Chapter 18. 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 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. No water, no 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 marmalade. She remembered exactly what insanity had brought them here. It was Ian’s dreams 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. 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 she were hung over. After effects of a restless night. Her brain was buzzing. Miss Clew couldn’t help, the lady detective had no assistance to offer 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 woke. 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. He yawned theatrically but she noticed his eyes skittering nervously over her face. Then he seemed reassured. Why was that? 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 to 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 & Gardenor 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 an obliging 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 meout – 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 thishouse 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 veryexpensive. 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.
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Chapter 17. Down from Town
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. She 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. 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 nervous about all her shopping. London clothes in the country? What was the idea behind that? The Merry Widow was especially embarrassing. It seemed so much 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 broadcasters and auctioneers he hoped to impress? Even the London flat seemed now more like a crazy idea than a solid achievement. How had she let the estate agent maneuver her into the biggest place on offer, without any idea of its actual cost? She’d behaved just like Ian, after all! This is how people go bankrupt, she lectured herself. However could she explain it to India? Ian had done all he could to make his new job sound big and important. Were all new people treated this way at the BBC? In her experience the English workplace was decidedly chintzy. She couldn’t help feeling there was something else on the table, something she wasn’t getting. What if all this was just another one of Ian’s rather terrifying but hopeful daydreams, like winning a football pool? She calmed herself. Nobody had signed anything. Jane was only “talking” to Margalo – surely you can’t accept responsibility for something you didn’t know the cost of! And if Ian’s employer didn’t give a green light, nothing would happen. She longed for the world of Miss Clew who alone, it seemed, had the rationality to brush all this confusion aside. The world of the Victorians was one of pretense, imposture and hypocrisy. But somehow, Miss Clew always figured out the real and motives and intent. Eagerly she opened the next book in the series and prepared to disappear inside. After all, no amount was “within their budget” because Ian staunchly refused to make one or even explain his income. The book flatly refused to come to life with her head in this whirl. What were her exact fears? She looked blindly out the carriage window and resolved to list and face them. If leasing a hole in the wall meant she’d be cheek by jowl with a man she was currently feuding with, that would be money down the drain. The 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. It was the only possible thing, she comforted herself. 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. 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 leave 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 that,” 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’s 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 care for 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. Chapter 16. Voyeurs
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 inviting spies! Could it be worth it? wondered Scarlet. Already she missed her anonymous old free-wheeling self – independently setting herself up as a critic whom it would be worth no one’s time to criticize. 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, 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 required,” drawled Pom. “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. “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, 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. “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 to get away from their nannies and headmasters.” “I heard it was the pursuit of sunlight. Good weather.” “Touché, but I’m afraid we carry our inner darkness with us. How else could the whole colonial adventure have gone so horribly wrong? Sterno-flavored tea in the depths of the jungle doesn’t explain it.” 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 couldn’t 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 concern 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 afterwards. “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 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 explaining.” That they did. He didn’t argue that they could have coffee just as well at his place. She felt relieved. He chose espresso. For her it would always be “café americaine.” “I liked his helplessness,” she said finally. “It’s just the 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.” “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,” said Ian. “Pretty unforgiveable. They needed three scriptwriters to get them out of it.” “She really went in without his say so.” “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,” Ian agreed. “And then she’s already bored by his life before they’re even married.” “Perhaps he’ll realize he must film mysteries and involve her.” “For their sake I hope so,” said Scarlet. A little sadly. Surely someone must be happy with the deal they’d made, after the bargain was revealed. Ian drained his espresso. “We’re supposed to see that they’re made for each other. Do you believe in love at first sight?” There was a pause where she realized two things – both that it was possible to have toogood 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. “But...” he supplied. “I can feel the disclaimer coming. I brace myself.” “I’m especially vulnerable right now-“ no, that was wrong. 