemed like in many ways the best solution, she comforted herself.


    The real question was, why did she feel so awful? Such a failure? Because of Pom, dammit! Why was this man so interested in her and why was so she so dependent on that fact?
    Because her own husband was ignoring her. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 21. Voyeurs

    So that’s where they went. She felt relieved that he didn’t suggest that they could have coffee just as well at his place; this was all coming at her too fast as it was. They sat in the window looking out on the darkened street. He chose espresso. For her it would always be “café americaine.”


    “I liked that man’s helplessness,” she said finally. “It’s the exact opposite of every other movie.”


    “Well, he has to trust his girlfriend to do what he can’t do.”


    “Trust her not to get herself killed, you mean? They share an unbearable curiosity. Audere scire, that’s my real motto. Dare to know.”


    “What a perfect phrase! Family?”


    “Hardly,” said Pom. “I think they chose some scrap of boilerplate that meant “Toady like your life depends on it.” Picturing a toad rampant.”


    She laughed until his tense face relaxed.


    “The camera’s like the wheelchair, in a way,” she suggested.


    “How do you mean?”


    “Well, he’s at one remove from the action. At a distance, always.”


    “A voyeur, you mean,” agreed Pom. “That’s what they say about Hitchcock, that he turns us all into voyeurs.”


    ‘And he wants us to be both intrigued and ashamed.”


    “I suppose our hero was so eager to find out if he was right about his neighbor being a killer that he didn’t mind putting Grace Kelly in harm’s way,” Pom suggested. “Pretty unforgiveable, really. They needed three scriptwriters to figure a way out.”


    “She was brave, I thought. She really went in without his permission.”


    “But knowing she was doing what he wanted.”


    “He’s still helpless at the end,” said Scarlet. “Breaking the other leg.”


    “He needs a special manager,” Pom agreed.


    “And then Hitchcock makes fun of our happy ending by showing she’s already bored by his life before they’re even married.”


    “Perhaps he’ll realize he must always find – and film – mysteries that keep her interested. Apparently Hitchcock’s real wife always wrote his screen treatments. He thought in pictures, working the film out in storyboards and then she’d write the first script.”


    “What a perfect combination of skills,” said Scarlet. Like our movie tonight – he’ll be curious about the neighbors and she’ll investigate, and that’s what happily ever after is.”


    “For their sake I hope so,” said Pom. A little sadly.


    Scarlet realized with a start that Pom must always be looking from his lonely life into the brightly lit windows of others’ married bargains. But she couldn’t think of any polite way to broach the subject.


    Pom drained his espresso, then effortlessly became very personal indeed. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”


    She panicked as she realized two things – both that it was possible to have too good evening and secondly that she needed to put a stop to this very agreeable fantasy right now.


    “I want to thank you for such a pleasant evening,” she began formally.


    “Oh no…” he supplied. “I can feel the disclaimer coming. I brace myself.”


    Could she explain, “I’m especially vulnerable right now -“ no, that was a mistake. Putting poor Pom in the wrong. Best come clean. “Ian and I have been having trouble.”


    “I hope it’s not the house. I’m afraid I’ve sold you a permanently sinking ship.”


    “No. No.” In a way it was, but nothing specific to Pom’s estate. She had assumed the “trigger” was her pregnancy but maybe the truth was even worse. Had Ian always been mistress as well as house shopping? “It’s his – attitude. As a country gentleman.”


    “I begin to see,” Pom supplied. “The “girlfriend” thing?”


    “Yes. He’s separating himself from us, as if he’s fulfilling some kind of ancient pattern that I thought we’d both rejected. It closes him off to me and to the baby.” Really, this conversation was getting too intimate. It proved that she was desperate for a friend. But could Pom – could any man, much less an Englishman – ever be that?


    “Tell me,” she hazarded, “When English men go shopping for a country house are they really looking for an excuse to be unfaithful?”


    She was trying to lighten the desperate moment but Pom gave the comment deep consideration.
    “I suppose so,” he said finally. “It’s the nest thing. You’re asking, does “nest” mean “harem” to an Englishman?”


    “Am I?” She felt stunned. She gave a gasping, nervous laugh but neither that nor her stricken face intimidated him.


    “I’m imagining things I haven’t experienced,” he went on. “That’s my voyeurism for you right there. It’s been my perpetual difficulty because I’ve always been considered such an odd duck. Ian blocks you off so you open yourself up to me and I don’t want that to stop because I’m feeling something I’ve never felt before, something that I’d given up expecting to ever feel – something I assumed would always be impossible for me.”


    Blood flooded her face; she couldn’t speak. She was grateful for his calm. Was this something adults who’d just met could discuss? He kept his voice level and his eyes serious. “I put a curse on you by selling you that house. Sadly, you can’t have the money back.”


    She hadn’t been able to lighten the moment but he certainly could. She laughed to the point of tears.


    “In America, we call that “no backsies”, she said.


    “No backsies,” he agreed. “I’ve spent most of it anyway.”


    When she raised her eyebrows – he shared, “Debts. I bought an annuity with the rest. Keep a little money coming in.”


