by Maggie Ford
“Has it to do with Geoffrey?” she probed, and again his pale face told more than words could have. She gasped. “It can’t be him.”
“No, not him.” He drew in a deep breath, and his voice when he spoke was husky with despair. “It was bound to come out in time. Ironic though that you and I are no longer having an affair. It seems it makes no difference – the harm is already done. Certain people who mean a great deal to both of us will be told if I refuse to pay her whenever money is asked for.”
“Her?” Not Geoffrey, then, even though he was the only one ever in constant need of money, asking for it at odd intervals as the need arose. She voiced her query and Henry’s gaze rose to meet hers in abject defeat.
“His wife. Geoffrey’s wife. Pamela,” he said slowly. “Do you remember New Year’s Eve 1933? I kissed you at the back of reception. I thought no one could see us. Apparently one pair of eyes did.”
Mary had an instant recollection of the way Pamela had accosted her that night as she made for the door leading to the office building. Pamela had not seen them kissing, that recess was invisible to any eyes, but she had seen Mary leave the reception area, her face flushed from that kiss, Henry leaving immediately after as she made for the door to the office to be alone there with him. She should have known; Pam was the obvious blackmailer. She had thought no more about it when nothing had apparently come of it, angry only that Pamela would have been licking her lips and thinking of it as a scream. Henry had kept the reality from her, and all this time had suffered that evil woman’s power over him all on his own. Her heart wept for what he must have gone through.
“You mean this has been going on ever since then?” she burst out.
“Not exactly. She bided her time until one flaming row I had with Geoffrey months later over money – the usual thing – him needing to be baled out. She came storming in here in a tearing rage demanding I help him out or she’d tell Grace and your William about us.”
Mary recalled that day too, when Pam had cut her dead on leaving.
“That’s why I let you go when you walked out on me that Christmas,” he was saying. “It took all the resolve I had not to run after you. I thought then it was the wisest time to end it and she’d have no leg to stand on. But I was wrong. She said she could still put the cat among the pigeons and asked did I want that? Of course I didn’t. What could I do? She’s getting more and more demanding. Geoffrey’s got the gambling bug, he’s constantly in debt. I wish he’d have one huge win and maybe I’d be let off the hook, but I can’t see that happening. Easy come, easy go. The more he wins the more he gambles it away. He knows that every time he runs out of luck, she’ll come to me for more. I can see no end to it. Meantime the restaurant…”
The remaining words drifting off into silence, he sat, head bowed. He had not touched his lunch, his wine glass full still. All he’d done was reach for the small box of cigarettes that lay on the table, putting a cigarette in his mouth, applying a light, hardly aware of it.
“I wish she was dead, that would end it,” Mary said without thinking.
Henry let out an explosive, smoke-filled laugh, bitter as the smoke itself. “What good would that do? He’d only take up where she left off. But you weren’t really thinking of helping her on her way?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” she burst out, her eyes unexpectedly filling with tears. “But I wish she were.”
They sat silent, glum, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Henry stubbed out his cigarette and reached for another one.
Mary was the first to pull herself together, out of desperation making a decision. “I say let her tell them. We’ve nothing to hide now. She’s got no proof. All she can do is make a bit of a nuisance. I don’t for an instant think William will believe her.” Yet was she a hundred per cent sure of that?
“I think Grace will. Grace is an odd sort of woman—”
“For God’s sake, Henry!” Mary burst out, suddenly losing her temper. “You haven’t been man and wife since Hugh was born. You’ve told me that so many times I’ve lost count. You couldn’t drive any larger wedge between you if you tried. Is it going to make all that much difference if she did know about us?”
“It would make a difference to me.”
“Then you’ll have to learn to grin and bear it.”
It was a heartless remark but she realised that his eyes were bleak as they searched hers. “And Helen?” he reminded. “What happens if she ever finds out who her real father is?”
That silenced her. She hadn’t thought to consider Helen.
“Yes,” he said at her silence. “I keep thinking of how spiteful Pamela can be. What if she took it into her head to dig and delve about us right back into the past? I’m not saying she would, but you never know.”
The thought of Will being told that, after all he’d done in marrying her and giving his name to Henry’s child, she had gone back to Helen’s father in secret, was the cruellest thing that could happen to him. She still had a feeling that he already knew but had remained silent as he watched her leave each Friday evening with Henry the so-called friend-doing-his-good-turn. Not once had Will ever commented on it. Nor in all these years had he ever referred to Henry as being Helen’s real father. When he’d proposed marriage to give the baby his name, Henry hadn’t been mentioned. He didn’t have to be. It was a subject that lay unspoken by them both, better not to be raised.
There never was as good a man as William and the idea of that bitch willing to destroy him by resurrecting that which he’d rather let lie dormant was something Mary was not prepared to allow – yet might just have allowed had it not been for Helen. Now, like Henry, she too found herself tied helplessly hand and foot.
“We must keep it from Helen,” she said lamely and read the smile on Henry’s lips, sad and hoplessly wise. Helen was young but would she ever come to accept it? One day, maybe. But not yet. Not for a long while.