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 it’s 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 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 ever be that? “Tell me,” she said, “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 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 -something I assumed must be impossible.” Blood flooded to her face; she couldn’t speak. She was grateful for his calm. He kept his voice level and his eyes serious. “I seem to have done something terrible 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’d been 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 – they had already been too intimate. 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 going down tomorrow night 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 felt certain she could never explain 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. Chapter 15. 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. Has my husband’s predilections ruined my temperament? After the hard work of stair climbing they stepped 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 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.” 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 that she needed. 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 and not queer the deal. Chapter 14. 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 to spend time with his son should be a dream come true to an American girl. But Ian’s “tells” – specifically an 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 was giving 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. 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. What was 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. 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 wasthe 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. And as Miss Clew promised the suffering, 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 man she’d just met, 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 redhead 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! 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 right downstairs,” said Pom, “So it’s 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? Chapter 13. 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 reputation grew 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, waiting 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 rose to come around to the passenger side. “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 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 his pathetic Socrates. Probably he’d had no more than a Guinness. Or two. Drink rounds were a rigid social requirement – especially if the “friends” were new. Scarlet liked to think she understood the club car ethos, so she gave it up and 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 perks, presentation, 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 travel 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 so much confidence he said, “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 it’s by some shy country hermit.” “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 probably a perfectly presentable thirty-five-year old businesswoman. Ian had doubtless 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, when just at the door Ian said, “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 want help and 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. Actually, Scarlet had 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. Chapter 12. A Trip to London
On the very day she sent the telegram Ian suddenly announced he must go to London. Scarlet fought to suppress her instant jealousy. Jealousy placed her in an invidious position – the Ball and Chain carping wife. Who WOULDN’T want to escape? Ian argued that he had appointments about “employment options” but Scarlet knew he’d received no calls or mail. “Oh no?” he’d returned loftily. He’d always had these appointments, he simply didn’t tell Scarlet because “she would react like this”. Scarlet was stumped. Stymied. How on earth had this happened? They’d been so happy just a couple of months ago, when they moved in – they’d alwaysbeen happy. The envy of their friends. Suddenly he had become a “high-flier” and she was a stuck at home as The Complainer! Why, oh why hadn’t she listened to India, her own Sister Anne? The terrible inevitability of rigid roles loomed over them. There was the “hardworking long-distance husband” who needed and deserved whatever relaxation, rest and entertainment he could find in The Big City versus the “trapped, bitter drudge” of a wife who didn’t appreciate all she’d been given and always wanted more. It was the “battle of the sexes” they’d read about (and laughed over) for years. It could never apply to self-aware, intelligent artists: lucky people who knew how to find “true love”. Charming as Wyvern House was slowly becoming, it could never be worth a loss this devastating. Scarlet was facing nothing less than the total corruption of her love relationship. Worst of all, they couldn’t discuss it. She daren’t even mention it. She knew with absolute certainty that Ian would blame the baby, not the house! Wouldn’t he be playing to type? And wouldn’t everyone agree with him? Wasn’t this what the “world” insisted