    So he was careful! A cautious, forward planning man. Ian was the one equating masculinity with carelessness, Ian, who enjoyed recklessness for its own sake. To such a man, thoughtful Pom seemed a “poofter.”


    Pom said, “So what are your plans, if I may ask?”


    “I’m going to confront him with what I’ve found,” she allowed. “We have to start telling each other the truth. So really it’s about what HE will do.”


    “Or?”


    She pulled away. He was too persistent.


    “There is no “or.”


    “I’ve got a lot riding on it,” he admitted.


    Once again, she was wrong. Pom was, in his own way, a reckless man.


    “I can’t go that far. Yet.”


    Truthfully, she had imagined so many possible scenarios. She wanted to pray, to hope, even to pretend. Anything rather than dwell upon the ugly possibilities. She knew she couldn’t live with a liar and continue to seek the truth in art. One of those devotions must be sacrificed. She had never imagined Pom stepping in to fill her husband’s place.


    He squeezed her hand. “Keep in contact,” he said. He stood up over their empty coffee cups.
    Their ride to the hotel was silent. She wondered if his mind was as busy as hers. He seemed to concentrate on the route.


    “Don’t come up,” she said at the hotel. “I can only repeat what a wonderful time I’ve had.”
    “Are you going back tomorrow?”


    She nodded. “First train.”


    “I’m driving down tomorrow night and I can give you a lift if you can wait.”


    She couldn’t wait. She couldn’t bear to be parted from Nick for an extra moment.


    “You won’t cut me off?” he requested anxiously.


    She was touched – a little scared – to have so much power over this wonderful man so recently encountered.


    “Of course not.”


    In the elevator, she reflected on the oddness of their exchange. What kind of man made overtures to a woman who had just borne a baby to another man? It made him sound so awful. She heard herself trying to explain to anybody – India perhaps – that he “wasn’t like that”. But where honesty and directness stopped and fantasy took over in either of their hearts and minds she really couldn’t say. She didn’t know him that well, and it was beginning to seem like she didn’t know herself either.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 20. A Date

    At the hotel salon, she had just enough time for a wash and set. She refused to let them cut her hair so Angelique swept it up into a stiff French roll that Scarlet knew would showcase her new dangly jet earrings to perfection. Angelique didn’t want money either; just her room number.


    “This is almost too wonderful,” thought Scarlet. “I definitely see why people claw at each other like crazed rats just to enter this world.” However, Angelique didn’t object to a tip.


    Scarlet stopped at the front desk for her parcels: “In your room, madam.”


    Well THAT was a bit creepy and unforeseen. She WAS a rube, fresh from the country. A “goober”, India would say. She didn’t care for the idea of strange men entering her room.


    Hopefully the bell captain watched while the parcels were unloaded – but if he delivered them himself, didn’t that mean that technically he had access to her room at any moment? Hotels were creepy! She could see that this attractive new world came with a side serving of helpless paranoia.

    If you expected to be waited on by anonymous people closely scrutinizing your behavior, wasn’t that like inviting permanent spies? Could the loss of privacy ever be worth it? wondered Scarlet. Already she missed her anonymous old free-wheeling self – independently setting herself up as a critic whom it would never be worth anyone’s time to criticize back.


    The idea for a play began to stir inside her – people following a treasure hunt finding terror instead and unable to warn the optimists still coming. Eyes glittering with an imagined future, like something out of a om painting – endless warnings but no one would listen! Hmmm.


    Ten minutes to change meant a “whore’s bath” in Ian’s unlovely terminology: just a once over at the sink. She hadn’t brought perfume but the hotel’s lavender and cucumber soap left a pleasant enough scent. She wore the brocade top and the long black velvet skirt – she wouldn’t need the merry widow for that – what a pity she hadn’t thought to purchase a new pair of gold high-heeled sandals. Her old black court pumps would just have to do.


    The phone rang: a gentleman awaited her in the lobby. The brocade top came with a matching evening bag – and once she had a room key and a handkerchief she didn’t really need anything else. That, she realized, was because she trusted Pom. He wasn’t a masher or a blackmailing cad – she felt certain he wouldn’t stand her up or strand her anywhere. On the other hand, if the hotel staff wandered in and out of her room at their pleasure, then she needed to add her coin purse and datebook, jut in order to feel confident nothing “truly Scarlet” had been left behind. Just another anonymous hotel room filled with a day’s shopping.


    Pom glowed with a fresh shave and a deep crimson tie set off by his dark suit; no paint stains in evidence. Funny, thought Scarlet, we each removed a layer of skin and donned unaccustomed finery to spend the evening together.


    “New outfit?” he inquired. “You look smashing.”


    The doorman opened the passenger door of his battered Dorset with a flourish and Scarlet climbed in.
    “I suppose you know what Thoreau said about new clothes,” she teased.


    “Thoreau?” He pronounced it “thorough.” “Your naturalist fellow?”


    “He was a philosopher. He said to beware enterprises requiring new clothes.”


    “I hope you don’t feel that it was truly a requirement,” drawled Pom. “Certainly not by me. You know, we English also have a philosopher: Keats.”


    “Oh, and what did he remark?”