Leaving Henry to his meal, she made her way through the restaurant, which was unnervingly quiet these days, making her feel a hand of doom in it. Once it had been so lively, echoing the sound of voices and cutlery (the place never had been truly cured of its echo), waiters once dashing back and forth with great energy through the two-way doors to the kitchen where the clash of plates and dishes and the calling of orders filled the steam-laden air. Now it tried only to look busy, staff desperately seeking to keep their jobs. Customers spoke in calmer tones with not so many to shout above, instinctively prompted by the more sedate atmosphere to lower their voices so that the tinkling strains of piano music, once hardly heard above the din, was heard distinctly, in its pathetic way serving to emphasise the sparseness of customers.
But she took little notice as she made her way first up the plush and gilded stairway, then past the dance floor and the reception area where she once held sway, up the marble flight to the entrance itself, her mind, as she took in a deep breath of the fresh, chill air of March, more on how she could convince Henry further of the futility of paying for silence.
She would begin tackling Helen, would gently explain that Will wasn’t her real father, carefully add the real truth bit by bit. She was determined – but when it came down to racking her brains how to start, she finally knew that she couldn’t. As that knowledge of hopelessness had gripped Henry for so long, so it attached itself to her like a parasitic vine. She knew then how he felt, how hard it had been for him even to bear his tormentor’s venom. And she’d had the temerity to scoff at his cowardice, dictate to him what he should be doing? She was as much coward as he.
* * *
What Mary had said had put thoughts into Henry’s head. That she had been prepared to put her marriage on the line had shamed him. True, the thought of Helen had prevented her rushing ahead with her mad idea, but she was right, it couldn’t go on forever, and for a time, a short time, he had felt strong and full of determination. But it couldn’t last.
Too soon there came the thought of Grace, devastated, in tears, her gentle eyes
filled with pain at his deceit. He saw a tacky divorce, the newspaper headlines: “Well-Known Restaurant Owner in Sordid Affair with Ex-Sister-in-Law”. He thought of having to look unconcerned as his rich and regular customers followed him with their eyes and leaned across tables at each other: “Been going on for years, I hear. Not a smell of it, until now of course. Sly old fox covered up his goings-on well, didn’t he?”
He thought of his daughter. (He didn’t think of Hugh, his son only in name at times – Grace’s boy, her darling, himself shut out.) He hardly ever saw Helen but to him she was more his daughter than Hugh would ever be his son. Always on his mind, he would glean news of her progress from her mother when he could, wish things had been different, wish he could hear Helen call him “Daddy”, sweep her up in his arms without fear of anyone and hold her close. But he was trapped, would continue to pay that bitch Pamela, unable to face the unsavoury consequences if he didn’t. Mary didn’t understand. So he put away his thoughts of sending his tormentor packing, awaiting the next visit which must come some time soon.
* * *
As if she sensed something going on, no word came from Pam. April passed, May, June. Still not a peep. She appeared to be keeping well clear of him, and he dared to hope she’d finally realised that the more time went on the less substance her tale possessed, making her look ridiculous. Except that it was a bit too good to be true. Her unaccountable silence was unnerving and where he should have been the most relieved man in the world, he caught himself laying down obstacles unnecessarily.
After all, his fortunes appeared to be turning at last. This first half of 1938 had seen business perk up. But even that worried him, as though in a place of paradise a dark monster lurked ready to leap. It was perhaps that he, being like a tightly coiled spring all this time, found it hard to unwind.
All he could see was that for a business to come so startlingly to life again after having dragged its feet for so long was against all odds in a world that itself was growing more jittery by the day. The threat of war as yet only hovering, it was there on the horizon all the same: Hitler seeing himself as a god in Europe, Mussolini not far behind, the fascist General Franco having gained the upper hand in Spain – even the Vatican in Rome now recognising him as its leader. Japan had overrun China, stories of atrocities coming out of that country; the whole world seemed on the brink of chaos. Yet, in all this, Letts had begun to pick up customers, they suddenly flocking in, being jolly into the small hours, the pace just as it used to be.
They had no reason to be jolly. The government, already recognising the threat from Hitler and Mussolini, was handing out gas masks, a new law making it compulsory for all schools to put their young children through gas mask drill. Young men were joining the Territorial Army and the digging of trenches in London parks was being contemplated. People protesting at the devastation were nevertheless fearful before what seemed like harbingers of doom. There was talk of the young being sent to safer parts of the country in case of air raids on London. Yet places like Letts had become oddly brighter and busier as though everyone with money sought to indulge in a last great spending spree before they were deprived of their wealth by an unseen force.
Geoffrey and Pam too were apparently making the most of things. One reason why Henry hadn’t set eyes on them was that they were abroad, in Monte Carlo, had been there for a good couple of months. Geoffrey wrote gaily of the fun they were having and of his marvellous run of good luck in the casino, allowing Henry to breathe sighs of relief.
