If she was frank with herself, she thought, picking up a coat and holding it in front of her, she didn’t really know what she felt about Phillip, let alone what he felt about her. She had seen a lot of him, Clare was right, he was difficult to refuse. But was it only a month since they’d met? It felt so much longer; it felt as if she’d known him forever.
Phillip was a type, Jane had decided, after only the second time they went out. He was typical public school and army, traditional, rather set in his ways but he was fun, he was intelligent, witty and attentive and he was also extremely good-looking. Jane put the coat back and swopped it for a jacket, but that didn’t suit her either. She stood and stared at her reflection, squinting her eyes and peering at her face. He was definitely good-looking, she thought, a small flame of excitement flaring in the pit of her stomach. If she was honest with herself he was the dishiest man she had ever been out with, he had everything, he was as close to the mark as a man could get.
Jane put the jacket down and, still staring at her face, she unclipped her hair and let it fall down. Well, God knows what he sees in me, she mused, tucking the long strands of brown behind her ear and making her already rather long angular features look even longer and more angular. She shifted from one foot to the other. She was tall and slim, she had nice legs and a good neat figure but no one could call her beautiful, or even pretty. She could possibly pass for attractive, she reckoned, in candlelight with full makeup on, but she would never turn heads, not the way Phillip did whenever they were out together.
“It must be my personality,” she said to her face, but even as she said it she doubted it. She amused Phillip, she knew that, they had friends in common and she did her best to entertain, but she always felt there was a part of him missing, like he wasn’t really with her, and it puzzled her, because he was always the one to ask her out, he was the one so keen to continue their friendship.
Jane finally moved away from the mirror. Was it a friendship? If it was it was pretty close. They hadn’t been to bed yet but Jane had the feeling it was inevitable, that things were working their way toward it, as they so often did. Only this time she really wanted it. She wasn’t “in love” with Phillip, or at least she didn’t think so, she wasn’t sure she knew what love was, but she recognized her feelings, she knew she wanted him, was sure he would be a good lover. She could sense that, in his glance, in the slightest touch of his hand, and she felt the familiar ache of excitement at the very thought of it.
“Janey! There you are!” Clare suddenly appeared behind an enormous rail of dresses and Jane blushed, feeling guilty about her thoughts. “Look! Tadah!” She held up a black silk jersey dress with a high neck and a long flowing shape. Jane was impressed. “I had to go through practically every rail in the shop,” she said, handing it across, “but there it was in the end, all alone, just waiting for you!”
Jane laughed. “You are so melodramatic, Clare Latham!” She looked at the dress and checked the size. “It’s very nice. Shall I try it on?”
“Yes, go on.” Clare glanced around the shop. “Over there!” she said, pointing to the fitting rooms. “I’ll come with you.”
Jane smiled. “It’s all right, I think I can manage. You wait here.”
“But you’ll want me to hold your hair up and advise on jewelry and…” She broke off and shrugged. “I’ll wait here,” she finished.
“Right. See you in a minute then.”
Clare watched her sister go, holding the dress up and weaving her way through the other shoppers. Clare didn’t really understand Jane, she wasn’t like any of her girlfriends, or even their mother for that matter, but Clare did like her sister, she liked her very much indeed. In fact, she thought, as Jane came out of the fitting room wearing the dress and looking really quite nice, she didn’t know anyone who didn’t like Jane, it was really impossible not to.
Across the other side of town, Phillip Mills, having just put down the phone after a long call to an old friend from the regiment, thought exactly the same thing and smiled as he went through to the sitting-room. He dropped on to the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. Reaching for his cigarettes, he lit one up. So Wendy Peterson was at school with Jane, he thought, and Jerry just phoned to invite him and Jane to lunch next Sunday, having heard that they had struck up a close friendship. Jane was a “thoroughly nice girl” to quote Jerry and they were delighted that Phillip thought so too. Phillip grinned as he flicked his ash into a saucer. After three years out on a limb with Suzy, he had miraculously re-entered polite society again and the invitations were starting to flood in.
