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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Chapter 23. Packing
India’s Christmas package arrived on the same day as a flat rejection from Nigel, the magazine was “going in a different direction.” Had Ian spoken with him? Scarlet couldn’t put it past him. Inia’s little gifts were nostalgic food items like pfeffernusse and an unexpected present for Baby Nicholas – a collection of the sisters’ broken-backed, well-loved books from childhood. Scarlet pushed Ian’s gift aside (a joke tie probably, considering India had never liked Ian) and stroked the worn book covers sadly. So much imagination in childhood when it seemed the power of youth and yearning itself was magic. She had not even bothered to set up a tree but Ian could hardly expect one now. Perhaps she could make an effort for Miss Bottomley – see what the old dame thought about Christmas. Some people disregarded the holiday – others actively hated it, after bad experiences. Ian and Scarlet’s last apartment – where the Pourfoyles now lived - had been too small and Ian’s family had always focused more on stockings and tiny gifts. Ian was quite comfortable leaving it all up to his wife, all the effort and all the blame. It was always the wife’s jobs to meet everyone’s expectations, grumbled Scarlet, even those of her husband’s family whom she didn’t know while men sat comfortably aside and ordered grog. What a different plan she’d had for Nicholas’ childhood than the desolation that lay before her! But what was her alternative? Ian hadn’t noticed Scarlet sexually or romantically since Nicholas’ birth. He had chosen a different bed. She was in this utterly alone. Could he possibly expect her to compete with his “bit of fluff?” She wouldn’t imagine it in a thousand years. The very thought made her want to enter a Turkish steambath and turn herself inside out in an effort to get clean. The church ought to offer a ceremony for this – instead they acted as if menstruation and childbirth were the defilers instead of a husband’s reckless dalliances and pernicious prevarications. She was done with all of them. What would happen now? The future was impossible to guess at or see into. She now saw that any belief that she couldsee into it had wrong-footed her from the start. There were too many other players. Likely life would always be more surprising and unaccountable than she expected or counted on. The most important question was, could she ever trust anyone again? How teach Nicholas about a universe where no one could be trusted? Favorite Egyptian Tales of Mystery & Magic– Scarlet had loved this particular volume so much it had lost its cover. For years after reading it she told people she wanted to be an “Egyptologist”. After that it was “archaeologist” until she fell in love with literature and poetry in high school and literature and poetry seemed to love her back. Would those, too, let her down? So much depended on the frail elderly shoulders of Miss Bottomley. She turned the pages slowly, remembering every illustration. Here was the hippopotamus Ammit – “devourer of hearts” - waiting for Anubis to throw him the heavy, most evil hearts for eat. In this religion, only the light-hearted were worthy of heaven. Not a bad idea! When she thought about the challenges ahead, she did feel her heart lighten. She had Pom on her side, and D’Arcy and Miss Joringel and Miss Bottomley. Ian had Candi and Margalo and whatever drunken buddies he could find to applaud him at the pub. But those were meretricious relationships in the fullest meaning of the word. They were based on Ian NOT showing his true self. Based, really, on his never finding it but remaining content to swim with whatever school he found himself in. Scarlet had always resisted this. She understood perfectly that art required an audience and patrons, but the first requirement was that it be Art. Utterly fresh and new. The time it took to temper the artist – not to mention imagine, create and complete the work - meant finances couldn’t be a consideration. She was being tempered and it was bloody uncomfortable. But seriously, what produced good Art? Seeing Ian no longer caring about courting her – because she was good and captured, she was “history” was like seeing the world with its skin off. It was losing part of herself. But she had gained a new part too, with Nicholas. She was seeing how the world really worked. Promises weren’t enough. Desire wasn’t enough. The question was what you did when people showed their true selves – because that told you what YOUR true self was. I WANT to know the truth, thought Scarlet. There really isn’t any point going forward if you didn’t know the truth. Obviously people preferred sentimental fictions, chocolate box prettiness. She couldn’t concern herself with that. She must move forward. Thank God Miss Bottomley had written works she could admire. Think how grim this would be she was editing one of those writers – sadly, there were many of them, some very famous – whose work she despised. Well, she wouldn’t take such a job. She’d return to America if things got that bad. She wanted Nicholas to know his father, but she didn’t want to tempt Ian to behave as badly as he was able and he was showing himself quite able. Pelham D’Arcy was right, make a plan and stick to it like adults. That was the model for Nicholas. That proposed a future he could rely on. Ian had come to America before; he could again. Were there any warning signs that Ian would suddenly treat her so cavalierly? He had repeated (with so much relish!) the wedding vow to forsake all others and cleave only to