    “That beauty is its own excuse for being.”


    No doorman at Luigi’s, the dark little restaurant in Soho whose shrimp scampi came so highly recommended.


    They shared a dark booth, a bottle of chianti and an antipasto salad. Scarlet ate with an appetite.

    She supposed any comment about the depthless hunger of breastfeeding Moms would dampen the conversation. Just thinking about Nick made her breasts leak. Perhaps she wouldn’t dry up after all.
    “Is there anything I should know about this film?”


    “No,” said Pom. “Hitchcock introduces the problem very elegantly. A fresh mind is all that’s required.”


    “But that’s a lot,” said Scarlet. “Then tell me about the first time you saw it.”


    “And the only time. Let’s see: it was two years ago – I just happened on it at The Rialto. The picture of James Stewart with a telephoto camera was intriguing. I think I assumed it was about blackmail, gangsters – you know, typical American. Then I saw the wheelchair.” He grimaced. “You’re tricking me into giving away the plot.”


    “I’m not trying to. It’s just hard to get you to talk about yourself.”


    “That’s a very English quality. I think we’re raised to be self-deprecating and make fun of ourselves.”


    Not Ian, thought Scarlet. He always said no one toots your horn if you’re too shy. Maybe it was a class thing. But she certainly didn’t want to discuss her husband tonight.


    “But ask me anything about cricket, shooting, or the ancient Greeks and Romans,” Pom continued. “The joke’s on my parents who spent all their assets qualifying me for a club I don’t care to join. Quantum ille canis in fenestra?”


    “Family motto?”


    “I suppose it ought to be. How much is that doggy in the window is what it really means.”


    Scarlet burst out laughing. “You can see I’m deficient in dead languages.”


    “They’re dead for a reason. There’s a credible theory that the English became great conquering explorers just to get away from their bad weather, repellant nannies and disapproving headmasters.”


    “I heard something about the pursuit of sunlight. Warm weather.”


    “Sadly, it seems we carry our inner darkness with us. All this “white men’s burden” stuff was really about trying to make seemingly happy people as miserable as we were.”


    “I love your iconoclastic approach to history,” said Scarlet. “Learning iconoclasm is Artist’s Job #1 in my book.”


    “Amen. How else could the whole colonial adventure have gone so horribly wrong? They gave us so much and we gave them so little. Sterno-flavored tea and cricket paddles explains everything.”
    The scampi was worth waiting for. The shrimp were tiny, but encrusted with garlic and pecorino like so many little nuts.


    “This is divine,” gasped Scarlet. “But I’m afraid I’m going to reek. What if they refuse to allow us into a public place?”


    “This is Soho,” Pom explained. “Everyone in the theatre will have dined on garlic and onions.”
    If they had, Scarlet wouldn’t be able to tell, but of course that was the wickedness of garlic.


    The film was unexpectedly funny. Scarlet had expected something very dark and shocking but it was in full color and seemed to focus around an entire apartment house of fascinating relationships.


    “Like an ant farm,” she whispered to Pom, but his, “Pardon?” seemed to suggest this was just another incomprehensible American reference.


    “We used to get ant farms for Christmas,” she explained as the credits rolled. “Dirt encased in glass. You watched ants digging tunnels and rushing their little eggs around.”


    “Sounds awful,” said Pom. “I was spared American excitements. It was all nuts, oranges and socks for the likes of us. I think I got a compass one year.”


    They were silent until they found themselves sitting in the Dorset on the way to her hotel.


    “So what did you think of the film?”


    Her mind was bursting with complex impressions.


    “Could we stop at a coffee bar? This is going to take some time to hash out fully.”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 19. Acquisitions

    “I’m certain you’ll like this one,” said Jane as both women drove in Jane’s Ford Anglia toward Hampstead Heath, “No garden but such a view! It’s a second floor maisonette – two whole floors with a bit of a balcony. Lots of room, considering it’s a London flat. Be honest if you take against it – I’ve got four other possibilities – it’s just that this is the one with the most space.”
    The yellow stone-faced outside bore a plaque honoring the building – or at least the location – as one of William Blake’s London residences.


    “Promising augury for poets,” said Scarlet, resolved to love the place and get this over with.
    “Of course!” agreed Jane, who clearly had never noticed the plaque before. Possibly a disorganized, half-crazed ancient mystic was not the type her usual clientele yearned to emulate. “So, you write, too?”


    “I’ve been a bit absorbed in the baby,” said Scarlet. “But I have hopes.”


    The entrance was cramped and unphotogenic– obstructed as it was by dustbins – and the narrow staircase was clearly impossible for prams.


    “Furniture comes in through the windows,” said Jane, and when Scarlet commented, “Like Holland” she agreed, “As you say.”


    Jane was too agreeable – it was beginning to make Scarlet’s skin crawl. What would Jane would say if a male client asked to squeeze her knockers? “As you say?” Or is that just my cynicism, Scarlet wondered. Have my husband’s predilections ruined my temperament?