always happened to everyone else? The mother fell in love with the baby and the father, feeling the loss, sought attention elsewhere. He became freer, she became more burdened, then the fights began. She’d never – and Ian said HE’D never – thought any of this could possibly apply to them! He changed, not me, thought Scarlet mutinously. Suddenly his mind was closed to her. It happened the instant we walked into this house. How could she have stopped Ian from buying a house she’d neither heard of nor seen? Talk about inevitability! They’d planned get pregnant together but the house idea was his alone. Although when Scarlet thought honestly about it, hadn’t agreed they needed more space? It was a hopeless mess. Scarlet felt uncomfortable requesting fidelity from her husband considering they were banned from having sex. Although she couldn’t feel confident in his devotion, she did ask him – “will you be true to me?” His horrible answer was, “What do you think?” Either he scorned her for raising the question, or he dared her to tell him the truth, which was, that she thought he wouldn’tbe. But her pride couldn’t allow her to beg from this stranger. Who was he? The more responsibilities Ian had the more different he became from the playful, imaginative student she had married, and the more he seemed to be turning into a hostile alien driven by unreadable compulsions. But mightn’t he say the same of her? She’d kept secrets, too. For example, she had first thought Nicholas would have better childhood in the country. She knew Ian would consider it “American” and “suburban” (both pejoratives) to dread the dirt and despair, the “rat-race” of big cities and conjure up instead a green Eden where Nicholas could grow slowly, while he studyied the best minds of the past. Scarlet had known she must eventually brace herself to fight the English craziness of sending eight year old boys away to boarding school but in the old days she had enough confidence in herself and her marriage to feel this was a battle she might win. Now she saw he considered marriage a partnership only when the wife agrees with her husband. When she didn’t, it was easier to ignore her. Before the most recent trip to London she had taken care to mark him with her scent so to speak, to bathe him in her love, remind him of their passion, but after the guest weekend she felt too dispirited and if she must be honest, too angry at his cultivation of someone like Candi and his apparent willingness to use her as a goad against his own wife. How dare he! So disloyal! Her itch to scratch his face was decidedly de-rousing. He claimed the Holy Grail – an interview at the BBC. According to him, “everybody knew” television was THE modern workplace nowadays for money and advancement. She hadn’t liked the BBC people she had met. They seemed so relentlessly – even aggressively, unpoetic. Couldn’t Ian see that these people quashed rather than enhanced creativity? But such concepts only made Ian angrier. Their new obligations were expensive. She couldn’t contest that. She found herself yearning hopelessly for the carefree days of courtship and poverty – a honeymoon in Spain for pennies a day – a dingy flat with a shared toilet. Too late for such nostalgia. Those days were pre-Nicholas, and now that he was here he needed the best care possible. The universe required Nicholas. It was Scarlet’s deepest belief that Nicholas needed to be born. One could even argue that Scarlet needed to become a mother, for Nicholas’ sake. Everything Ian knew of this atavism he instinctively despised. She was certain he considered Wyvern House more important than his son. A cynic would say it was the oldest Tale Ever Told. Men and women had different investments in children. Who was that American scientist in the thirties who wrote about how important any particular man was to a woman, and how unimportant any particular woman was to a man? Men didn’t comprehend the process of giving birth, didn’t need to because in biological fact they could father hundreds of children every year. Women, on the other hand, must invest years in bringing up a mere handful of children. Scarlet certainly didn’t want to discuss any of this with Ian. Back in their courting days, he was interested in her thoughts and they could talk about anything; now he was resolved on turning her own words into weapons against her. One morning Ian galvanized her with a totally unexpected argument. “You know, if I got this job, we’d have to get a place in town. What a Christmas that would be!” This was casually stated while he was looking in the mirror, tying his tie. Scarlet’s mouth fell open. “A flat in town AND a house in the country?” “Why not? Other people do it.” They certainly did: rich people. Ian did have that thousand pounds – if he hadn’t already used it to stave off debts. They’d already agreed to skip Christmas presents in the face of all these expenses – but a shared apartment hunt would be a gift in itself! “WE’D have to…” she echoed his words. Wouldn’t that be the perfect solution? Had she jumped too fast to negative conclusions? Her face burned – was he right when he called her “The Doomsayer?” He didn’t need the mirror to tie his tie – he was using it to study her face. She had never been one who aspired to mask her emotions – especially from her husband! But this time she really tried. In her mind she saw their lives unspooled – dinners with fake people like Candi, hours spent rushing from town to country and back again, passing the baby between them and multiple caregivers as they sought to keep a precarious footing in the world of “the lucky ones” – was that really the life she wanted? She felt certain that even in the midst of these complex preoccupations, people found time to feel lonely and hopeless. Equally she felt certain that such a busy chatelaine would never write a worthwhile word. Money was universally supposed to solve all dilemmas. She was beginning to see that wasn’t true. And yet – if she needn’t scrabble for a job herself, a flat in town would solve the education dilemma. And so she said, “Sounds wonderful,” and was touched when he sighed with visible relief. He still cared what she thought! A fast kiss at the train station - “You can reach me at The Royal Grenadier Hotel” – and he was gone. Leaving her to muse ruefully on all these new positional changes in their relationships. Hadn’t she always leaned on his preferences and decisiveness? Was it possible that – after all – she HAD masked her true self from her husband and only now was it beginning to emerge? No. She had masked her true self from herself. And it was understandable – the future was aspirational – one yearned to become a “certain somebody.’ It was only later that you found some doors were closed – always would be closed because you yourself really didn’t want them. Really didn’t. Did this work for men as well, she wondered? Did they know their real selves so little? Ian had been raised with certain expectations – to ‘rise in the world,’ for example – which he was fulfilling. But women were encouraged to adapt in a way men were not and so inevitably, they looked for someone to adapt to. If Ian’s real, poetic self had yet to emerge she was certain the revelation would take a very long time. It could only happen after he had tried his dream of castle ownership, BBC employment and ‘partying with the right people” – and found it wanting. It could be, Scarlet realized, a very long wait. She had thought she knew him so well that she could have said exactly what he was thinking at any given moment and that made him the only man for her. But she was beginning to realize that no couple can really know each other because the challenges of marriage itself – of parenthood – must mold their characters. An unchanged soul would be shallow and undesirable for that very reason. They had always been on a journey; it remained o be seen if they could travel together. She recalled Ian on their very first date saying as she dithered over Indian food, “Don’t over-cerebrate. Lean on me. That’s what I’m here for.” Those words – so erotic at the time – now seemed appalling. Naturally, it wasn’t just his words but his face and body, his gorgeously explosive masculinity, the testosterone that dripped off him like cologne – turning both her head and heart. She suddenly felt confident in the utter relaxation she required for erotic satisfaction. She could float – she could surrender. Now she was finding out what exactly what it was she had surrendered to. They had both used her “American optimism” as fuel to stabilize his “English pessimism”. She had literally been the making of him. And she had given herself to the enjoyment of every moment. Until now. Now she felt unpleasantly certain that he had dismissed her from his mind as he boarded the train. He was whistling. Whistling was his “tell”. Long ago he’d criticized her “bad” poker face, that American refusal to mask herself – calling out her “giveaways” of furrowed brow and trembling lip. Because he positioned himself as expert it hadn’t seemed appropriate to explain to him that he had “tells” of his own – an overly rigid “poker face” for example! Only used while playing poker! And the whistling. That was worse. It meant he was going hunting. And looking forward to it. Having Ian gone was a relief in at least one way – no regular meals. Much easier to diet -- “slimming” the Brits called it. Ian loved fried breakfasts, relished cheese, desired iced cakes, dreamed about “old-fashioned English teas” with the “top of the cream”, demanded a constant supply of sandwiches, sweeties and savories. He considered a castle owner entitled to nuts served with his port. It was dangerous (and expensive!) keeping up with him and Scarlet knew she daren’t try. She couldn’t eat any of it and lose this bulky baby weight. Since she couldn’t match him indulgence for indulgence she might as well make up her mind to monastic living. Ian was a tall man, a big man, perhaps running a bit to fat these days, in the belly, in the chin, but to Scarlet’s loving eyes he was only that much more powerful and desirable now that his solid middle matched his massive shoulders. The easiest things to give up were alcohol and meat: chocolate was the stumbling block. She treasured that cup of cocoa at bedtime too much to surrender it. Another American habit! She had been sleeping badly, listening to Nicholas cycling through his moods. She required comfort to confront these cold nights. The day after Ian left it snowed – the first snow she had seen in England, a country which had previously been uniformly cold, wet, dank and gray. This snow was white, full, American in its lushness. But who could she share it with? The Royal Grenadier had no telephones in rooms, so she left messages that were never returned. Finally, after four days, a telegram. “Good news. Home 22 6:15. Love, Ian”. Scarlet sighed with relief. On the 23rdit would be six weeks since Nicholas’ birth. She had marked that calendar date with a rose. Chapter 11. A Hostess Gift