her - wouldn’t that have been a good time to mention that mature British males never actually followed that plan and he didn’t intend to, either? What would she have done if he had? Well the wedding would have come to stop, that’s for certain! But he had consistently represented himself as wanting what she wanted. Truthfully, after their marriage she had had some doubts. She had felt some “pulling away”. It made her a little scared and sad – after all she was in a foreign country – but it hadn’t seemed unnatural or unexpected. They were carving out individual lives as well as one joint future. Vows were meaningful to her. She had been especially careful to extract the word “obey” – after all it didn’t appear in his! She repudiated the expectation that all accommodations ought to be up to the wife as not what “modern” people thought. She could tell his parents were a bit offended. They would be bound to blame her now, taking it for granted that it was somehow her “non-traditional, American” ideas that were “at fault” for their breakup. And weren’t they? The coming days would be consumed with sensitive, difficult negotiations. The law would try to bring her down and Ian would enjoy the spectacle of her humiliation. For Nicholas’ sake she must not allow it. Enough daydreaming. She forced herself up to her study to pack up all her papers – all her hopes and dreams all fit neatly into one brass bound trunk. She resisted the urge to burn her poetry. It seemed so insipid now – “idiotic” wouldn’t be too strong a word. She mustn’t make such cataclysmic decisions while she was in this emotional state. Some brave new world must lie on the other side of this devastation – some universe she couldn’t see – what form would it take? Maybe learning how to proceed without hope – was the “putting away of childish things” of which the Bible spoke. When she opened this trunk again what kind of person would she be? She pushed the thought away: now she must concentrate on her job and on Nicholas. That would more than fill her days. Three suitcases, three boxes of books and a trunk – that was all she had to take with her. Goodbye for the present to the beautiful desk – the loveliest thing Ian had ever given her. Except for Nicholas. Even the huge, ornate pram that had been Ian’s family’s gift was much too large to take in the station wagon – luckily more practical India had sent a folding stroller – just the thing for vehicle transport. She saved India’s letter to read at tea – but it was not the treat she had expected. Naturally, it had been written before her news of separation and new address had arrived but even the usual sisterly comforts were not on offer. India’s big news was she had decided to be “psychoanalyzed.” She, too, felt the need of a “responsible life partner” just like Ian and someday, a child - just like Nicholas! She said she needed to get to the bottom of the mental blocks she assumed were standing in her way. Psychoanalysis required making herself “unavailable” to others and making no “radical life decisions” for three years. Luckily Scarlet was “in a good place” for that! She might be coming to England in July – but now it was up to her psychoanalyst – if she was “ready.” She was currently deep in their childhood - issues of toilet training and sibling rivalry. Scarlet didn’t like the sound of this. She knew she couldn’t blame the psychoanalyst entirely – India hadn’t enjoyed the trouble-free childhood that was Scarlet’s legacy – if only because she hadn’t had an elder sister to cushion the parental blows. Now that India was making herself vulnerable to this rather irritating sounding man – a Dr. Weitzkopf – it would be up to Scarlet to “support” her. Scarlet wished she hadn’t written that woebegone letter of – could it have been as recent as yesterday? She must write immediately and soft-pedal her own changes. Clearly, she couldn’t rely on India. It was a brave new world in every respect. Chapter 22. A Letter Home
The upstairs of Number Fourteen, Norfolk Crescent, was as majestic – and clean - as Scarlet could possibly have desired. There was a long reception room facing the square - empty of furniture as if expecting a ball – with a small serving area – complete with ice chest, warming trays and tea kettles - that could actually serve as a Scarlet’s kitchen. A dumbwaiter probably connected it to the kitchen downstairs. There were four bedrooms and a big bathroom. Scarlet chose “the green room” for her own – it was smaller but she liked the old-fashioned chintz pattern of pear trees in blossom. There was even space enough for a nanny if the thought of strangers in her house didn’t unsettle Miss Bottomley. The furnishings were solid, perhaps a bit duller than the magnificence on display downstairs – mahogany and teak – and the upholstery could do with a freshening - but the portraits were interesting. Scarlet studied the faces, wondering about the sudden disappearance of “the Pursuivant line.” It was a lucky thing people couldn’t see into the future, Scarlet decided. She remembered herself at her own wedding and her excitement at news of her first pregnancy – what if she had foreseen what would REALLY happen? It would have been too cruel. She had been spared from knowing the sadness that lay ahead – just as these people had been. It was better not to know. Miss Bottomley was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. “And when shall we be able to get to work?” “How about day after tomorrow? That gives me one day to pack.” “Perfect. I shall enter it into my datebook.” Scarlet reached out to shake her new employer’s hand, only to be presented with a key. “I