“Jane is a thoroughly nice girl,” he said aloud. “She’s clever, talented, kind, funny and sensible. Sir!” He saluted to the empty room and stubbed out his cigarette, feeling suddenly flat. Jane wasn’t Suzanna. He stood and walked across to the window, looking down at the traffic on the road. His body ached with longing for her. But he knew he had to put Suzy from his mind, at least for the time being, he couldn’t let her get in the way, not at the moment, not until things were clear, settled. He walked back to the sofa and lit another cigarette. He had to focus on one thing. If he didn’t, if he let anything else get in the way, he knew he’d never be able to go through with it. He had to keep it clear in his mind, he had to know what he wanted. I’d do anything to keep it, Jane had said that first time they met. She was right, it was worth anything and all he needed was a little more time.
Glancing at his watch, Phillip realized he was running late and went through to the bedroom to lay out his clothes for the evening ahead. He took his dinner jacket out of the wardrobe, laid it neatly on the bed, checked the trousers, and found his dress shirt, studs, cufflinks, socks and polished black patent shoes. He had bought tickets for the first night at Covent Gardens of Madame Butterfly; it had cost a fortune but he was really looking forward to surprising Jane. It was her birthday and she loved the opera; it was also a month since they’d first met and Phillip had decided it was about time he moved things forward.
Taking some fresh underwear from the drawer, Phillip carried it through to the bathroom with him, left it on the chair and bent to run his bath. He sprinkled a liberal amount of Penhaligan’s oil into the water for good measure, then on the spur of the moment carried the bottle into the bedroom, pulled back the bed cover, and pouring some into the palm of his hand, sprinkled it over the pillows and sheets. Satisfied that he was prepared, he went back to his bath.
Suzanna and Mitchell Harvey arrived at Covent Garden with plenty of time before the performance; it was just after seven o’clock. Mitchell had ordered champagne in the circle bar for his guests, a couple of board members of a merchant bank with their wives, and he wanted to make sure they were there to greet them. The Bentley pulled up outside the entrance of the Royal Opera House and the driver hopped out, walking around to open the door for Suzanna. She took his hand and he helped her out of the car as she held the hem of her Givenchy evening gown up off the ground and stepped carefully on to the pavement. She stood and waited for Mitchell. Suzanna hated the opera, she hated it as much as she hated all the things she did with Mitchell: Ascot, Wimbledon, first nights, Glyndebourne and countless, countless dinners. She stifled a yawn and turned as Mitchell joined her.
“Ready?” She nodded and Mitchell took her arm. “At least try and look the part,” Mitchell hissed as they walked past the small crowd formed to catch a glimpse of the princess when she arrived.
Suzanna smiled at a flashlight and Mitchell’s grip relaxed slightly. “That’s better,” he said. “Now keep that up all evening and I’ll be happy.” And, smiling, together they walked on inside.
Phillip and Jane ran all the way up the Strand. They were late, the traffic had been terrible and they’d jumped out of the taxi cab at Charing Cross and decided to go the rest of the way on foot. Phillip held Jane’s hand and pulling her onward, her hair and coat flying behind her, he led the way up past Covent Garden market and on to the Royal Opera House. Jane pulled back as th
ey approached the building, its white columned facade lit up against the black night sky.
“The opera!”
Phillip stopped. “Very observant.” He turned and looked at her face. “Is that all right?”
“Yes! Yes it’s wonderful, I…”
He took her hand again. “Come on, Janey! They’ll close the doors if we arrive much later!” He started to run, pulling Jane behind him and, laughing, they sprinted the rest of the way and arrived, out of breath but just in time.
“Phew!” Jane dropped Phillip’s hand as they entered the theater and glanced around the foyer looking for the hat check. “I’ll do the coats and you get the chocs!” she said, locating the cloakroom. He peeled off his overcoat, handed it to her and she hurried over. Phillip checked his tickets with the young man on the door of the stalls, quickly chose a box of Bendicks and joined Jane, took their coat tags and put them in his pocket.