    After the hard work of stair climbing they stepped into a lovely, light filled flat, large as promised, with a full bathroom on each floor. Scarlet wanted it at once. The kitchen was miniature with the usual unacceptable Stone Age English appliances – but there was a bedroom off it – “Servant quarters” according to Jane – which would do for an au pair. Scarlet fantasized that if you got rid of the huge Victorian bathtub and installed a shower instead the downstairs bath could contain a modern washing machine. Three large reception rooms, and upstairs three big-windowed bedrooms. Off the largest bedroom was a tiny balcony with room only for a pair of chairs but with a glorious view all across London.


    “We’ll take it,” said Scarlet and Jane crowed with satisfaction, “I thought you might.”
    There was nothing to sign and no mention of money.


    “We need Margalo to negotiate with the builders,” said Jane, “She’ll tell them what’s what. I’ll give her the green light, shall I?”


    “How lovely,” sighed Scarlet. Was this what spending was like for rich people? Minions took care of all details, while your sole obligation was to consult your pleasure.
    “Shall I drop you at your hotel?” queried Jane.


    “No,” said Scarlet. “Montcalm Ladies’ Clothiers.” She couldn’t say, “I have a date.” And after all, wasn’t shopping what ladies were expected to do when they came up from the country? Scarlet needed London clothes for her new London life.


    “I can find it,” Jane said confidently.


    Two suits, two cocktail dresses, a long black velvet skirt and a brocade gold top were what Montcalm Clothiers’ fashion wizard Stella told Scarlet she would require, and Scarlet quite agreed. Two tweed suits – for town and country – thrown into the bargain. Scarlet sat on a miniature Louis Quinze sofa, accepted a cup of weak China tea (no milk, sugar or lemon) and watched a parade of garments. The dark blue chiffon cocktail dress made her heart beat fast but, “I don’t think I have a waist yet,” she sighed.


    “Nonsense,” said Stella brusquely, “Where would any of us be without our corsets?” And she produced a buff and black merry widow complete with stocking suspenders. “Give it a try.”
    It worked.


    Stella said, “We don’t sell proper jewelry here, just a few outfit-finishing costume pieces but nothing better instructs a man what to give for Christmas and birthday when he contemplates the shortcomings of your jewel box.”


    So that’s how it’s done, thought Scarlet. Clever girls!


    A brooch, a necklace and a wonderful pair of dangly jet earrings were consequently chosen.

    Scarlet felt most important. No mention of Margalo here – but merely – “Would you like to open an account? We need a few items of personal information.”


    These included references. Scarlet gave Margalo and both the London and Oakhampton bank managers.


    “Shall we bill the country or town home?” Stella was good. She was almost as good as Jane but, because she was older and consequently wore a lot more makeup the tension lines around her lips gave her away.


    “The town home,” said Scarlet, “We’re not moving into the London flat till February 1st.”
    Stella’s face relaxed and she purred like a kitten as she took down the address. “Wyvern House” did sound quite chi-chi.


    “Shall I send these along to your hotel?”


    “Will there be delivery by five?” asked Scarlet and when reassured, gave her address. Mentioning the Cumberland seemed to seal – not queer – the deal.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 18 – In the Mews

    It was a mews flat – small and tucked away above a car barn.


    “You can’t seem to get away from the auto motif,” was Scarlet’s comment as she climbed the steep stairs.


    “I do keep my vehicle downstairs,” said Pom, “So it’s right handy.”


    It was a cute little space elegantly furnished with modern Scandinavian fittings. Tiny bedroom, tiny bath, a kitchen separated from the lounge by a polished wooden pub top.


    “Looks like the only wine available is burgundy,” he said as he uncorked it. “I was cooking boeuf bourguignon last night. Or trying to.”


    Scarlet readily accepted a glass. “You cook?”


    “I’m taking a cookery class. Let’s say I wish I cooked. I hate interrupting my work to travel out for forage. Ideally, I’d like a big pot au feu I can dip into, but it needs to taste like something other than burned. I see you’ve got the roses back in your cheeks. Ready for the studio?”


    She averred that she was ready. The studio was a big empty room on the other side of the stairs – well lit by skylights. Canvases were stacked against the walls and a big unfinished one hung from the ceiling. Pom slung a tarp over it.


    “I can’t bear comments before I’m ready,” he said. “I’m sadly impressionable. I always end up seeing it their way, get completely derailed and end up with a buggered mess.”


    He tossed some drawings aside and spread the portfolio open on a paint stained table.


    She studied the picture before her. The paintings she had previously seen were all about color – these were different. Black and white with a slash of red.


    “It’s like… an eye.”


    “Yes. Reflections.”


    He leafed through the collection slowly. She wasn’t sure she liked them so she didn’t know what to say.


    “I know,” he said. “My abstracts are a lot more popular. I suppose your husband’s money – your money – has given me the courage to risk rank unpopularity. I’ve always been rather ashamed of my brushwork so I’m attempting to evolve. Using my palette knife more. I’m playing with – not needing beauty. With … whatever’s the opposite of beauty.”


    “They’re scary,” she said finally. Who would have guessed! So unlike his social presentation.
    He zipped up the portfolio. “I’ll accept that,” he agreed. “Life has a decidedly dark side.”


    “Doesn’t it,” she agreed. “When did you…evolve?”