sleep badly, so I dislike being disturbed before eleven,” said Miss Bottomley. “I want you to be able to freely come and go.” “Thank you, Miss Bottomley,” said Scarlet warmly. And she meant it. She telephoned Mr. D’Arcy from a callbox at the station. “I’ve got a job and it comes with a place to stay,” she told him. “And there’s room for the baby but I’m worried Ian won’t let me take him.” “Don’t ask him about that yet,” cautioned D’Arcy. “Tell him about the job, then insist on getting the name of his solicitor. Make him hire someone and I’ll negotiate with that fellow.” “Ian will probably use some college crony. Or possibly somebody connected to the BBC.” “Whoever he chooses, let’s hope he isn’t honest with them,” D’Arcy said blandly. “Giving us considerable advantage.” Scarlet thought about it. “I’m not sure he knows what honesty is.” At the station, Scarlet purchased a writing block so she could begin the letter to her sister immediately. “Dear India – I have both sad and wonderful news,” she began. How lucky that she had waited to write until this unexpected uptick in her good fortune. Frankie stopped his taxi by the garage so that Scarlet could see the stained glass rondo hanging in the window. He was bursting with pride. “Looks perfect,” agreed Scarlet, barely able to contain her laughter. Nicholas was eager to nurse but Scarlet was out of milk. She gave him a bottle as tears rolled down her cheeks. This wasn’t what she had promised him or herself but, it couldn’t be changed. She kissed his forehead as he suckled. As soon as he was asleep she knocked on Ian’s library door. “Come in,” he called. He was listening to the BBC but turned down the radio as she entered, watching her face warily. She was grateful that she could be so calm. “I got a job,” she said, “Ten pounds a week working with Miss Esmé Hope Bottomley.” She knew he wouldn’t recognize the name and he didn’t. “She has a flat in London, in Norfolk Crescent. I can stay there with her.” She deliberately neglected to mention the baby. “Dogsbody?” His brows creased. “Doesn’t sound like you.” “Editing a novel series for Coltsfoot & Briggins.” His brow cleared. “That’s wonderful then. But there’s no reason we can’t share the flat the way we share Nicholas. Be reasonable. There are two floors – I’ll take the downstairs if it makes you more comfortable. I won’t ask you to entertain.” No, Candi and Margalo would compete for that honor. She could see his mind working: glamorous young couple with baby, two important jobs, country place AND he had the freedom he craved, which appeared to be mastering a harem of gullible girls. What could suit him better? “My solicitor is Pelham D’Arcy in Maida Vale. He needs the name of your solicitor so that they can talk.” “My solicitor? So they can ratchet up the bills? Darling, ask me for what you want. We can get the life we need. Talk to me.” She looked at him, more confident and handsome now than when she had first met him. Yet he really was a total stranger. She could imagine him doing literally anything, now. You could never trust, or rely, on a person like that. “I’d rather do this through solicitors. I don’t feel I can trust you anymore.” “That’s too bad,” he said coldly. “It’s silly to break up over a bit of passing fluff, especially when it means there’s that much less cash to go around.” He turned up his radio as if preparing to ignore her. She raised her voice. “So? You think you’ll use Harry?” Naming an old college friend. “I’ll talk to Margalo.” He turned away from her decisively. She knew this was supposed to frighten her, suggesting the massive power of the BBC ranged formidably against her but she thought of Pelham D’Arcy and didn’t feel scared. “One more thing: when does your job start?” “I’ll be going up to town tomorrow.” He hadn’t really answered her question but the information was sufficient. “Are you taking the car?” she inquired. “Would you rather I leave it for you?” “Yes, I would, really. I’m going to have a lot of luggage.” “I can take the train. Sure, you wouldn’t like the come along? Settle things about the flat?” “No thank you. I need to go up soon myself, I’m not sure when. I’ll let you know. Through my solicitor.” He sniffed. “Mind that you do.” She was amazed that he never mentioned Nicholas once! He obviously didn’t expect that he would have to concern himself with the child. Clearly he assumed the system would always work to his advantage and grant him whatever he asked; a child when he wanted one, no concerns or responsibility when he did not. She could see that this habitually forgetfulness about his son and heir meant Ian was still taking his wife for granted. As she had once taken him. Suited her perfectly. Having the car would be helpful: ideal, in fact. She went upstairs to organize Nick’s and her belongings so that packing after Ian’s departure would be a breeze. Chapter 21. Our Miss Clew