“Ready?”
“Yes, I can’t wait!”
He looked at her face, all of a sudden crimson from the rush of blood to her cheeks, and leaning forward, he planted a cool kiss on her forehead. “Happy birthday, Janey,” he said.
Jane shivered, a tiny, imperceptible response to his touch. “Thank you, Phillip.”
He took her hand, she lay her head on his shoulder for a moment and they walked down to their seats at the front of the stalls as the orchestra warmed up and the lights began to dim.
Suzanna was surveying the scene with her opera glasses, a pair decorated with mother-of-pearl and a gift from Mitchell for Christmas. They had a box opposite the royal box and Suzy was waiting for the first glimpse of the princess as she took her seat. She ignored the business chatter behind her and the talk of children and schools from the women and stared around the opera house, trying to spot the couturier dresses and any jewelry worth more than her own. She saw a couple come in late, the last to arrive, and, catching sight of what looked like a very attractive man with a rather plain woman, she focused her lenses on them out of idle curiosity.
For a moment the whole opera house went silent. Suzanna dropped her glasses.
“Are you all right, Suzanna dear?” One of the wives leaned forward and picked them up, handing them over and glimpsing Suzy’s face, ashen with shock.
“Yes, I’m fine… I…” Suzanna put the glasses up to her eyes again as the blood rushed in her ears. She saw Phillip help Jane into her seat and take her hand again. She saw his face as he leaned in close and whispered something in her ear. Jane laughed and Phillip held her hand up to his lips, gently kissing it. Suzanna’s chest constricted and she felt as if she might suffocate. “My God, I…” The glasses fell a second time to the floor and Mitchell looked over.
“Suzanna!”
Suzy turned. She stared at him wild-eyed, her breath coming in short gasps and suddenly she stood, knocking back her chair and staggering forward. “I have to get some air… I’m sorry…” She pushed her way to the back of the box and struggled for a moment with the door. “I don’t feel well, I…”
One of the men stood and opened it for her but Mitchell glared. Suzy stumbled out into the passage and gripped the wall for support.
“Please excuse me,” Mitchell said as he stood and nodded to his guests. “I must see if she’s all right.” He followed Suzy out of the box and found her in the passage, slumped down on the floor, her head back against the wall. He clicked the door shut behind him knowing the boxes were soundproofed.
“What the hell are you playing at?” he snarled, yanking her up by her arm. “Get back inside that box!” He pulled her again and she cried out. She was lifeless, useless. “What the hell… !” He held his hand up to smack her across the face but she cowered and he stopped himself. He moved away and swallowed down his anger.
“Suzanna, you know how important this evening is to me,” he said coldly. “I have an awful lot resting on my reputation here.” He dug his hands in his pockets, his fists clenched and looked down at her but she couldn’t even face him. Suddenly he swore and kicked the wall. “Jesus! This had better not be one of your silly little tantrums!” he threatened. “If it is…” he broke off as the muffled sound of applause came through from the auditorium. “OK, have it your way this time, then,” he said, calmly moving back toward the box. Then he turned, suddenly vicious. “But if you ever do this again!” He jabbed his finger at her, his face ugly with rage. “Embarrass me! Then I’ll make sure you pay for it! D’you understand?” He leaned down and pinched her cheeks between his thumb and finger, snapping her head around to face him. “D’you understand?” She nodded, the fear bright in her eyes.
“Good.” He stood straight, smoothed his dinner jacket and glanced down at her a last time. “God, you’re pathetic,” he said, and, turning, he went back to join his guests.
Suzy heard the door of the box open, the whisper of hushed voices and then silence. She could just make out the National Anthem and she looked up. Slowly getting to her feet, she spread her hands over the jade silk of her evening gown and smoothed the creases, straightening the skirt. She glanced down at her bag, unclipped it and counted the cash inside. She had enough for a taxi home.