    “Truthfully, you had something to do with it.”


    Was he blushing? He seemed to be studying her face, looking at her hungrily, as a portraitist looks. Suddenly she regretted the good lighting.


    “Lady Scarlet to the Dark Tower Came,” he said softly. “You’ve instigated a good many of my sleepless nights.”


    She quivered. She couldn’t face it – turned to flee.


    “I don’t know what’s happening,” she said when he grabbed her shoulders.


    “I find it’s best to wait storms out,” he suggested. They stood quietly for a moment. “Then assess the damage. If you’re staying in town, there’s a Hitchcock movie I’d like to see again.”


    “Really? Which one?”


    “Rear Window.”


    “Haven’t seen it.”


    “Then you should. What’s your favorite meal?”


    “Shrimp scampi. Are you going to try to cook it?”


    “I most certainly am not. But I do know the perfect Soho restaurant with exactly that specialty. Now you will experience the pleasures of running a car in town.”


    “As long,” she said, “As the car doesn’t run you.”


    “Touché.” They smiled at each other, relaxed into complete understanding. Somehow the dreadful moment had been averted. She wants…she doesn’t want… how could Scarlet explain herself to herself, let alone anyone else?


    “Now let’s see – where’s this estate agent?” He studied the card. “That’s almost Kensal Green. Let’s check you into the hotel and then I’ll run you over.”


    She didn’t argue. When the English said, they would run you over they offered a favor, not a traffic accident. She trusted him more each minute. His company felt like a benison.


    Why was she so completely certain “everything would work out?” The confidence Pom lent her must surely be misplaced. Squarely faced, the facts were bad. Ian had a girlfriend – that was terrible enough. Worse, he had met her in a London hotel. And when he came home, he was not interested in sex with his wife. Could she ever get the old Ian back? Did she want him?


    She stepped thoughtfully into Pom’s 1950 Austin Dorset two-seater. The bucket seats were so low it was as if they sat directly on the road.


    “Do I get goggles with this thing?” she queried.


    Pom laughed as she tied up her hair.


    The Cumberland was huge, impersonal. They seemed unconcerned about single ladies. No one cared that she had only a dressing case, and no one watched Pom carry it to her room.
    “I’m not tipping you,” she said.


    “Yes, you are,” he insisted. “By coming to dinner with me. It will have to be early because of the film. Six o’clock?”


    Could she choose a flat in four hours? How could she still contemplate a London flat? Yet one seemed preferable to The Dark Tower she realized. It functioned as some kind of promise that she wouldn’t be abandoned in the country with a baby while her husband swanned about ordering room service.


    She was ten minutes late to the estate agent’s, but as Pom had insisted, estate agents don’t care. After all, it was only young Jane Lumley and her very elderly father who seemed more like her grandfather. Jane was fresh, pretty, a real English rose. Scarlet looked at her sadly with Ian’s eyes.

    Was there any girl left in the universe whom she could trust her husband not to desire?

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 17. Fresh From the Country

    In the end, Ian insisted on looking after the baby himself, saying, “Don’t worry. I have Fern to help me.”


    Scarlet couldn’t imagine her husband changing a diaper but how could she object to a father willing to spend time with his infant? She could tell by his smug face that he appreciated her dilemma. Any claim from an English husband for a desire to spend time with his son should be a dream come true to an American girl. But Ian’s “tells” – specifically his exaggeratedly “innocent” expression – were present in full flower. She suspected him of attempting to make his mind impenetrable to hers – the exact opposite of what their relationship had been in its most satisfying phase, when their love had been redolent of sharing, empathy and transparency. He had yet to touch her sexually – and now she too refrained out of some fatalistic curiosity to see just how long he would make her wait.


    She must allow him to look after his own child. In her dreams, they would always be a “two-parent” family, and never a lord, a lady and an infant in thrall to a succession of aging nannies, fake nannies and wannabe nannies.


    She insisted on staying at a hotel. Just as he had done she knew the exact argument to use – “Candi and David’s place is so tiny – remember we moved because it gave me claustrophobia!” He couldn’t argue with that.


    “Why not The Royal Grenadier?” she first suggested, only to hear that it served only men. This must be the reason for the receipted bill from the Carpathian Hotel she had found in his jacket pocket and which was currently residing in hers. She hadn’t asked him about it because she didn’t want him to wrest the bill away – which he would have. She had a different plan in mind.


    “Oh, I’m sure the Royal will suggest something,” she told her husband confidently. “They have to put the ladies somewhere. I also need to find an estate agent.”


    “Oh, here.” Ian searched his trousers pocket, proffered a card. “We’re using this friend of Margalo’s. She’ll know all about the BBC job.”


    “Jane Lumley, Lumley & Lumley. WEStminster 2012.” Read the card.


    “Toney,” was Scarlet’s comment.


    She made sure he heard the call she placed to the Royal Grenadier.


    “Can you recommend a hotel for ladies?” was her polite enquiry.


    Old buffer on the other end sounded gobsmacked. “Most ladies stay at their clubs,” he harrumphed.


