by Alec Waugh
‘I’m not so sure that it is all foolishness. I tell myself that it’s only fancies, but I can’t convince myself.’
Ah, now we’re getting there, he thought. He sat down again; he waited and in a rush it came. She told him her whole story from the start.
He listened with alert attention, interjecting a comment or a query every now and then. ‘You’ve no evidence that would convince a court,’ he said. ‘The only solid thing is that he was in the Brompton Road for no good reason at three o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘I am convinced that he was there for some reason that he doesn’t want to give me.’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘That’s what I ask myself. But I’ve left it too late. I should have asked him at the time. If I ask him now, I’ll make myself ridiculous. He’ll think of me as a jealous, suspicious ass. It might spoil everything. He’d feel I didn’t trust him.’
‘And he’d be right.’
‘I daresay, but I don’t want to have him thinking that. And if he really was up to something, I’d prefer him not to know that he’d been caught. He’d feel resentful. The person who is in the wrong always does. I know now that I should have spoken right away, but I didn’t and that’s all there is to it.’
‘You’ve had nothing else to make you feel suspicious except that bottle of wine?’
‘That’s quite a big “except”.’
‘There are so many possible ways in which he could have had that bottle.’
‘I daresay, but it adds up.’
‘Have there been any other things that added up?’
‘One or two. For instance, he mentioned the other day that there was an exhibition of Laura Knight’s pictures at the Royal Academy. How did he know that?’
‘In a dozen different ways. He could have seen an advertisement, or he could have read a review. He could have heard someone talk about it in his club.’
‘He’s much more likely to have seen the posters outside the Royal Academy; and the Royal Academy isn’t on his beat. When he goes to his tailor, he walks up Sackville Street.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Not absolutely all. He had heard that one of our friends was going to have a baby. I asked him how he knew. He said that someone had told him but he couldn’t remember who. I don’t believe that. It’s not the kind of thing that he would forget. He said he had forgotten because he didn’t want me to know that he’d met the particular person from whom he’d heard it.’
‘But if he had wanted to keep it from you, he’d not have mentioned the fact in the first place.’
‘We all make mistakes. We can’t be on our guard all the time.’
‘But it seems to me that you’ll be driving yourself off your head if you look for such extravagant interpretations of incidents for which there must be the most innocent explanation.’
‘I know. That’s what’s worrying me. I feel I am going off my head. I’m watching him all the time, trying to catch him out in something I can’t explain. That’s why I don’t sleep. Each night I go over and over everything that’s happened during the day. Was that odd? I ask myself. Was that? I can’t relax with him any more, I’m watching him so closely, waiting on every word, listening for different intonations.’
‘You’ve got to snap out of this.’
‘I know I have. That’s why I’ve come to you. I’ve got to sleep. If I can only sleep, then I may stop worrying.’
She was beginning once again to go around in circles. It was time for him to administer another shock. This time a minor one.
‘Let’s suppose,’ he said, ‘that there is something in his life which he wants to keep secret from you, how can you be sure that it’s a woman?’
‘What else could it be?’
To that he could find no answer. What else indeed?
‘Well, let’s assume there is a woman, though I’m not conceding that there is; what do you propose to do about it?’
‘What do you mean what do I propose to do?’
‘Whatever the crisis is, we have to have some general plan of defence or of attack. We have our general strategy; then we make our tactical moves, as the situation develops. Let’s assume Victor is interested in someone. We don’t know how far he is interested, we don’t know the nature of his interest; in other words, we don’t know how far it’s gone. But there, let us assume, the situation is. What do you propose to do about it?’
‘I hadn’t thought. I was … well, there was so much else on my mind.’
‘But you should have thought. You must be on your guard. Now let’s get this straight. You don’t want to break up your marriage?’
‘Heavens, no.’
‘You’re happy with Victor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Or you were until this trouble started.’
‘Yes, oh yes.’
‘Your children are well looked after; Victor’s a good father, isn’t he?’
‘He’s wonderful with Jerry. He will be with Frankie later.’
‘In that case I want you to look at this thing from Victor’s point of view. Ask yourself what he’s getting out of this.’
‘He’s getting a love affair, I presume.’
‘Yes, but what kind of love affair? How much can he see this woman?’
‘They can lunch together as often as they want.’
‘And then they can go back to her flat, provided that she has a flat and that she’s alone. It isn’t always as easy as that, you know. If she has a flat of her own, and is alone in it, then they can have picnics there, but how much time does that give them? How long can he stay away from his office? An hour and a half, not more. That doesn’t give them very much time together, does it?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘I thought you hadn’t. And it is only at lunch that they can meet. You have told me that you know what Victor is doing every night. You know on which evenings the Sette of Odde Volumes holds its meetings. He talks to you about the dinners, doesn’t he? He brings back the menu. These wine tastings at the Athenaeum now; of course he could once in a while cut one of those meetings short, but only once in a while. He has very little liberty. I have listened to a great many confessions and I can assure you that nothing is more difficult to organise, even in London where everything seems so free, than a love affair when one of the parties is officially attached. I don’t really think that Victor, if he is involved in this way, is particularly an object for our envy.’