In July he asked Mary to come back to deal with reception, which she did willingly, her presence perking up the place even more. At thirty-seven she was a beautiful woman with poise and grace and still with the capacity to turn heads. She was good for business. Customers loved her. And so did he; he even harboured wild thoughts of resuming their Friday nights together. William, too wrapped up in the restaurant to take her many places, would see it as a godsend and think of her as being safe in Henry’s company.
The restaurant was William’s life. Henry often felt he should have made him a partner. Perhaps one day he would. Geoffrey, hardly here enough to be considered any asset, was certainly beyond any position to object. If things went on as they were going, he would think about it.
* * *
Geoffrey was almost in tears of frustration. “I don’t know how it could have happened.”
Pam had no sympathy for him as she sat in the lounge of their spacious apartment overlooking the sparkling, almost wine-coloured deep blue of the Mediterranean.
She was seething. “You should have known when to call a halt.”
“I do know usually. But until then I wasn’t putting a foot wrong. You know that. I haven’t put a foot wrong for ages. Being on such a great streak of fortune for so long, one loss just seemed a temporary setback. The second time, I just told myself I’d soon be back on form. After that it really became a matter of recuperating the loss as quickly as I could. But it just went on and I suppose I got desperate.”
“That’s when you should have come away.” Her tone sharp, she wasn’t exactly worried for him, mostly angry that he could be so stupid, so weak.
“I know I should have. But when you start losing you keep thinking it must change for you. I’d been on such a winning streak till then, you know.”
She stared out at the sea, the busy promenade and beach below it. “I should have been with you, stopped you. You can be such a fool.”
“That’s not fair, Pam. You’ve done pretty well out of me. We’ve not had to go back to London and ask Henry for any money. Life’s grand down here, and look at all the jewellery and clothes you’ve been buying.”
“No more than I ought!” She got up angrily to light herself a cigarette. “I hope you don’t expect me to lower my lifestyle just because you’ve lost a few bob.”
“Sixty thousand, Pam! Is that what you call a few bob? I’ve got to get it back, but I’m scared I’ll lose even more. And now that I’m owing…”
She turned on him. “You’re owing? How come?”
“I had to. I was certain my luck had to be on the turn.”
“How much?”
“Another twenty.”
“My God, Geoffrey! How could you be so bloody stupid? Why didn’t you come to me?”
“Because I didn’t think you’d lend it. And I didn’t want you angry.”
“Angry! I’m sodding furious! You damned fool!”
“Perhaps if you can pay the debt – just for a few days. I’ll get it back.”
“I haven’t got twenty thousand.”
While he watched, she leaped up to begin pacing the spacious room with its white walls, cool floor tiles, its modem pictures in black frames, its ceramic vases of Mediterranean plants, dark furniture and soft furnishings of plain biscuit-coloured fabric.
“You must have, darling,” he urged. “Can’t you wire your father?”
“Not on your life, darling. Tell my father that my husband has been gambling away our money? You’ll have to go and see your brother.”
“I can’t do that, Pam.”
“But I can ask my parents? No. You go and see your brother. He’s very loving and generous to you. He’ll cough up. He always does.”
“Not with sixty thousand he won’t. That’s too much to ask from him.”
“Not sixty, darling,” she reminded acidly. “Eighty. Remember the money you owe?”
“God, I can’t! Pam – I just can’t.”
She paused to turn on him, her blue eyes cold and hard. “I tell you, Geoffrey, if you don’t, I’m packing. Leaving here. I’ll stay with my parents.”
He was looking at her in astonishment. “Leaving? Leaving me?”
“Exactly. If you can’t support me, I don’t need you. I’ve been willing enough to support you when you’ve spent more than you receive.”
“But most of it goes on you, Pam.”
“Plus a good deal of my own money. You know I can quite easily support myself, and if I have
to spend my money so someone else can buy me things, I might as well do for myself.”
“Don’t you love me any more?” It was a feeble cry. His debts forgotten, he was staring at her with fear and disbelief in his eyes. She shrugged her slim shoulders and drew deeply on her cigarette.
“Of course I do. I’m just not prepared to go on financing your wild escapades.” She smiled suddenly. “Darling, now we’ve got that over with, I know you’ll go to Henry and sort things out for us.”
The fear cleared from his face. “You were blackmailing me!”
“A little.”
She moved towards him, came closer until her slim body touched his so that he would feel its seductive warmth through the gauzy cotton of her dress and that of his shirt. “I’m very good at blackmail, didn’t you know?”
She saw him smile in his relief, saw him draw his tongue across his lower lip, saw desire for her creep into his grey eyes, the lids lowered so that the long lashes shielded the pupils to give him a certain look that made her shiver deliciously.
Taking her cigarette from her, he put it to his lips and sucked in a small meaningful amount of smoke, once more master of himself. Without taking his eyes off her, he stubbed it out in a pale marble ashtray on a small table beside their two touching bodies. Smoke emanating from his nostrils, he bent and kissed her, one hand on her breast. In this way they moved off to the bedroom, his lips still on hers, his hand still manipulating her breast, causing the lower part of her body to throb as, by the feel of him, so too was his.