Scarlet took a long, thoughtful walk. She wanted to call Pom and thank him for sending her – by whatever circuitous route – to Pelham D’Arcy, but she needed to think about what had transpired. The one thing she found most distressing about the encounter was D’Arcy’s advice to avoid heart to hearts with her new best friend. Did telephone calls count? She had the uncomfortable notion he’d tell her that they would– but she didn’t plan to tell him. Guilty conscience? Ian’s detective couldn’t be listening on phone calls – that was spy stuff. And how could she explain any of this to Pom without enmeshing them still further – think how embarrassing THAT would be. Suddenly her greatest fear seemed to be that Pom, because their timing was “off”, would simply begin avoiding her – then she would have no friends at all. Yet how could she fear that be if what she wanted was to discourage him? Maybe Ian was right about loving two people at once…in different ways. No, it was more than Ian used to be her confidante, her best friend, and he’d disqualified himself. The loneliness was unbearable. But D’Arcy said needing any male confidante was dangerous. And intimacy of any kind might give Pom the wrong idea before Scarlet even knew what the right idea was. Yet what was the “wrong” idea when Scarlet had so much trouble figuring out the objective truth? She resolved to send a nice long letter to India telling her the facts without any false shame. It was awkward considering the distance but maybe India could be her confidante. India had said she was contemplating a summer visit – perhaps she could be talked into moving up her dates. By the time Scarlet checked her watch she was in a completely unfamiliar part of London and it was almost 3:00. This was Thursday – last day she could visit Mysterious Employer before the weekend. Checking in at a sweetshop for the nearest cab stand she was told, “I’ll call one for you, miss.” She thanked the helpful man but the cab took fifteen minutes to arrive and Fitzrovia seemed far away. Scarlet was feeling increasingly desperate to the point where she had to force herself to stop checking her watch. As they pulled up to the address and she sorted out a payment the door of # 14 opened and an obviously irate man in a bowler hat and muffler stormed out clutching a dispatch case. Scarlet buttonholed him – because what if he himself were The Mysterious Employer? She questioned, “Excuse me, but were you here about the job?” “I don’t think there is a job,” he protested huffily as he stomped away. Having no time to think about it Scarlet rung the bell. The door was answered by a tiny, very old woman wearing a faded dress, a dirty apron and an annoyed expression. She seemed awfully old to be anyone’s housekeeper. “I’m here about the job,” said Scarlet hopefully. The furrows between the woman’s brows deepened. “It’s almost four o’clock,” said the woman. “I was just about to have my tea.” Although she looked like the housekeeper her voice was imperious. Scarlet jumped to conclusions. “Don’t let me stop you,” said Scarlet, stepping boldly into the house, “I can tell you about my qualifications while you prepare.” “There’s only enough for one,” admonished the woman in a school- mistressy voice. “Perfectly all right,” Scarlet lied desperately. “I’ve had my tea.” “Very well then,” said the woman. “Follow me.” She led Scarlet through several ornate reception rooms filled with magnificent Belle Epoque and Directoire furniture that seemed completely unused, as if this were some sort of museum. As they passed through the dining room Scarlet noticed papers on the table – this must be where candidates had been interviewed. The front door bell sounded again. “Too late!” said the woman triumphantly. “It’s four o’clock!” and they passed through baize swing doors into a small, muggy kitchen. Here was a lived-in room, complete with cat, telly and smoking kettle. The cat opened one eye. “That’s Ceawlain, King of Wessex,” the hostess introduced. The cat closed its eye again. The woman hoisted the kettle, poured water into an earthenware pot and sighed ecstatically. “I’m glad this day’s done!” she announced. “I never expected it would be so dreadful.” She took stale-looking brown bread from a tin and began buttering slices. “So, you’re American,” she said briskly. “I don’t see how THAT’s going to work.” Scarlet cast back in her mind for the exact phrasing of the advertisement. She recalled the lessons of her college days selling magazines door to door and sat down without invitation. “If you’re trying to modernize Victorian novels,” she began, “Surely you want the largest market possible.” “I don’t want them Americanized,” said the woman sharply, “That wouldn’t do at all.” Scarlet tried to look bright. “What is the series, exactly?” The old lady began slicing an apple and placing each apple slice on a piece of brown bread. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down. “Our Miss Clew,” she said brusquely. “Ever heard of it?” Scarlet’s face flushed an intense red. This was nothing short of a miracle. “Heard of it?” She gasped, “I’m reading The Whiplash Puzzleright now!” And she pulled it from her bag. “Are you Esmé Hope Bottomley?” The old woman’s face crumpled as if she might cry. “You’re the only one who’s read the books,” she gasped. Then she seemed to regain control. “Do you suspect the vicar?” “Does a vicar come in later? Because this mystery takes place at a ladies’ college. Or do you refer to the dissenting preacher?” “No,” said Miss Bottomley with satisfaction, “There is no vicar.” Scarlet laughed out loud. She had been “tested”. And she had passed. “Miss Bottomley, I am so glad to meet you,” she said. “I admire your writing so much.” Miss Bottomley snorted. “I haven’t written a line in fifty years. Life got rather rudely in the way.” “Please do tell me about the job,” asked Scarlet. But Miss Bottomley was already busy munching. Instead, for an answer, she reached into a pocket of her apron and produced a letter from Coltsfoot & Briggins, publishers. “Dear Madam,” it said, “We are in receipt of your letter of the ninth and would be willing to extend our deadline until April 1stallowing you to attempt your own revision of the “Miss Clew” series. If you feel you are unable or if the revision does not meet with our needs we have in house editors on whose expertise we can call. Please feel free to contact me if