They all rose late. David insisted he’d slept “very well” but Ian’s eyes were shuttered against Scarlet’s inquiring look and Candi seemed smugly triumphant. It went against Scarlet’s grain to question them but if you didn’t tell foreign sexual adventuresses that your husband was off limits, how could they be expected to know? Candi’s barbed words - “glad to know another couple with a truly modern relationship” – came back to her like some sly promotion infidelity as sophisticated, international and superior? But David didn’t seem to be on board with that. They drove to Oakhampton after a late and hasty Continental breakfast prepared by Ian, (wonder of wonders) – the “girls” in the back of the estate wagon with Nick in his carrycot between them. Scarlet struggled to find words that would be politic yet reproving, worried that she’d missed her chance. But Candi forestalled her. “You must come up to London soon,” she gushed, “Now that you have a nanny.” Scarlet struggled with the concept of Fern elevated to this pinnacle while Candi hurried on; “So we can have a real heart to heart.” Which of us is being courted? Wondered Scarlet. A nightmare world appeared to her inner eye where her personal good fortune; talent, beauty, husband, house, son – laid her open to invasion by this succubus who would supplant her. Candi placed a cold hand with its terrifyingly long, red lacquered nails on Scarlet’s hot, stubby, hang-nailed paw. “I have discounts at all the best places. Now that you have your figure back we must suit you out.” “Lovely,” quivered Scarlet, revolted by virtually everything about this patronizing sentence. She knew immediately that the truth was of no interest to Candi, who sought always to perpetrate a façade, and who took it for granted other people did too. She seemed confident Scarlet would never correct her, never insist that she was large, baggy and leaking milk in all directions. Her presentable caftan at the restaurant for dinner out it could be considered “maternity wear.” She would rather die than ever shop with Candi, didn’t want to resemble her and hadn’t planned to buy anything new until Nicholas was weaned. But she felt a horrid certainty that Ian would side with Candi; one must “put on a show”. Was she being penny wise and husband foolish? Something to consider. Perhaps she could spring for one outfit – but certainly not with Candi! Tatiana had a pair of velvet toreador pants Scarlet coveted. “Divorce insurance” - distasteful as that might be. And she desperately needed a warm winter coat – something better than this shabby red anorak she wore everywhere. Breakfast had been so late and Ian’s porridge was so stomach-churning nobody could think of food or even a cup of tea at the café. In desperation, Scarlet suggested visiting the bookshop instead to purchase “something to read on the train” and all agreed with this idea. The Fruitful Browserwas fortunately open Sundays. It might specialize in old, antique and “used” books but there is no such thing as a “used idea”. Francesca even offered a respectable cup of coffee which she called, charmingly, “café americaine.” She gave Scarlet’s guests – and then Scarlet – a look that could only be described as “conspiratorial.” Baby Nicholas cooperated by staying sound asleep locked safely in the car. “Literature by the yard! I see!” said Candi, who appeared personally insulted by the very concept of used books. “But I suppose if you’ve got shelves to fill” - until Ian commented, “Here’s a lovely section of pocket Trollopes.” That’s what Candi was, thought Scarlet. A “pocket trollop!” Seemingly Candi wanted anything Ian wanted. Her acquisitive eyes lit up with lust. Scarlet left them to it while she and David happily perused the Golden Age of Crime novels - tuppence a copy. David was thrilled to find a series Scarlet had never even heard of. “Our Miss Clew,” he said, “These are glorious. I think there were only ever a baker’s dozen and I’ve been missing five! Here they are!” To Scarlet hee hissed conspiratorially, “Don’t tell. They could sell the full set for substantially more.” Scarlet had to assume Francesca knew her business. In any event, she personally dropped a guinea in this store on her every Oakhampton shopping trip. She snapped up the five David didn’tneed. “I see you love Miss Clew,” Francesca remarked, adding up their purchases. “They really must soon issue reprints – these inexpensive editions – “railway” they call them - fall to tatters far too soon.” Scarlet could only agree – her copies appeared to be restored with what she, as a new homeowner, recognized as friction tape. Candi had chosen a first edition of Frank Harris’ Life and Loveswhich, horribly, Ian insisted on purchasing. “I shall have to think up a really special bread and butter present,” said Candi. “This has been the most wonderful weekend of my life.” “I have never been so happy to say goodbye to people,” said Scarlet when at last she and Ian were alone and driving home. “They’re not so bad,” said Ian smugly. “You must appreciate Candi’s determination to have a good time. Quite the little Cleopatra, isn’t she?” “Don’t fall,” said Scarlet sharply and her husband answered, “As if I would sink so low! She’s not my class at all.” How Scarlet wished he’d said “YOUR class.” Did he even think of his wife as sexy? Desirable? Feminine? HUMAN, any longer? Just at that moment Nicholas woke up mightily discontented with everything about his life, requiring Scarlet to crawl into the back seat and minister to the one male who indisputably put her first. On Wednesday, the mail contained two thank you letters – one addressed to each of them. She couldn’t bear waiting – she had to open Ian’s, unfolding a sheet of empty pink letter paper stiff as cardboard and ornamented with a single gold “C” – and a shower of rose petals. Not a word. Candi hadn’t written a single word. Scarlet was humiliated to have to pick up every damn petal – there were thirty-six of them. She took them into Ian’s office where he was working on his accounts (or, as he called it “cooking the books”. It was only his own father he was fooling.) “This is yours,” she said, dumping them in his lap. “Sorry. I thought it was for the both of us.” He just laughed. Scarlet’s letter was more substantial, less suggestive and if that were possible, even more aversive. MORE cards from the Escarpa Gallery, fashion trunk show invitations, fulsomely effusive words about the weekend and the onionskin pattern drawing for a stained-glass window “picking out the