‘Mr Payton? I heard you were here. How very loyal. It’s a girl, a beautiful little girl, and she and Mrs Windsor are both fine. Tired, but fine.’
Mr Simmonds, the gynaecologist who had seen Chloe through her unbelievably short, fierce labour, impressed by her courage, her stoicism, moved by her lonely triumph, had come into the waiting room to find Joe to tell him the news.
It was as well they had left the theatre; Pandora Windsor had made her entrance into the world just as the audience at the Princess Theatre was giving a standing ovation to the stars of the show, and the curtain had fallen and risen again for the seventeenth time. Many of the women were weeping, and had been ever since the final song of Lancelot’s: ‘She Has a Lovely Face’, and the whole house was shouting ‘Bravo’ and cheering. Piers Windsor, the man with the vision to mount the show, the catalyst who had brought together the actors, designers, musicians and enabled them to work their magic, who had drafted the original adaptation, whose idea the whole wonderful magical thing had been, stood between the Lady and the Knight, holding their hands in his. It was the only place he could have been, of course: certainly he could not have left, on that night of all nights, just to be at his wife’s side, just while she had his baby. Of course not. Out of the question. Absolutely out of the question.
‘Joe! Oh, it’s so lovely to see you.’ Chloe lay on her pillows, reached out for his hand. ‘Thank you for everything. At one point, when it was getting really bad, I wondered if I shouldn’t after all try and get Piers here, but of course I couldn’t. This is his night. I can’t spoil it for him. Can I?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Joe, lying staunchly, betraying everything he believed in out of love for her, looking at her face, blanched with pain and exhaustion, her baby, Piers’s daughter, cradled in her arms.
‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon; well, certainly after the party. Mr Simmonds did phone the theatre. What a night to choose, Joe, how tactless of me!’ Her eyes were fever-bright, her voice slightly shaky.
Joe sat down, picked up one of her hands and kissed it. ‘You did so well, Chloe. So well. I’m so proud of you.’
Mr Simmonds put his head round the door. ‘Mrs Windsor, you have another visitor.’
‘Oh,’ said Chloe, struggling rather feebly to sit up, ‘oh, Piers,’ and her eyes shone and her face was paler still; but it was not Piers who came in, it was Caroline, holding a huge bouquet of lilies, and Chloe sank back on her pillows, her eyes suddenly dark and dead.
‘Darling, how are you?’ said Caroline. Joe could never remember her calling Chloe darling before.
‘I’m fine,’ said Chloe, smiling with clearly enormous effort. ‘Thank you. It’s a girl, Mummy, look, isn’t she lovely?’
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Caroline, and she appeared to be genuinely moved by the sight of her granddaughter. ‘These flowers are from Piers, who says’ – her voice froze briefly, then she managed to smile – ‘says I am to tell you he loves you, and he will be here as soon as the party is under way. He felt he couldn’t leave his guests quite unreceived.’
‘Of course not,’ said Chloe, as she looked down at Pandora’s small head, and bit her lip. ‘I understand.’
‘He was so thrilled,’ said Caroline, talking rather faster than usual, ‘so thrilled. And Chloe, the show was wonderful. Seventeen curtain calls.’
‘Goodness,’ said Chloe. ‘Seventeen. How clever he is. Mummy, Joe, I’m so sorry, but I feel terribly tired. Would you mind if I went to sleep for a bit? I don’t mean to be unwelcoming but –’
‘Of course,’ said Joe, ‘we’ll leave you. Goodnight, darling. Well done.’ He bent and kissed her cheek; as he stood up again he tasted the salt of her tears.
He went back to the clinic next morning. Chloe was looking less pale, and rather determinedly happy.
‘It’s lovely to see you,’ she said. ‘Is Mummy coming again?’
‘Tomorrow possibly. She had to rush down to Suffolk this morning, it’s Jolyon’s half term. She sent lots of love.’
‘Thank you. She sent me some sweet flowers. Look. Much nicer than those ridiculous lilies.’ She smiled at him rather fiercely.
‘And what time did Piers finally manage to get here last night?’ asked Joe, forcing his voice into lightness, otherwise he knew he would have shouted.
Oh, she said, oh, he was there well before three, probably earlier, she had been too sleepy to notice the time, but it had been so hard to leave that party, and his guests, on such a night, and he had been so thrilled and so proud, and how wonderful that Pandora should have arrived on such a night for him, to crown his triumph, and he would be back quite soon this morning. He had a press conference at eleven and then he would be over. All the time she was talking flowers were arriving, and cards and telegrams; at one point the nurse came in entirely hidden by an immense basket of white lilies, roses and freesias, and Chloe took the card out, read it, then flushed and laughed and said, ‘Oh, how ridiculous.’
‘Who are they from?’ said Joe, intrigued by her reaction.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘someone called Ludovic Ingram. A friend of Piers’s.’
‘You look rather as if he were a friend of yours,’ said Joe, picking up the card, trying to find somewhere to set the basket down. ‘To the loveliest mother in England,’ it said. ‘If only she were mine. Ludovic.’
‘Who on earth is he?’ said Joe.
Oh, she said, a famous lawyer, a barrister, divorced, terribly sophisticated and clever, who was conducting a silly flirtation with her.
‘Is he good-looking?’ asked Joe.
‘Yes, he is, ridiculously good-looking. If he was in movies, as they say, he’d always play romantic leads.’