you experience difficulties. Nigel Mountjoy Editor in Chief” “How perfectly obnoxious,” said Scarlet. “What an awful man. Have you signed anything with these people?” Miss Bottomley sighed. “I sold the series long ago. They don’t have to do this for me. They don’t have to do anything for me. I just hoped to prevent anything really embarrassing – Miss Clew becoming a hooch dancer or a James Bond spy with knives in her shoes.” “I totally agree,” said Scarlet. “She’s so wonderfully daring and intrepid with such imaginative ideas. Will they allow you to keep the story Victorian and simply update the language?” “I don’t know whatthey will allow,” said Miss Bottomley. “Modernize” is the only word they used. I just don’t want to be left out of it entirely. I think they were surprised I was still alive.” Scarlet saw at once what was required. Miss Bottomley needed a liaison with the publishers – a go-between with writing ability whom she could trust. “I will negotiate with them for you,” she offered, “To make the new books something you can be proud of. I’ve been negotiating with publishers for years as my vita shows.” She produced the piece of paper and laid it smartly on the table. This was certainly true, although the publishers usually said “no” at the end. Poetry being so difficult. “You have the job if you want it,” sighed Miss Bottomley. “You can’t imagine how dreadful all the other applicants were. They all took me for the housemaid. I must say it’s instructive to see how people treat the help. They really display their true colors.” Scarlet had to agree. “What does the position pay?” asked Scarlet. “I’ve no idea,” said Miss Bottomley helplessly. “What do you think is fair?” “Sixty pounds?” asked Scarlet shyly. “Sixty pounds a week?” “No – for the whole three months.” “Let’s say ten pounds for the first week and we’ll see how it goes,” said Miss Bottomley. She’s not completely gaga, thought Scarlet. “That would be acceptable.” Miss Bottomley read slowly through Scarlet’s qualifications. “You live in the country?” “Not anymore. I’m looking for a place in town. I’m getting a divorce.” “There’s plenty of room upstairs,” Miss Bottomley waved a hand. “I don’t go up there. But it would be quite convenient for you to be in the same building as I hope you will see.” “But I have a baby,” Scarlet said. “So I don’t know –“ Miss Bottomley glowed. “A baby? How old?” “Six weeks.” “Six weeks old? And you’re getting a divorce? What did the devilish man do?” Scarlet told her. Miss Bottomley gasped like a benevolent gudgeon. “Thank goodness you found a competent solicitor! They’re hardly thick upon the ground. Certainly, I’ve never had such luck.” How could the resident of this vast house in such a toney square not know any decent solicitors? Scarlet tried to figure out the politest way to enquire about Miss Bottomley’s peculiar living situation. “Have you always lived in this house?” “Good heavens no,” said Miss Bottomley. “I was a pensioner in a bedsit. I won the tontine – a year ago, now.” “Tontine?” “Last one alive sweeps the pot,” said Miss Bottomley with satisfaction. “There’s got to be some benefit to living to 88 years old.” And the story spilled out. Miss Bottomley had been the only child of a country parson who scrupulously educated her to be a hanger-on of rich county families –some of whom were her relations. He clearly saw no other life for his daughter than “sponger”, flatly telling her she wasn’t “pretty” enough to marry. Scarlet could see how this kind of life spawned Miss Clew’s character – a skeptical observer born with principles in an unscrupulous world. Miss Bottomley had written the Miss Clew series – thirteen books in total – as her virgin flight into the world of literature, securing just enough cash to transfer to London and secure her own flat – a scandal causing many relatives at the time to loudly wash their hands of her. But Miss Bottomley’s new novels were unsuccessful at reaching an audience – several, indeed, remaining unpublished. Scarlet made a note to get her hands on these manuscripts at the first possible opportunity. Miss Bottomley said that as she moved into her forties she became less and less able to “suffer fools” (she meant the literary world) and was reduced to taking in typing. The “flat” became a bedsit – she was even forced to sell off the Miss Clew series – her only asset. Love – marriage – courtship - were completely out of the question. Prerogatives of the comfortably off. Some sad experience with a curate soured poor Miss Bottomley even on the modest comforts of the church. Therefore it was with considerable surprise when at age 86 she was informed that she was the sole living heir to the Pursuivant Estate (“My dear mother was a Pursuivant.”) She never even met Mabel Pursuivant – ten years her elder – who preferred foreign travel to a life at home. One year later, she inherited this house, indeed, this entire square. Her shoulders rocked with laughter. Who would ever have believed such a thing? What had become of the six daughters of Lord Henry Pursuivant – and the two nephews of Mr. Roundswell? Dead, it seemed. Everybody died. Nobody could muster up an offspring. “Unlucky lot. Lumbering me with this place,” she laughed. “Well, it’s a good address. Certainly comfortable. I took one tour when I moved in – I don’t go upstairs now. There’s a cleaning staff, hired by the estate agent, so should you encounter bugs or dust simply inform me and I can assure you heads will roll.” “Thank you,” said Scarlet warmly. “What will you charge?” “Oh, my goodness,” Miss Bottomley demurred, “I couldn’t charge anything for having you on permanent call! It’s to suit myconvenience! What we’ll need to see about is how it suits you.” Good luck all around! So much glorious, clean, quiet space, warm – and in the heart of London! An entire square? Her new employer must be very rich – it was obvious she hadn’t yet come to terms with it – at the age of 88 perhaps never would. She should be receiving abject letters of accommodation from her publishers, not condescending brushoffs! Something was very wrong there. Miss Bottomley had suddenly emerged as more of a fairy godmother than an employer and Scarlet was determined to return the favor. Chapter 20 - The Solicitor