colors of your study” – some kind of hunting scene. But Scarlet couldn’t focus on the huntsman picture, she was so appalled. She knew Candi wanted her to think Ian had taken her privately up to Scarlet’s study. Damn the woman! And in the guise of offering this idiotic “gift” she was literally daring Scarlet to complain. “We’ll just never invite them back”. Scarlet thought. But did she actually have that much power? She could hear Ian’s voice insisting they must entertain, make friends, cultivate acquaintanceships with people they didn’t like at all. Why had she done this to herself? She should have realized a castle came with a heavy psychic as well as financial mortgage. She toyed with the idea of needing to be “in London” on weekends when the unbearable was expected – but didn’t that cede the field to Candi? Wouldn’t she love to play hostess? Back in their London days she saw their coupledom as a unit, indissoluble, because they loved each other and wanted and valued the same things. It just didn’t feel true anymore. She felt embarrassed and humiliated by the pink honeymoon cloud that once has seemed the whole sky. She shouldn’t catastrophize. She should play it cleverly. How many women like Candi were there in the world? Couldn’t she figure out some way to keep them at bay? Come up with a way to tell Candi she didn’t want this damn “gift.” Should she say she hated modern glass? Loathed hunting scenes? Something would occur to her but first she must order stationery bearing the name Mrs. Ian Wye. No, no, that wouldn’t do – anyone could be Mrs. Ian Wye. Mrs. Scarlet Wye sounded as if they were already divorced. Ian and Scarlet Wye? That was so American – she could only get away with it if Ian never saw it. Her maiden name was the name she wrote under – Scarlet Stavenger – her “business name” she supposed – but taking away her married name seemed to concede the field. Scarlet Stavenger Wye – that was what was required. Oakhampton Stationers told her the order couldn’t be ready for two weeks at least, so she sent a telegram to Candi’s gallery. “No stained glass for me thank you – appreciate the thought.” Game on. Chapter 10. The Guests
Ian continued to surprise her. He had a long smooth patter prepared about how he had occupied himself while in London: cultivating television executives, meeting the right people, offering services, making pitches, being…himself. Scarlet found this naked pursuit of cash so repellant that she asked no questions, accepting it at face value. What else could she do? They needed money to live. She had agreed to live in this house, she had willingly added an extra mouth to feed. He was her husband, the father of her baby and she needed to accept and support his ideas. In aid of this charm offensive, Ian informed her that he had invited weekend guests. “Show off your accomplishments,” he oozed, “Let them see we’re a package deal.” To Scarlet it seemed strangely as if his sudden need of her hostessing shifted the power balance between them. Scarlet wished he’d waited for Nicholas to recover from night-screaming colic before entertaining. She also knew he didn’t want her to become the kind of woman who talked endlessly about baby’s digestive and bowel complaints. He had planned a life above the muck and so far she had failed him. But muck was artist’s fertilizer! The first time in her marriage she felt the need to learn negotiation; or at least some basic bargaining skills. “If I can have some help with the food,” she requested. “I don’t want to be stuck in the kitchen while you entertain the guests.” He was smart enough to realize that it was his own insistence on keeping the dining room separate from the kitchen had let him in for this so he capitulated almost immediately. “What kind of help?” “Remember those dreamy trifles Pom served? They were made by Mrs. Ryquist over at the pub.” “I like yourcooking,” he complained, his argument weakened by the fact that this was the first she’d heard it. She pushed her advantage. “I’ll be doing plenty of cooking. Let’s order fill-ins, say, a ham, some soup, a trifle and a cake for starters. Think how helpful that will be.” Ian knew when he was beaten. “Whatever you want”. David and Candianna Pourfoyle were the very couple to whom they’d sublet their tiny flat – Scarlet felt at first relieved when Ian mentioned their names. At least it was someone she knew! “A practice run,” said Ian, “Polishing our routine before inviting The Big Guns.” The more Scarlet thought about this, the more unsettled she felt. What if the subletting happenstance was planned behind her back and not, as she had assumed, random? Scarlet shuddered at even trying to find her sea-legs in this new world when she felt so personally raw and physically overwhelmed. She had met this couple only once it and they seemed so nice – he taught literature and she had some kind of art gallery job – a sublet was all they could afford. Newlyweds are foreigners to each other anyway and these two had been born in different countries. The similarities to Scarlet’s and Ian’s background only made them more simpatico. He was younger than Candianna and Canadian – they’d actually met on an Atlantic crossing – she was from one of those Balkan countries perpetually at war and was in need of a safe harbor. David seemed like a sweet, gentle man ready to be a hero – in this case rescuing Candi from a dreadful marriage with a violent man. Candi had actually been married three times previously – Scarlet assumed that to women of Candi’s birth culture marriage was simply an escape. “Candi” wasn’t even her real name – she had named herself but didn’t Americans love re-invention? Scarlet thought she could have picked a better name. But if English wasn’t your first language, wouldn’t you make exactly that type of error? She found herself looking forward to the weekend, singing as