Chapter 24. Paradigm Shift
She and Nicholas drove Ian to the station. Scarlet felt certain her determined plan to shake off the dust of this country house and leave him forever must shimmer on her in an unmistakable miasma but he seemed irritatingly smug, as if any plans of hers were unimportant and risible, no concern of his and must inevitably go awry. It was all she could do to prevent revealing the anger which was probably his real goal but she somehow managed it and was rewarded with a patronizing kiss and a wink to all the other business commuters as if to say, “We’re well out of these teacup tempests, blokes!” She stopped at the garage to top the tank with petrol. What pleasure it gave her to see Candi’s “gift” hanging in the window, slightly to the left of the neon Pirelli sign. She chuckled so loudly that Frankie commented, “You’re in a good mood today.” Scarlet responded, “You know, I really am.” A few more items packed in Nicholas’ suitcase and her own, a change, a wash, a feeding for Nicholas and then she was ready to go. She packed his bassinet, the book boxes, the trunk – she left his crib. She left all her dishes, taking only the ancient butter molds India had sent to bless their marriage. And they were off. At the gate, she almost struck another car – Pom’s aging Dorset. He jumped out, whistling as he saw her load. “Looks like the French are leaving Moscow,” was his comment. Tears sprang to Scarlet’s eyes. This meeting was something she hadn’t reckoned on and it felt emotionally loaded. “I’ve got a job,” she said sniffed, despising herself. “And you’re driving up to town?” He cast his eyes over the situation and she could see him summing up her dilemma in his head. Accurately, she had no doubt. “Well, this is wonderful luck for me,” he said, falsely, Scarlet felt certain. “I need a ride up to town and it looks like you could do with an extra pair of hands at the other end.” Scarlet gulped, unable to speak. “I’ll even do the driving,” he offered. “Come on, what do you say? Less worry on the roundabouts.” English roundabouts – considering everyone was driving dementedly - were particularly nasty. “It’s that you all persist in driving on the wrong side of the road,” she laughed, hearing the tears in her own voice. ‘It’s not the only thing we do wrong, either,” he said. “Meet me at the garage?” Following his car gave her time to collect herself. Pom gave some brief orders to Frankie and slipped him a pound note. They looked cozily complicit. She was re-positioning Nicholas’ carrycot and saw the whole thing. “What was that about?” “He won’t mention that you gave me a ride. We don’t want the wrong people drawing the wrong conclusions.” “That we don’t,” she agreed. She wondered, where was Ian’s detective now? Hiding behind one of these lace-curtained windows? Concealed behind a hedge? Should she warn Pom that he might be on camera? “Don’t you have any luggage?” He waved the open basket of shortbreads and jams he was carrying. “You don’t call this luggage?” “I certainly don’t.” She sat in the passenger seat as he assumed the controls. “Well, you’re right. I have plenty of clothes at my flat. This is my formal and very inadequate apology for my not telling you that nasty old house has broken up every marriage it got its misbegotten claws into. I wonder you don’t sue me.” Scarlet burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, “I would have rather – This isn’t your burden.” He touched her hand briefly. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends boo-hoo in front of friends. You’ll see plenty of my sniffles and wails when I’m turned down for the Art Moderne Juried Show.” “It’s definitely your turn,” she laughed. “Didn’t I sob and shriek throughout Rear Window? Because that’s my memory.” “You did NOT.” There was something so amusing about him. He reliably boosted her spirits. “You didn’t notice in the dark. I assumed you didn’t care.” “What on earth about Rear Window would make anyone sob?” His face turned serious. “Isn’t it the story of a poor crippled man – one who asserts some pretense of professionalism, even artistry I should note – looking on at life, unable to participate? That’s me.” “That’s you? Impossible! Explain.” She hastened to add, “Unless you don’t want to.” “Certainly, I want to. I brought it up, buddy. Pal. Whatever it is you Americans say. How long do you think I had to loiter around your gate looking for an opportunity to insert myself into your family drama?” She was utterly nonplussed. He MUST be joking. “I don’t know – how long did you?” “Long enough so that here I am. Ready to confess my horrible secrets. I guarantee they more than equal yours.” “Dubious.” “I’ll be the judge of that.” He shifted as smoothly from comedy to seriousness as he shifted automotive gears. “Spill.” He drove in silence for a moment and she didn’t interrupt his thoughts. Finally, he said, “You must wonder why I’ve never married.” “My husband said you were a poofter.” “His type would.” He ground his jaw, then said, “I suppose now you’ll defend him?” “I’ll never defend him again. I’d like to think his awfulness can’t surprise me.” “All right, I’ll tackle his defense. I mean, who can blame him? We inveterate bachelors get this a lot. Add a British public school education and it’s really a wonder that I’m not as queer as a jellied eel. But no. The truth is I conducted a thirteen-year affair – thirteen sad, wasted years - with a woman who was married to someone else.” When he fell silent, she prompted, “And then?” “And then her husband died and she married another bloke. It was – the biggest shock to me. I can’t describe.” “A paradigm shift.” “Exactly.” “You didn’t know about – the other fellow?” “I don’t think he was part of the previous picture. He’s actually a very upright Catholic peer. I doubt he’d have sprung for matrimony if he knew about me. Certainly, he would never have even approached her if she hadn’t been a widow.” “Sounds like you could have sunk her if you’d wanted to.” “Could I?” He considered. “That didn’t occur to me. After I saw how she really was – after I had my re-visioning - I really wanted nothing further to do with her. After that, I was too absorbed in my self-hatred.” She thought of the sudden change from impressionistic color to black and white rage revealed in his paintings. “Why hate yourself just because she was using you? I don’t waste my time hating myself for not being more like Candi. I pity her, actually. My husband called her his “bit of fluff” and insisted she was completely unimportant and he felt nothing for her. I doubt THAT would make any woman proud.” “Possibly your inner strength is the reason I admire you. Add that to your deep intellect and your outstanding beauty and anyone can see why I cling.” She refused to allow his seductive teasing to change the subject. The more the conversation shifted to her, the less she would find out about him. “It’s all very Branwell Brontë,” she said finally. “The exact same thing happened to him.” “Did it? How unflattering. I seem to recollect he was a falling-down drunk and an epic family disappointment. Luckily I have no family left to disappoint.” “He let it destroy him. As you’re so obviously not doing.” He looked at her with an expression of immeasurable sadness. “Yet here I am inserting myself into yet another marriage. Like a reflex.” “I would have said you’ve inserted yourself into a divorce.” His eyes seemed to plead a question. “Are you so certain?” She felt a bit shocked by his naked emotion. “Let me explain.” He would never understand if she didn’t. “My husband just told me that all men have girlfriends. Furthermore, he plans to always HAVE girlfriends. He doesn’t care what I do! He’ll pretend otherwise, if I insist. He certainly feels free to lie to everyone involved because, apparently “everyone” does it.” “All men? Or just English men?” “Oh, he’s very scathing about Americans, tied to their mommies and wives. Let’s say he claims all men who are really menhave as many girlfriends as they possibly can. He says adultery strengthens marriage.” “How Victorian.” “Is it?” “Well, the Victorians argued that the only way to have good girls is to have bad girls too.” “The Victorians?” Scarlet laughed. “Ian told me to read Lawrence.” “D.H. or T.E.? What dreadful taste he has.” “He told me I can lump it or leave it. So, I’m leaving it. I’ve –“re-visioned” him. And I don’t want what I see.” “He’s aware you’re leaving him?” “Not yet.” She chewed her lip, uncertain what to reveal. Yet having someone in her corner – especially after the disappointment of India’s letter – was too alluring. Necessary, in fact. Addictive, even. “You know that solicitor you sent me to –“ “Bob Thomas?” “Actually, his name is Pelham D’Arcy – he’s the matrimonial guy with the same firm. Anyway, I think he’s wonderful.” “I’m glad.” “The deck’s stacked against me as a mother so I have to be careful. Anything I tell you is in the strictest confidence.” “They couldn’t get it out of me under torture.” He squeezed her hand again. “I hope that’s true. I mean, I don’t