Scarlet asked Frankie to stop at the church so she could drop her package at the jumble sale. “And what is it, ma’am?” he inquired, eyes sharp. She displayed it. “Oh, that’s lovely, that is! See his lovely red coat! Matches the foxes’ coat! I’d accept it in payment, ma’am, if you’d be willing. Put it in the window of the garage.” Scarlet thought that would be perfect. So pleasant to imagine Candi coming to town, stopping at the garage and seeing her own handiwork showcased between the neon, the Michelin man and the Pirelli tire girls. “That would be fine by me,” she said. Pelham D’Arcy was a youthful man trying to make himself seem older – or so Scarlet assumed – by dressing and posing as a revenant from the nineteenth century. He had the most extraordinary moustache – as carefully trained as a miniature bonsai bush – and he had a way of stroking it when speaking which meant Scarlet couldn’t take her eyes off it. He first apologized that he handled marriage contracts as a usual matter, but he did have a “small” practice in divorce. “Marriage contracts?” Scarlet collapsed exhausted into a chair, feeling if she had any strength she would just walk out of there. Marriage contracts? And I used to think wedding vows would be enough! Ian had promised before God to cleave to her before all others, to worship her body with his body until death did them part. If a man was ready to go back on THAT, what help would a contract be? She feared the worst about this solicitor, but at this particular moment she was far too tired to seek further. She summoned up as much strength as she could manage and explained her situation. “Yes, I am afraid as a matter of law the wife and children are entitled to only one third of the husband’s income,” he confirmed. “Any income she makes would be added to that pool – she still gets only a third.” “I don’t have any income,” said Scarlet faintly. “And your husband’s income, if I may ask?” “I don’t really know,” Scarlet admitted. “He’s negotiated something with the BBC. It seems to include a flat.” “Well that’s unfortunate,” said D’Arcy, “decidedly unfortunate. What’s to prevent them cutting you out?” “Why would they cut me in? Are you saying the BBC would conspire with my husband to cheat me?” “Goodness no,” he gasped, “I am saying no such thing. On the other hand, if your husband is seen as a desirable acquisition they will attempt to accommodate his needs. If not, they may of course, simply get rid of him. This is a most awkward time for the pair of you to decide that your marital difficulties are insoluble.” Scarlet looked at his hands – no wedding ring to be seen – only a sizeable carnelian pinky ring that looked to have just been dipped in the red wax seal of some top secret document. “I just gave birth to our first child,” she said as calmly as she could, “And my husband announced that he has a girlfriend, he’s keeping his girlfriend and he will always have girlfriends. I don’t want to be in that kind of a marriage. If I get a separation, first, instead of a divorce, there’s a chance – just a possibility, mind you, that Ian will come back to sanity. Come round.” It wouldn’t happen. She could no longer force herself to believe it. How could she ever trust him again? Wouldn’t he simply wait for the next time she was incapacitated and vulnerable to spring something similar – or something even worse, if that could even be imagined – upon her? “I can’t recommend marital gambits, I’m afraid.” Said D’Arcy in a decidedly chilly manner. “Possibly your doctor –“ “Separation or divorce,” said Scarlet, matching his cold tone, “Which do YOU recommend?” “Separation,” he agreed, “If what you say is true.” “Do you have any law female partners? At this firm?” Scarlet rapidly was losing patience with this troglodyte. He drew back as if her question was improper and she had somehow insulted him. Then he seemed to seize control of himself, stiffen the upper lip, think of England, and muster up the effort to stay calm. “I’m afraid we do not, nor do I know of any I can recommend.” “I’d just like to start with a solicitor who doesn’t call me a liar.” “I am not “calling you a liar”, madam” – he seemed to put the words in quotes as if afraid he was soiling his mouth, “I am accustomed to ascertaining the facts of the case.” “The facts of the case are, that my husband spent the night with another woman who masqueraded as Mrs. Wye at The Carpathian Hotel. I have the receipted bill. When I challenged him he admitted it, saying it would continue because of Modern Marriage and stated further that he’s a man of the world, or some such thing, and showed me some photographs a detective took of me meeting a platonic male friend in London.” D’Arcy perked up and looked interested in spite of himself. “Your husband was having you followed?” “Apparently. For all I know it’s still going on – I didn’t see anybody but because I’m not doing anything, I wasn’t really looking.” I’m never doing anything, she thought disgustedly. D’Arcy stroked his moustache. “About this friend –“ “Pomeroy Bronfen – the man we bought Wyvern House from – we rain into each other on the street by the sheerest coincidence. He invited me to dinner and a movie, and because he had a car, he ended up driving me around.” “I believe you, of course – I would hope that goes without saying – but I also it would be sensible on your part to keep some distance from – friendly men.” “Should I stay away from all men?” Scarlet asked and D’Arcy looked physically pained. “That will be difficult as I’m looking for a job.” “Don’t ride in cars with them, don’t have dinner alone with them, don’t sit in darkened theatres with them,” said D’Arcy huffily. “It is not that Idon’t trust you,” he emphasized the word - the question is what a judge might think.” “And what might he think?” D’Arcy sighed. “In England, ma’am, it is not possible to get a divorce for adultery if the spouse has been compliant or collusive.” She let those terms sink in. This was what she needed to know, this was why she was sitting in this dreadfully overheated room listening to this silly little man. She needed to find out what game Ian was playing. “You mean if we both have affairs?” “If neither one of you – such is English law – truly can be considered an injured party.” She stared at him. She wanted to tell him what she thought of English law – what a bunch of idiots they all were - but she knew that wouldn’t help. “I gather your husband doesn’t desire this divorce,” said D’Arcy. “You gather correctly. And it isn’t for any reason flattering to me, it’s because of this division that exists in my husband’s mind between “wives” and “girlfriends.” “I see. He doesn’t wish the categories to – collide, as it were.” Was there a human being buried inside this pompous little twerp after all? “Exactly. And I want no part of it.” “How refreshingly American,” said Pelham D’Arcy, shuffling papers. “American?” Was he insulting her again? She bridled. “It’s very American to want to be both wife and girlfriend,” said D’Arcy. “But I may say my wife shares your view.” Scarlet felt enormous relief. Perhaps this man would do after all. “Hopefully the world will come around to our opinion,” she said. “So, given all this, what do you recommend?” “I recommend we hire a detective of our own, get the goods on hubby so to speak – romantic and financial – and you file for divorce. A settlement contract will prove a more productive path than separate maintenance which allows him to play bloody hell with your allowance. And he seems to be a gamesman. I’ve got an excellent fellow – er, detective – er, Bogswell.” “Thank you,” sighed Scarlet. “What do I owe you?” D’Arcy raised a blocking hand. “Nothing until we get a better sense of your husband’s assets. I also suggest we establish a trust with you as the trustee, and you write a will.” “Why a will?” “It’s part of establishing the trust. This allows you to open a bank account in your own name which your husband won’t have access to – which I’m afraid you will find difficult otherwise.” “I’ve got even fewer assets than he’s got,” Scarlet sighed. “I beg to differ. I believe you said something about an infant child?” Scarlet brightened. “Yes, there’s always Nicholas.” An asset indeed. The session ended warmly on a handshake. “I suggest you obtain a separate address your husband doesn’t know about,” said D’Arcy. “Until you notify me I will await your call here or at my home – here’s the number to exchange news.” “Sounds smart,” said Scarlet. Yes, it did. Chapter 19. A Mysterious Employer
On her way to pick up Fern she bought all the London papers – unable even to return the newsagent’s “Happy Christmas” with anything more than a nod. It was NOT a merry Christmas. The most that she could give thanks for was that Nicholas was too young to notice. She phoned Pom from a call box and luckily, he was in. “I wonder if you could suggest a London solicitor,” she asked. “What’s it in aid of?” Pom inquired, very reasonably. “Purchasing more real estate?” She had actually hoped not to get into it but she realized now she needed to simply rip the bandage off. “We’re getting a separation,” she said. “I’ll be moving to London so I think I should find a solicitor there.” “Oh, my God,” said Pom. “This is all my fault.” Good thing she had phoned him instead of dropping by. How humiliating if he saw how her cheeks suffused with red – she could never explain properly and he could never understand. If it was his fault it was the world’s fault. How could she explain about the photos – the detective – how utterly disgusting Ian was and how low he was willing to go. His enraging method of manipulating and ruining everything. But Pom continued smoothly, “Selling you that awful house. I ought to be shot.” “No, really,” she gasped, almost grateful for his thorough misapprehension. “It isn’t that. I think it was Nicholas being born. He says now he never wanted children.” “Well, he’s a fool then. Forgive my caterwauling, no one sees inside a marriage, do they? My solicitor’s Bob Thomas in Maida Vale – he’s the best - and he’s got several partners. I’m sure he would recommend the right person. He’s jolly easy to talk to – he just lets me wail and then offers sane, useful suggestions. Should have been an alienist, I always tell him.” “Alienist.” Strange expression. Like ‘Alienation of affections…’ “I’m a shoulder to cry on, don’t forget,” Pom said as he gave her the number. “I don’t judge.” If he only knew what she’d involved him in. But somehow she didn’t think he’d be angry. She scribbled in her datebook and rang off. Bob Thomas’ clerk Mr. Gotobed said “Mr. Thomas” never handled “matrimonial,” that was Pelham D’Arcy and he