she planned guest room drapes, cushions and bedcovering. Deep plum crewel work on a rough, almost canvas backing – courtesy of Tatiana Designs, another little shop discovered in Oakhampton. She’d coveted everything there but she couldn’t afford the clothes –furnishings were being sold off so Tatiana could concentrate on fashion. “We sell direct to Montcalm Clothiers;” Tatiana had bragged. A good place to guide Ian when he was looking for a present. He had previously revealed a boring tendency to settle for ho-hum gifts like perfume and necklaces purchased at jewelry stalls. He couldn’t go wrong at Tatiana Designs and even Tatiana herself was interesting, although her Russian accent might be as fake as her Egyptian makeup. But why quibble with poseurs if they made life more interesting? They were artists mastering their material. Candi and David arrived on a Thursday night. They expressed satisfactory appreciation of the house, oohing and aahing at just the right moments and David, thankfully, was a non-smoking light drinker. “You’re very brave, bringing children into the world, what with the bomb and all,” said Candi. Scarlet, who smiled encouragingly, privately dismissed her as not very bright. “They’re hard to avoid,” said Ian with unnecessary gloom. “I’d love having kidlets someday,” David contributed. Poor David. There was something so pathetic about him. Why was Scarlet so certain he never would have kidlets, or really, much of anything at all? He was such a follower. Scarlet waved a hand at the spiral staircase. “My study’s up there,” she said. An irresistible brag. Candi became goggle-eyed. “I’d love to see it.” “It’s not fit to be seen.” Truth was, it was just too private. Why was she so uncomfortable declaring it off-limits? Because hostesses were obligated to throw open all the doors and welcome anybody in? Scarlet shuddered at the thought of other people’s hands touching sheets of her half-baked ideas – they would be polluted forever. Those he would never be able to get back to them. It was like people asking you to bathe in front of them. “Don’t mind us!” “Oh, please,” said Candi and David took her arm restrainingly. Did it come from being foreign, this cluelessness? English as a seventh language? “At least tell me the color scheme,” said Candi. “You’ll see I’m quite the designer.” “Red and purple,” said Scarlet, suddenly deciding that she really quite disliked this woman. Who wouldn’t be repulsed by her trick of bugging out her eyes? It was so corny, so fake, reminiscent of bad hypnotists and unpersuasive stage magic. Did men really fall for this kind of thing? And yet both David and Ian looked at her as a snake might gaze at a mongoose. “Red for Scarlet,” said Candi. “How unexpected.” Perhaps she wasn’t clueless after all. A dinner out, a dinner in, two breakfasts, one lunch and another at the station in Oakhampton – Scarlet had never realized how much trouble guests really were. Their small London flat had prevented them from inviting guests. Candi claimed to eat “nothing” yet she was a fount of complaints and requisitions: “China tea, never Indian,” “Can’t abide garlic”; “No tree nuts”; “Cucumbers don’t agree with me” – it would be easier to just show her the kitchen and tell her to forage. Scarlet refrained from pointing out that she must partake occasionally – you didn’t get substantial hips and breasts like those without tucking in. It did turn out that she was very fond of scones with Devonshire clotted cream. Starches and sweets!. So that was the secret! David at least ate heartily, behaving as if he was on a gastronomic vacation, and assisted with the washing up while Ian, who pretended to assist, regaled them with his stories. Candi watched him with overly shiny eyes. She must spruce up her makeup every twenty minutes, thought Scarlet. The red wine vanished immediately; Scarlet had reason to be grateful for the Grüner Veltliner. She made a mental note to thank Pom again. He would never get any other benefit – Ian accepted all the credit and relished the opportunity to show off his knowledge of Austrian wine. “I usually buy Traminer but this is drinkable,” he opined. It was all Scarlet could do not to roll her eyes. Fortunately, Candi picked up any and all conversational slack, talking endlessly about her gallery job. She passed around tickets and cards to multiple openings and receptions – painters – all male of course – who enjoyed picturing women as corpses, robots and birds of prey. Scarlet began to feel the pressure that had triggered some of Pom’s re-envisioning. Moving with the herd was deadly. On their guests’ last night Scarlet was yawning and ready for bed at eight o’clock. With monumental effort she held out till eight-thirty. “I think I’ll feed Nick and turn in myself,” she suggested. Candi said, “You must be very devoted to risk spoiling your figure.” “And a lovely figure it is,” David toasted her “To the cook!” None of it felt complimentary. Would Ian EVER come to bed? She awoke at two o’clock with a sense of dread. He wasn’t there, and though his side of the comforter seemed disturbed she could have done that herself, tossing and turning while escaping The Dark Tower. At last she rose, donned a pink paisley wrap and drifted downstairs with the excuse of re-filling her hot water bottle. She could hear whispering but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. She took advantage of the time the kettle took to boil to wander from room to room and as she moved the whispering stopped. Could it be coming from the undercroft – the “crypt” in Pom’s parlance? But it was so cold and uncomfortable down there. If they were getting wine why didn’t they come back? Maybe it was just the wind she was hearing. But Nick’s cry was unmistakable – she filled her bottle and rushed to feed and change him before he woke the house. As if the house had ever been asleep! Chapter 9. The Bookshop