    Scarlet thanked him smoothly, reholstered the phone. “He suggested the Carpathian.” She pulled the earpiece off its socket and began dialing but she was covertly watching Ian’s face.
    Ian’s face told her all she needed to know. He had gone as white as a sheet.

    “Not the Carpathian,” he gasped, “What a dreary dump. I’m certain we can do better than that. How about the Cumberland? It’s in Marylebone, right next to Broadcasting House. Has a lovely bar.”

    “Perfect,” said Scarlet. “I can say hello to Margalo.”
    His face relaxed. That meant Margalo was not The One. This was what she had come to – what must inevitably happen when Ian closed himself off: suspicion. So Scarlet reserved a room at The Cumberland.

    On the train she found herself staring curiously into the closed faces of the other riders. None of them appeared to sense that she was facing a personal Rubicon. Possibly everyone was sealed into their own private nightmare and the pessimistic existentialists had been right all along. She had always pushed away such dreary cynicism – life was just too pleasurable. But now it seemed that every pleasure had its “morning after.”


    She welcomed the chance to open a Miss Clew book – nothing suited her present mood so much as the pursuit of justice. Miss Clew was an elderly spinster with a clear mind and an untroubled righteousness who found herself pulled into one mystery after another. She was never fooled and she was never stymied. She thought the worst of everyone and she was never wrong. Scarlet found her very refreshing.


    At Waterloo she took a cab straight to the Carpathian. It was not, as she had been told a “dreary dump” but a rather discreet looking and charmingly small hotel tucked into Knightsbridge near Cadogan Hall. Convenient to Sloane Square – was that the reason for its choice? Scarlet knew Sloane Square was the location of Candi’s gallery.


    She raced up the stone steps of what had obviously once been a private house. The reception desk was a real desk, behind which sat a little bald man in a slick grey and gold uniform. She slapped the hotel bill on the polished oak surface.


    “I am Mr. Ian Wye’s assistant,” she began, but he interrupted her,


    “I’m so sorry,” he said. “We haven’t found it.”


    “You haven’t found it?” Scarlet stared at him stupidly.


    “Mrs. Wye’s petticoat. We’ve looked everywhere. Will Mr. Wye expect a discount? We try to guarantee –“


    She staggered backwards and snatched the bill away, as if attempting to replay this scene. As she did she saw a sympathetic look of understanding come into his eyes. Suddenly it seemed that he knew exactly who she was and what was happening – it had occurred before and was probably occurring at this very moment in hotels all around the world. For all she knew hoteliers fended off heartbroken wives on a daily basis. She couldn’t speak: she turned bright red. She simply turned and fled.

    She began to walk, trying to sort her jumbled feelings. She had once considered London “her city” but now she felt herself on utterly unfamiliar, even hostile terrain. Why was this happening? Since she had been so fearful that exactly this might occur – how could she then be so astonished? And yet she was.


    Also terrible and completely unexpected was that strange man’s pity. A complete stranger had pitied Scarlet Wye at what should have been the peak of her life. Scarlet Wye, American girl with a country castle, a hunky husband and a healthy new baby, currently canvassing London to shop for a pied à terre was an object of pity to a hotel flunky.


    She saw now that she had only postponed all her emotions of grief and rage, by telling herself not to feel them until All Was Lost.


    Was all lost? It felt that way. Talk about “paradigm shifts”! In spite of the universal belief that one act of infidelity could never signify “the end” of a long-term, committed relationship, to her American mind it was the end. They had pledged before God and the rector of St. Barnabas’ Church to worship each other with their bodies until death do them part, not to worship other people. Now all bets are off, she thought, recalling the casino warning: Rien ne va plus.


    She realized she was standing directly across the street from the Escarpa Gallery staring at it without comprehension. Some part of her subconscious had brought her unerringly here. Its main window featured an enormous, glittering, swirling green and blue abstract – an impressionistic ocean, perhaps. And out the front door as just if her echo of “paradigm shifts” had summoned him up, strode Pom, black leather portfolio in hand.


    He saw her at once, raised a hand and dashed through traffic.


    “Well this is a surprise,” he said, taking her arm and her train case in one smooth gesture, “May I take you to lunch?”


    Somehow, they were walking. Away from the gallery. Scarlet sighed with relief. She need not confront and unmask the false “Mrs. Wye” today.


    She couldn’t speak and he seemed not to expect explanation. She pressed his hand gratefully. Pom steered her immediately into a Steak and Egg where he first tried to sit by the window but when she shied away from that he guided her to a small dark booth.


    “Never been here before? I love these places, they let me sit as long as I like. I conduct all my town business in that very front window. Let me get you a cup of tea.”


    The English conception of “tea” was black sludge with plenty of milk and sugar, just the way Miss Clew recommended it. And as Miss Clew promised to her suffering clients, it felt amazingly strengthening.


    “Seriously, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is it me? What happened?”


    He was so charming! She fought an overwhelming impulse to tell him everything. How could she possibly trust him? He was a brief acquaintance, an unmarried Englishman at that! They were strangers to each other. She tried getting a grip on herself.


    “Why were you in the Escarpa?” she asked him, flat out. He didn’t seem insulted or confused by being intimately questioned and answered promptly.