He smiled; it was a gentle, paternal smile. ‘And it’s just because he is not an object of our envy,’ he went on, ‘that we should be on our guard. We must be careful not to make him desperate, not to put him in a mood where he will do something rash. If he is in the position that you think he is, and I am not agreeing with you that he is, he is worried and frustrated. Can you imagine anything more tantalising than to be in love with someone, to have them in love with you, and to be able to see them only for odd half hours? It’s one of those cases where half a loaf is not better than no bread. It’s a situation which makes a man say, “This is more than I can stand. We’ve got to be alone, really alone together.” You can see that, can’t you?’
‘Yes, when you put it that way.’
‘When a man is in that position, he’s ready to cut and run. And if he is, quite often the woman is ready to encourage him; if she’s unattached or if she’s unhappily married, that is to say.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it that way.’
‘I’m not saying that it is that way, but it may be; and if it is, then you must prevent its getting desperate.’
‘How?’
‘By making it possible for them to see each other, in the way they want, with all the time to spare.’
‘How do I do that?’
‘By going away alone for a long holiday.’
‘How could I manage that?’
‘Nothing could be easier. You can explain to Victor that you need a change, that I have told you that you need it
. I’ll tell him myself; doctor’s orders. Victor’s a very sensible man. He’ll take my advice.’
‘What good would that do?’
‘It is one of the sad conditions of the human lot that once we have got a thing, we cease to want it. When we have once realised an ambition, we raise our sights. We are hungry. We are ravenous for food. A banquet is set before us. We gorge ourselves and don’t want to think of food again for several hours. If Victor and this lady have their three weeks together, a sense of lassitude, of disenchantment, is very likely to arise, a feeling of, Well, is that all there was to it?’
‘Surely that can’t always happen?’
‘Not in the grand passion, not in “the real thing” maybe, and in marriage there are so many other things besides the personal relationship to maintain, to strengthen, deepen, and defend the personal relationship. But affairs rarely last, and why? I’ll tell you; they become too much bother, once that first, fierce, all-demanding urge is satisfied. When you return from your holiday, Victor’s honeymoon will end; and he’ll have to revert to the routine of snatched half hours. He’ll begin to wonder if it’s worth it. He’ll think, We’ve had the best; why spoil the memory of that with this? He’ll have had his lesson.’
‘And you expect me to sit quietly by some beach somewhere, knowing that Victor is … well, I’ll use your simile, enjoying a sumptuous banquet?’
He laughed. ‘You haven’t lost your sense of humour. Don’t think of Victor’s banquet. Think of how glad he’ll be to see you back, particularly if, as I believe, there’s really no basis for your suspicions.’ He paused. He looked at her, thoughtfully. ‘I suppose you’ve never been on a holiday by yourself?’
‘How could I have? I was engaged in my first season.’
‘Then I’m not sure that I don’t rather envy your going off alone. May I recommend Malta? A lovely climate, delightful people, and it’s in the sterling area. You’ll still have your holiday allowance untouched for your holiday later in the year with Victor.’
The moment that she had left the room, he called his secretary. ‘Could you please get me Victor Trail, at the Treasury. I don’t know his number.’ He was rung back within three minutes. As often in the past, he noticed how quickly one got through to busy and influential people and how long one was kept waiting by self-important underlings. ‘It’s Dr. Clarke here, Victor; Myra’s been to see me. Did she tell you that she was coming?’
‘No.’
‘Well, it’s nothing serious, nothing to worry about. But she hasn’t been sleeping well. She wanted a prescription for some pills. I gave her one, but I’d as soon she didn’t use them. It’s a bad habit to get into. What she really needs is a change. She’s in a nervous state, without realising it. She wants a clear break, in a new place, in the sun. Somewhere like Malta.’
‘But I couldn’t get away right now. I’ve booked our holiday for August.’
‘There’s no need for you to go. In fact it would be much better if you didn’t. She wants a clean break from everything, even you and the children.’
‘Right. That’s settled.’
The conversation had not lasted ninety seconds. That was why people like Victor were never in a hurry. They did not waste their time. He wished he could have seen Victor’s face when he learned that he was to have three weeks alone in London. Had a look of relief crossed it? There had been no change in his voice. But then there wouldn’t be. Victor had acquired through upbringing and training the marmoreal composure of the diplomat. He would never betray his feelings. Not that Dr. Clarke believed that Victor had any to conceal. If he had, he might not have given Myra that advice. There was in every love affair, at the dawn of every love affair, a point where you could draw back; that point once passed, there was no drawing back. Three weeks together might take Victor and this woman beyond that point. Bonds might be forged that were too strong to break. But instinct assured him that a surreptitious romance was out of keeping with Victor’s character. Victor was too dedicated to tradition and his career. Himself, he had a different explanation for Myra’s perplexity. There had been a play some years back called The Seven Year Itch; that was Myra’s trouble. She had married very young, engaged in her first year as a débutante. She had had no ‘wild’ period. And now, after five years of marriage, with two children, she was restless, subconsciously. She did not know it, but a side of her nature that had been only half expressed, or that had been rendered dormant by domesticity, had become insistent. Because she had not wanted to admit this to herself—she would have been astonished and indignant had he suggested such a thing—because she was vulnerable herself, without knowing it, she had focused her restlessness on Victor, convincing herself that he was up to mischief.