Scarlet was rather hoping Ian would be jealous when he found out about her caller, but sadly, she turned out to be the jealous one. She could hear him whistling as he came in the front door and she rushed in to meet him so he wouldn’t wake the baby He was waving a thousand pound cheque from his father’s account. Scarlet caught a glimpse of Nicholas’ name in the memo line before Ian whisked it away. “For the baby?” “Of course for the baby!” Ian seemed irked. “Everything’s for the baby, which is to say it’s for us.” Scarlet hoped Ian’s father wasn’t under the impression that he was starting some special bank fund for Nicholas but feared he probably did. Ian often misled people about the finer points of his spending, implying he was a saver and an investor when he most assuredly was not. However, protecting Ian’s parents could not be her concern when she had too much on her plate already. At exactly that moment, Ida and Fern – riding with her grandmother today, thank God – showed up and Scarlet made the introduction. An expression of coy simpering Scarlet had previously visualized and dreaded appeared on Fern’s face – reflecting her appraisal that Ian was a fine figure of a man – but even worse from Scarlet’s point of view was the expression on Ian’s face. In spite of the girl’s youth, he was paying clear tribute to her beauty. “Challenging your game,” Ian murmured, digging an elbow into Scarlet’s side. She had to struggle to keep from rolling her eyes. In what universe could she and a rural seventeen year old school leaver ever be rivals? She tried telling him about her dinner with Pom but he yawned with boredom. She could only hope he wasn’t as mentally finished with her as he obviously was with her. He considered a case of wine no more than his due -“he owes us” and when she mentioned the cherry tart he poked her middle and said jestingly, “No more of that for you!” But he really got under her skin when he called Pom a “poofter.” “Surely you know,” he drawled. No hope making him jealous of Pomeroy Bronfen! She wanted to argue the point, but realized it made her ridiculous. She honestly DIDN’T know – the only “evidence” she actually had was the way he had made her feel – beautiful, interesting and intelligent. She stomped away in a huff which all too obviously gratified Ian. With Fern present she could at least go to her tower room and write. But she didn’t want to. She needed to get out of this house. She resolved to visit the bookshop Pom had mentioned and locate a copy of Perrault’s fairytales. The Fruitful Browser turned out to be Scarlet’s favorite kind of shop – from the tray of books outside to the shelves inside it was crammed with interesting finds. Not for the first time Scarlet asked herself, ‘Why should I bother to write when there’s so much to read?” The only thing she didn’t like was that she was alone in the store. Usually bookshops swarmed with incompetent help, though in this case the lone leonine woman behind the desk asked, “Anything I can help you with?” She looked to be in her 60’s with a big blunt face, broad nose, no makeup, and curly grey streaked hair streaming out around her like a nimbus. “Perrault’s Fairytales?” Scarlet asked. “In English. Er – adult version.” The woman tossed up a corner of the countertop and hasted out to shake her hand. “Welcome,” she said. “I’m Francesca Joringel. Follow me.” Her broad, booted, stumpy body was swathed in shawls. As they walked, Scarlet noticed the shop was carefully arranged and labeled – “Poetry”, “Literature,” “Biography” and some unusual ones: “Bloody Mystery” “Bloodless Mystery” and “American Crime.” Bet she knows what a paradigm shift is, thought Scarlet. They had arrived at “Story Therapy.” “Story Therapy?” Francesca – “Call me Fran” – turned to face her. “You are perhaps familiar with Viktor Frankl’s book Man’s Search for Meaning? No? Oh, every visitor to my shop who’s unfamiliar with that book gets a free copy. This is all my research for my forthcoming tome; Woman’s Search for Meaning.” She waved a hand. “I use folk-tales to back up my theories.” “Which is?” questioned Scarlet. “Frankl’s experience at Auschwitz convinced him that terrible experiences can be borne only when we comprehend the meaning that they have for us. Story therapy builds on that – it isn’t my own idea. Six years ago I was living in London at the point of despair and I was fortunate to encounter a Hungarian psychoanalyst – she was a Jungian – who believed with stories we foretell the future.” Scarlet was feeling a bit overwhelmed by this and found herself suddenly needing to sit down. Luckily benches, stools – and in this case an upright kitchen chair – were sprinkled around the store. “She taught me that to apply these stories to the great question: how shall I live? Psychoanalysis is not only about coming to terms with the past, but planning for the future.’ She dimpled unexpectedly. “Enjoy.” Scarlet was glad she needn’t suffer scrutiny as she opened book after book and studied their contents. She settled on Grimm’s Fairytales – faintly remembered, and a large version of Perrault, heavily illustrated. Fran was waiting for her at the counter with a threadbare paperback of the Frankl book. “Would you like to be on our mailing list for future events?” “I certainly would,” said Scarlet, and entered name and address in a ponderous volume. It was a warm comfort knowing that Pom had been there before her. That night a poem came to her. Sister Anne in the Dark Tower How you jumped When I jumped on you! Your sightless spyglass - Sham panopticon - Can’t answer my Spirit’s Questions. Let’s play cards Throw the dice like lovers; If you win I’ll be Forever celibate; Prisoned in an oculus Heated by Rage and Prophecy. |
Alysse AallynArchives
November 2021
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