    “I had an appointment with Chipster,” he said. “The manager. Showed him my work.”


    “And?”


    “They all say the same thing. “Maybe someday.” He laughed and she managed to laugh too.


    “I’m so sorry,” she apologized, “I just had an upset. Did you see a strawberry blonde with Cleopatra eye makeup?”


    “I might have.” He looked a bit more guarded.


    “I think she might be my husband’s girlfriend. Candi.” The nerve of Ian to suggest she board with Candi! She trembled with rage.


    He kept his poker face while the attendant delivered a pair of sandwiches. Looked to Scarlet like a hamburger with a fried egg on top. Pom shook a bottled sauce all over his. Scarlet began separating out the ingredients carefully with the assistance of a plastic fork.


    “I’m sorry,” said Pom finally. “He’s a fool.”


    The hamburger was acceptable. The egg was another story. Scarlet finished her tea. Pom waved a hand in the air.


    “They don’t really wait on you here,” he said, “but they do wait on me.”


    Pom’s a natural aristocrat, thought Scarlet, smiling. The soap manufacturer’s poor artist grandson, temporarily flush from selling the family estate.


    “I didn’t come up to confront Candi,” she said, realizing as soon as the words were out of her mouth that they weren’t true. She took a panicked look at her watch, then sighed with relief.


    “I’m meeting an estate agent,” she said, “At two o’clock. We’re looking at flats.” She gestured at the portfolio. “I’d love to see your work.”


    “Not in this light,” said Pom. “Whirlwind visit? Or are you staying somewhere?”


    “I have a reservation at the Cumberland,” she said. “But I haven’t checked in.”


    “The Cumberland’s miles away,” he said. “Whereas my flat is right around the corner.”


    An independent married woman invited to a bachelor’s London hideaway? Thought Scarlet. Yes, please! Served Ian right!

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 15. Married Romance



    Because Ian’s train came in at the dinner hour, Scarlet hoped to turn the event into a sorely needed romantic date. Fern agreed to look after Nicholas if Scarlet dropped the baby off in his carrycot at her parents’ home. Fern’s mother oohed and aahed over Nicholas and offered to give him a bottle of warm, diluted condensed milk if he cried.


    She seemed so motherly Scarlet agreed. It was glorious to be set free for the evening, to imagine herself young and carefree with her whole life ahead of her. Those had been such good, such memorable days – she needed their nostalgic power to propel her through this crisis. When she dared to fall for an acknowledged heartbreaker, she told herself his bad reputation had grown out of disappointed spite. Every girl was attracted by Ian’s glamor but it was the shy American girl who had captured his heart.


    She had dressed carefully for this evening. Technically they weren’t supposed to “go all the way” tonight but what could twenty-four hours possibly matter? A whisper of the forbidden could spice up routine. According to Scarlet’s thinking this was the second time the future of their relationship required her to throw caution to the winds.


    She wore a low cut glittery velvet top – tight, her nursing bra pushing her newly inflated breasts upward. Now that she possessed such a pair of gaudy bosoms she might as well flaunt them. Her black velvet skirt was a bit long, forcing her to wear heels, but Ian liked high heels anyway – didn’t all men? If they danced high heels guaranteed they’d be cheek to cheek. Careful makeup, swinging gold leaf earrings, a fleecy wrap and her pale hair brushed fine and down. She had certainly caused favorable remark at Fern’s house:


    “Smashing!” declared Fern’s brother.


    She needed this confidence, she realized, as she waited for the train.


    The train was on time and she was a bit discouraged to see Ian step out of the dining car, his cheeks lit with comfort and good living, talking and laughing in a gaggle of male strangers.
    He waved goodbye as she flashed her lights at him, then she climbed out of the station wagon.
    “I hardly recognized you,” he offered.


    She hoped it was meant as a compliment but didn’t feel sure. She clambered, heels skittering across the icy cobblestones.


    “Steady on!” He grabbed her elbow. “Did you start the celebration without me?”


    That’s my line, she thought, almost angrily. “No, I made reservations Sous les Arbres. I thought we deserved a night out. How about you?”


    “Suits me,” he said, answering the wrong question, but she left it at that. At least he hadn’t dented his appetite which was something to be grateful for. And he didn’t seem visibly impaired. She must firmly reject that role of critical wife, Xantippe to a pathetic Socrates. Probably he’d had no more than a Guinness. Or two. Drink rounds were a rigid English social requirement in the club car ethos – especially if the “friends” were new.


    Scarlet plunged ahead – straight, she hoped, into their shared new life.


    “So, tell me the good news! I’m dying to know!”


    “I got the job!” he said, grinding the gears into reverse. “It’s a great opportunity. They love my modern mythology series idea. “Jupiter in Your Office!” They ate it up. They created a brand new position, just for me, based on me bringing in all my contacts. Director of New Programming. Fresh people, fresh ideas – cultivating movers and shakers. If we make it our business to know everyone it guarantees our place at the top of the game.”


    “Oh honey, I’m so glad!” and she kissed him. It really had worked out all right, then, after all. Buying this impossible house in the country hadn’t been the end of everything, but a more exciting beginning. Sister India had been entirely wrong – she just didn’t understand the English system of presentation, perks, honors and rewards.