had an opening tomorrow at twelve. After that, nothing for a week. Scarlet chose tomorrow at twelve. When she stopped in at Mrs. Mugle’s the other woman said she would be “most pleased” to take Nicholas tomorrow. She had Ladies Union – would it be all right to take Nicholas along? Naturally Scarlet agreed and Mrs. Mugle all but jumped up and down in her excitement. She did not enquire why Scarlet needed to go up to London again – seemingly taking it for granted that leasing a London flat was a complex endeavor. Back at Wyvern House, Ian was closed in behind the library door, making himself scarce. She could hear him on the phone. Fern said, “I’ll take the babby for a walk, shall I?” and Scarlet hastily agreed. She took the newspapers up to her tower room to peruse them in privacy. And there, in the window, was a round stained glass rondo depicting a medieval hunter – possibly Robin Hood – setting an arrow to his bow while a fox peeped out of the luxuriant shrubbery. Candi was the hunter and Ian was the fox? Or was Scarlet the prey? Scarlet felt so faint she almost fell back down the stairs. She picked up the offending object from its chain – it was quite heavy – and battled with herself not to open the window and fling it out onto the courtyard. However. It was glass. Pointless to assist Candi in wreaking yet more havoc on Scarlet’s household. She wrapped it in the political news and taped it up so she wouldn’t have to look at the thing. The right method of disposal would come to her. Grinding it up and putting it in Candi’s food? Dropping it on her head from an airplane? Concealing it on Ian’s side of the bed where he would break it with his big, no-longer-desiring, no longer desirable body? All these revenge modalities threatened unforeseen consequences. The solution came in a flash – church jumble. Exactly the right thing to do with a houseguest’s gift you had previously begged them – by telegram - not to assault you with. She pushed the object away and opened Situations Vacant. Nothing. Nobody wanted to hire an American poet to do anything. Teachers, even nannies, were expected to have extensive, specialized qualifications. Scarlet couldn’t imagine herself even pretending to keep house or cook to request. “Companions to the elderly” paid worse than kennel maids. Sewing and laundry facilities sounded like sweatshops – she couldn’t support Nicholas on that kind of pay. Librarians’ assistants were expected to be British and bookshops and galleries requested “equity” investment in the business – YOU paid THEM. Jewelers and antique shops wanted “bonding”. Fashion and advertising firms wanted “portfolios.” Even clerks’ jobs seemed to require a civil service exam. Selling door to door was “commission only.” The only hope appeared “typing pool” – if she could pass “the test.” But poets don’t cultivate speed – slow deliberation is the necessary pace. “Maybe I could speed up if I had to,” she thought. And then she saw it - a boxed advertisement in the top corner: Editorial Ability – Temporary. Possibly, thought Scarlet. “Editor required to update Victorian novels. Three months’ employment. Present qualifications in person to: 14 Norfolk Crescent, Fitzrovia, Tuesday – Thursday, 2-4 pm only.” No telephone number! What did THAT mean? In America, this kind of “cattle call” meant they wanted to take a look at you. Scarlet felt hope for the first time. Thank God she’d bought those new tweed suits. At least she could look the part, although it was certainly possible that she would be rejected simply for being American. It really depended what kind of Victorian novels these were. But she might be able to talk her way into it – whatever it was. She had a good knowledge of Victorian literature, had indeed studied Mrs. Humphrey Ward as well as all the poets. Literary qualifications were the only kind of qualifications she really possessed. And a three-month job might give her exactly the kind of entrée, recommendations and resumé to try for better positions. She began hashing out a list of “qualifications” and immediately ran into the problem of references. Her American references seemed pointless and outdated. All her London connections were more Ian’s than hers. Gossip about their separation would soon be rife: who could she trust? Rather desperately she wrote Pom’s name feeling he was the only human being she could truly trust to represent her well. She was too embarrassed about it to even call him. She called Francesca Joringel, instead, at The Fruitful Browserand explained her difficulty. “I really need someone to testify to my familiarity with Victorian literature,” she said shyly. “I think I can testify to more than that!” Francesca said with unexpected loyalty. “They would be lucky to get someone so well-spoken with such wide interests. Now, who are they exactly?” “I don’t really know,” said Scarlet. “I’ll be finding out about them while they’re finding out about me.” “Some kind of literary jobbing would be perfect for a new mum,” offered Francesca, “Particularly one whose husband works for the BBC.” Gossip jumped from the rooftops while truth struggled to put on its spats. “I’d be honored to speak for you, and I’m easy to reach. I’m always here, working on my manuscript.” So comforting. “We’ll see,” Scarlet sighed. “Thank you. It may all be a mare’s nest.” “Or,” said Francesca, who loved Mystery, Adventure and Thrillers best of all, “It could be the Opportunity of a Lifetime.” 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. 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. |
Alysse AallynArchives
November 2021
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