Dr. Clarke smiled. He was confident that he had recommended the right medicine. Three weeks by herself would work the trick. Something might happen down in Malta. It should do her all the good in the world, and it might well save her marriage. Would his father in pre-Freudian days have suggested such a cure? He continued his morning’s work in a self-congratulatory state of mind.
4
A month later on a warm May morning, a tall, rather slim dark-haired man in his middle thirties walked up to the reception desk of the Statler-Malta. ‘You’ve got my reservation, Francis Everett?’
‘Certainly, Mr. Everett. Six days, I think.’
‘That’s right.’
He signed the register, giving his profession as ‘salesman’, his address as Cape Town, South Africa. ‘Thank you, Mr. Everett. Philip, take Mr. Everett to Room 225. I trust that you’ll be comfortable with us, Mr. Everett.’
Everett stood on the balcony; his room faced south-east. It was a clear day; the Mediterranean was unruffled. The peak of Etna showed on the horizon. An aeroplane droned overhead. The white superstructure of a liner glowed in the middle distance. On a gentle hill a quarter of a mile away, a Palladian-style casino shone in the sunlight. The patio below was set with beach umbrellas; white-coated attendants were briskly busy with long cool drinks. A couple of children were splashing, three or four adults were floating in the pool. I’d better case the joint, he thought.
He took with him as a piece of camouflage the paperback that he had been reading on the plane. He did not want to sit and stare. He wanted to look like someone who was fully occupied. As a young man he had been advised by an experienced traveller: ‘On a long sea voyage, never strike up acquaintances, in particular with females, during the first two days. You’ll never get rid of them. I remember going to the West Indies, before the war. We sailed from London. It was in November. It was cold and wet and the sea was rough. There was an extremely handsome Englishman—of about thirty—who looked as though he were somebody. For the first four days he stayed in the bar playing bridge with three other men. He never went into the main saloon after dinner. Everyone felt curious about him. He was so much the most striking man on board.
‘The other passengers did their best to be sociable with one another. But conditions were appalling. Everyone became weary of the sea and the ship and of one another. Then on the sixth day the weather cleared; the sun shone, the waves were ripples; the crew appeared in whites. Everyone was cheerful; everyone wanted to forget the first five days and the passengers with whom they had spent them. It was at that psychological moment that this man, about whom everyone had been wondering, emerged from his seclusion. In spite of his concentration on the cards, he had kept a close watch on his fellow passengers. He had noted which girls were unattended, which ones appeared most promising. He had added up the score. He knew exactly where he was going to deliver his first attack. And on that first day of warmth and unswaying decks, he could not have been more welcome.’
Everett had never forgotten that advice. One didn’t nowadays have the chance often of taking a long sea voyage, but the same principles applied to a week’s visit in a beach hotel. Make no move for the first few hours, take a loitering recce.
Between the patio and the sea was a short, roc
ky beach. He had been warned that there was a lack of sand in Malta. But a raft was floating fifty yards from shore. A white flag indicating safety was flying from the steps. I’ll try that first, he thought.
The water was refreshingly cool. He pulled himself up on to the raft and waited. But no one joined him. One or two paddlers were splashing near the edge of the water. None of them looked to be strong swimmers. It was close to twelve. Perhaps the younger set had already gone back to the pool. But by now the pool too was empty. The children had been taken to lunch. He sat on the edge. Among the forms recumbent on the long chairs were several admittedly attractive females, but they all had escorts. Better try the bar.
The bar had a terrace projecting over the patio. It was hot, but he found a seat under an umbrella. He ordered a Pimm’s No. 1. It was cool and fresh and strong. Even if nothing transpired from this visit, it would be pleasant to spend six days idly in the sun, drinking from a long, cool glass. He waved his hand to the waiter. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The same again.’ He lifted the replenished glass, toasting the crowded patio, ‘Six idle days, skol to you.’
But the glass did not reach his lips. A woman whom he had failed to notice was finishing her swim. Slowly as she climbed up the ladder, her attractions were revealed to him. Her shoulders, her waist, her hips. The water was now up to her knees; another step and he would be able to see whether her legs were straight and slim. They were. With her hands on the rails, she turned and he saw the line of her figure, taut and trim. She’s young, he thought. Definitely young.
She took off her cap and shook out her hair. It was sandy-coloured, of medium length. It had a wave. He drew a long slow breath. Then he looked at her left hand. A ring on the fourth finger. Damn.
He went into lunch early; from a table near the door, he watched the guests arrive. The parade depressed him. Whenever an attractive female appeared, a reasonable escort followed her. Whenever a female was alone, she was uninspirational. That was the trouble nowadays. A shortage of women. Forty years ago, though more male babies had been born, fewer had survived. Something to do with the size of the head. But now, owing to superior medical skill, there was a surplus not of women but of men. If a man wanted an attractive woman, he had to pull up his socks. She could put what price she chose upon herself. A buyer’s market had become a seller’s market.