    “Tell you what, you go up tomorrow and look at flats,” he said.


    “What can we afford? What are they paying you?”


    “That’s not settled but it’ll be something pretty generous. Should we call the Pourfoyles so you can stay over? They offered.”


    Did that mean he had seen them?


    “I don’t want to be away from Nick overnight. I think I should take him along.”


    “Oh Scarlet, stop being such a sentimental American squaw. Face it, the English have a much better system. You wean that baby and give him to Fern. Or Ina. Or somebody.”


    Scarlet certainly would not do that but she knew this was not a good time to argue the point. They had arrived at the restaurant where it was time to surrender their battered old car to the valet.
    “Pas devant les domestiques,” said Scarlet and Ian had the grace to laugh.


    They enjoyed a lovely meal. Snails followed by steak Diane set flaming in the pan, and a fine old Bollinger to drink it all down. Scarlet thought one glass was all she could manage – after all her abstemious days, wine seemed to soar straight to her head.


    Ian talked about all the new people he was meeting – important people with “royal connections” looking to him to “set the tone.” “They’re planning to really build me up!”’


    The champagne gave him the confidence to say, “Margalo really has no idea of quality. I believe I could sell them any damn thing. We should tart up your verse play and pretend we’ve just discovered it.”


    “Margalo?” asked Scarlet sharply. She ordered coffee with her cheese. Café americaine.
    They served espresso instead. Oh well, thought Scarlet, I don’t want to fall asleep immediately anyway.


    “Margalo Chalmers,” said Ian. “She’s the one who hired me. Don’t be jealous Scarlet old girl, she’s an unspeakably hideous old lesbian.”


    Scarlet knew there was no guarantee whatever that this was true. Margalo was doubtless a perfectly presentable thirty-five-year old businesswoman. Ian had probably flirted with her shamelessly. Scarlet accepted the driving duties as they tottered, flushed, out into the night.


    Fern’s Mom – who seemed to have commandeered the baby care – said she thought Nick’s diaper rash was “keeping him awake” and she had “taken the liberty” of applying some ointment the locals swore by. Scarlet sniffed at Nicholas like a mother wolf – she couldn’t help herself – had these people “altered” her child? She thought it much more likely that Nick was exhausted from being passed around to strangers when he should be getting his rest.


    The “baby minders” were thanked and coins changed hands, then just at the door Ian announced, “Scarlet’s going up to town –“


    “I don’t know,” Scarlet interrupted almost ferociously. “We’ll see.”


    As Ian helped her and carrycot into the car he said, “See what problems you make for yourself? That nice lady would love having a “babby” to look after!”


    Scarlet hissed at him angrily. “They won’t even tell us what they used to treat our child! Could be deadly nightshade for all you know.”


    “Hardly, if all the locals have been using it for years. There can’t be anything dangerous in the preparation or it would never have lasted this long. Naturally they keep their secret recipes proprietary. You should consider partnering with Mrs. Mugle to sell Failsafe Babby Ointment to every woman in Britain – that would be a lot more lucrative than verse plays.”


    There was so much umbrage to take at this sentence Scarlet didn’t know where to start, so she chose the better path and said nothing. By the time they got home she would hopefully be calmed down enough to get their “special evening” back on track.


    “What I hear you saying,” Ian went on in his most reasonable-sounding way as the car rattled around the corner onto the main road, “Is that you need help but you also want to do everything yourself in your own way.”


    Horribly, he was right. Her continued silence would sound like sulking.


    “I’m the one who chose Mrs. Mugle,” she said. “At least let’s see if this magic ointment really works before we try her again.”


    But if she asked Mrs. Mugle to put aside her own maternal instincts how good a job of baby-minding could she possibly do? Resentment and secrecy must follow any such request. Anyway, Scarlet had really signed on for the services of Fern – who had been nowhere in sight. Scarlet feared these local coven mothers with their unscientific, outdated superstitions. She couldn’t be too careful with her only child.


    “Americans fuss too much over their children and then they all grow up weak, delinquent and neurotic,” Ian accused comfortably. “In our country, we don’t believe in all this indulgence and fetishizing.”


    Once again Scarlet could barely control herself. Who could possibly be more neurotic than any aristocratic twit nursing his entitlement or for that matter an Angry Young Man seeking fame by proclaiming his grievance? But she knew she couldn’t say this – Ian would only tell her she didn’t know anything about it and the fight would be on. That was NOT her plan for the evening.
    “I’m bushed,” said Ian, pulling off his tie as she tucked Nicholas into his crib. “I’ll take the guest bath.”


    She heard the water running, but she also heard voices. Creeping down the hall she saw he had taken the hall telephone into the bathroom with him and closed the door.


    Who could he possibly be calling at this hour? Margalo? Candi? Someone she didn’t even know about? This was insufferable. She’d bitten her tongue all evening, now secret phone calls were too much. The moment for intimacy with her husband– on this night of nights – had passed. Intimacy with her son was all she had left. Too bad her milk seemed to have dried up.