actually hope you’re tortured –“ “They could hardly do anything to me I haven’t already done to myself.” “Well, stop it. We need clear heads.” “Clearing, clearing…” He expertly negotiated a roundabout. “Cleared. Continue.” “Ian had us followed.” As she had foreseen, he couldn’t take it in. “He had US followed? But there is no us!” “I saw photos of our day – and night – in London. Complete with me going into your flat. Pelham D’Arcy said it can’t continue.” “Oh, my God!” He was stunned. And silent. After awhile, she said, “For all I know the detective is still after us.” Pom checked his rearview. “I’ll try to see if any of these cars are following. Mind if I take a circuitous route?” “Yes,” she said frankly. “I do mind. I would prefer that you help me unpack – in the full blaze of afternoon, before the eyes of anyone who cares to know – then we part company, and I don’t go to your flat and we have no more dates, we should be all right. Then I can insist we are only friends. If it comes to that. Do YOU mind? You can see I’m taking more advantage of you than you could ever take of me.” “I’m honed to be your pack mule,” said Pom, “As well as your buddy and your friend. However long it takes.” She hoped she could ignore this last remark. “It’s not all bad news,” she informed him in a welcome change of subject. “I’ve gotten a wonderful job that comes with a new place to live.” “The Kensal Green lady?” “No. That was the BBC realtor, who it seems works only for my husband. My new job came through a newspaper advertisement – some wonderful eighty-eight year old author wants help updating her work but nobody who applied for the job had ever heard of her. Except me.” He gasped appreciatively. “You were a shoo-in!” “I was!” “Who is she?” “Esmé Hope Bottomley.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have gotten the job. Is she English?” “She is, and the funny part is – I’ve only just discovered her! She was recommended to my by – of all people – Candi’s husband!” “Candi has a husband?” “Sad to say.” “What a mess.” He shook his head. “Miss Bottomley expects you to live-in?” “She’s all alone in the most fabulous house she just inherited. I get the whole second floor – I guess the Brits call it the “first floor”. She never goes upstairs.” “And that’s the Norfolk Crescent address?” He whistled. “Pricey. My only concern would be you’ll end up caring for a very infirm old lady.” “I don’t think so,” said Scarlet. “She’s got tons of cash, and besides, it’s only three months to start with. Anyway, I told Ian all that – he would know I’m taking Nicholas if he thought about it – but I didn’t make a point of it. He seems to think I’ll fold. But I’ll never give in to this philosophy that men get mistresses and women get houses – as a booby prize, presumably. My theory is, of course I get Nicholas who’s only seven weeks old. My solicitor wants me to stop communicating with Ian. He says he’ll do all that dirty work.“ “Can you resist monitoring Ian and telling him off?” “I hope so. I don’t want to know what he’s up to and I don’t want to hear his lies. Silence suits me perfectly. The solicitor did say you and I must be careful with our friendship.” “I only hope you know what you’re doing.” She felt a flicker of panic. Another subject change was called for. “Tell me the truth. Do all men have girlfriends?” “I’d say it’s time somebody explains to you the difference between dogs and wolves.” “One’s tame and the other’s wild. I know that much.” “That’s not it. The interesting part is, the wild ones are monogamous and the tame ones – aren’t.” “Wolves are monogamous? I guess I didn’t know.” “It’s a well-kept secret.” “Very well-kept. American girls call predatory men “wolves”. “See how deceptive language can be?” “Truly. One needs a native guide.” “Fortunately, you have one.” He gave her a meaning look. She laughed. “I think you’re saying that you’re a wolf? In the scientific sense, of course.” “Well, I have been so far. I prefer loyalty over selfishness. In the long run, it’s better for the tribe.” Nicholas muttered and sputtered. Pom turned off on the Farnham exit. “Sounds like somebody’s ready for lunch. I think we all could use a bite.” “Got an idea where we’re going?” “I do. Used to be my favorite place but –“ he shook his head. “No blubbing, I promise. I haven’t been back in awhile.” “You can blub all you want,” Scarlet said generously at which Nicholas’ muttering turned into outright crying. “We’ll all blub together,” agreed Pom.
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