Taking a deep breath, she shrugged back her shoulders and held her head up. She felt sick, sick and dizzy, but if she could just make it back to the flat, if she could just speak to him, just hear his voice then she’d be all right. Suzanna knew she would be able to tell, she knew that just from the sound of his voice she would be able to judge whether or not Phillip had deceived her, if he still loved her. She turned and walked along the passage, following the exit signs to the stairs at the end, then down and out into the cool night air. As soon as he said her name she thought, I’ll know, I’ll know whether to live or die.
It was after eleven when the crowd spilt out on to the pavement in front of the opera house. Cars, voices and a hubbub of excited noise filled the air, black overcoats, brilliant white dress shirts and an array of brightly colored silk evening gowns ablaze under the lights.
Jane held tightly to Phillip’s arm as he led her through the throng and out of the way of the queue for taxi cabs. She was a little drunk from the champagne Phillip had ordered in the interval and high on music and singing. The whole evening had been a success, her dress, the hairstyle Clare had fixed up for her and Phillip, unusually attentive, unusually attractive in his black and bright white. They stopped, twenty yards away from the crowd, in the shadow of the market, and Phillip turned to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Jane looked up at him. “Jane.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Jane, I was wondering if…” Again he hesitated. This was harder than he had thought it would be; it wasn’t natural, it felt odd. “If you wanted to have dinner somewhere now or if…” He brushed a piece of dust from her shoulder.
Jane put her hand softly over his, she loved to touch him. She stopped his fiddling and said, “Or if I might like to come back and have a coffee with you?” She smiled. She had been waiting for this and was ready.
“Yes.” He shrugged and smiled back. “Would you?”
Jane reached up to touch his face. She traced the shape of his mouth with her fingertip. She wanted to be loved by him, she wanted the warmth and comfort of his body next to hers. “Yes,” she said, “I would.”
He bent his head and kissed her. “Good.” Then he looked at her, at her face soft and relaxed, and he knew it was right; it had to be right. “Let’s go then,” he said, and he led her down to the corner of the Strand and found them both a taxi.
Suzanna sat, a small glass of vodka balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa, the telephone in her lap. She stared at the painting on the wall opposite, not really seeing it but just blankly focused on something, anything to take away the fear, a fear that ground down in the pit of her stomach. She looked at her watch.
Phillip would be leaving the Royal Opera House now, he would be taking his friend home, or maybe out for a bite to eat; whatever he was doing, he wouldn’t be back at Bertram’s flat for
another hour, maybe two. She looked at her watch again, as she had done almost every ten minutes since she’d left the opera. There was no point in ringing yet, she knew that, but she still dialled his number, just to be sure. The phone rang. It rang and rang and rang, a terrible empty sound that filled her with horror. She slammed the receiver down. I’ll try again in twenty minutes, she thought, as she drank down the remainder of her vodka. Then she stood to refill her glass.
Phillip ran up the last three stairs and fumbled with the key, desperate to get it in the lock. “Sorry,” he called over his shoulder to Jane. She shrugged and continued up slowly as he dashed inside the flat and lunged for the phone. The line was dead. Replacing the receiver, he walked back to the stairs and put his hand out for Jane. “The person hung up,” he said. She took his hand as she climbed the last step and he pulled her in toward him, holding her close. “Thank goodness.” He stroked her hair and breathed in the fresh smell of her shampoo. “Come on, let’s go in.”
She nodded and with his arm around her shoulder, he led her into the flat. “D’you want coffee?”
She smiled and shook her head.
“No. Me neither.” Dropping his arm, he faced Jane and, leaning down, he kissed her, gently moving his hands to her coat and slipping it off her shoulders. It fell to the floor. Silently, he took her hand and guided her toward the bedroom. He opened the door, went to reach for the lamp on the chest but Jane stopped him. “Leave it off,” she whispered. “Please.” He smiled at her in the half-light and nodded. “To bed then,” he said gently, “in the dark.”
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