‘Well, darling, I’m happy for you,’ said Joe, smiling. Then there was a delivery from Harrods of a huge bouquet of red roses, with a small box at its heart, which she opened; it contained a diamond eternity ring, and Chloe looked at the card, said ‘Aah’ though her voice was not quite right somehow, and while she put the ring on, and sat looking at it on her finger, Joe read the card. It said, ‘To my darling Pandora’s darling mother with all my love,’ and he thought how easy it must have been to call Harrods and have it sent and how difficult, almost impossible, to have left the theatre to see Chloe through her labour last night and how just the same that was what Piers should have done, what he, Joe, would have done, what any man properly in love would have done.
Joe sat down, took her hand. ‘How’s my sort-of grand-daughter?’
‘She’s wonderful. What a thought, you don’t look a bit like a grandfather, step or otherwise. In fact, you actually look much younger than Piers. Only don’t tell him I said so.’
‘I won’t,’ said Joe, ‘but I don’t see why it should matter, I am much younger than Piers.’
‘Yes, of course you are.’
The phone rang. Chloe picked it up.
‘Hallo? Oh, Piers darling, hallo. It’s lovely to hear you. We’re both absolutely fine. Yes. She’s wonderful. Longing to see you. What? Oh, well that’s a shame. No, of course it doesn’t matter, as long as you’re here tonight.’ Her voice was determinedly bright, shakily cheerful. ‘I’m fine. Joe’s here anyway, keeping me amused. And Mummy’s probably coming in later. Yes, of course. And it’s wonderful about the film. What? Yes, I have, every single one. They’re all marvellous, aren’t they? Even the Guardian. Bye, darling. I’ll see you in a little while. Don’t – don’t be late.’ She sank back on her pillows and looked out of the window.
‘All right?’ said Joe.
‘Oh – oh, yes. Fine. It’s so exciting, some Hollywood mogul is flying in to talk to Piers about film rights for the Lady.’ She sighed. ‘So he won’t be able to come in after all this morning. He’s so excited though, the reviews have all been amazing, you know, every single one has raved about the Lady. I was reading them l
ast night. I seem to have married something of a genius, Joe.’
‘Really?’ said Joe.
She was quiet, and then she said, ‘Joe, I know you don’t like Piers very much, but I really am very happy, you know. He is so good to me, and he loves me very much.’
‘Of course,’ said Joe, hoping his voice would not betray him too thoroughly. ‘And if you’re happy, poppet, that’s all that matters.’
‘Well, we’re both happy. I suppose you think it’s odd, him not being here now, but you must admit it’s a difficult time for him. He’ll make it up to me, I know he will.’
‘Of course,’ said Joe again.
‘I can’t wait to get home and be a proper family,’ said Chloe, reaching out to Pandora’s cot and touching her head. ‘And I’m going to find it quite easy, I think. I have a wonderful maternity nurse, and then a dear sweet nanny coming after that, so between the three of us we should be able to keep Pandora happy. I didn’t really want a proper nanny, actually, but Piers says he doesn’t want me to be tied down at home, and I suppose he’s right.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Joe carefully, ‘isn’t that the place for a new mother, at home with her baby?’
‘Well, normally, yes of course,’ said Chloe, ‘but most new mothers aren’t married to the leading man of the English theatre, as the Daily Express called him last week.’ She smiled at Joe, but she looked wistfully at Pandora in her crib, and bent over and stroked her face. ‘Isn’t she lovely, Joe? Don’t you think she’s beautiful?’
‘Not as lovely as her mother,’ said Joe, giving her a kiss.
‘Oh, I’m afriad you’re wrong there. I look a bit washed out and I’m so terribly fat,’ said Chloe with a sigh. ‘Piers wants me to go to a health farm in a few weeks, to get back into shape, but I actually hate the idea.’
‘I hate it too,’ said Joe. ‘You’re a mother, not one of his starlets. Tell him no.’
‘Oh, I have,’ said Chloe hastily, ‘but Joe, you’re not to think badly of him, it was only because I was moaning about being fat and having a horrible stomach, honestly. He’s so sweet to me, and he tries so hard to take care of me.’
‘Well, that’s what he’s there for,’ said Joe.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Chloe. ‘And I take care of him. He’s not at all how you imagine, Joe. Not really very confident at all. Terribly highly strung and sensitive.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Joe. ‘Chloe, have you ever told him – I mean does he know about –’
‘No,’ said Chloe quickly. ‘No, I haven’t. Not because he’d mind, of course, but because I would. It’s not really anything to do with me, anyway, it’s Mummy’s life, Mummy’s past. I might tell him some time, but not yet, Joe. And I don’t want anyone else telling him either.’ Her eyes were brilliant suddenly, her cheeks flushed; she looked upset.
‘No one’s going to tell him if you don’t want them to,’ said Joe.
Chloe lay back on her pillows again, smiling at him; she put out her hand and touched his. ‘You’re lovely, Joe. Mummy’s so lucky. I hope she knows it.’
‘I hope so too,’ said Joe, smiling at her as convincingly as he could.
Interview with Damian Lutyens, for central section of The Tinsel Underneath. Happy to be quoted.
He was a wonderful friend. I know everyone thought we were more than friends, but they were all wrong. I was his best man when he married Chloe. You don’t ask your lover to be your best man. He was terrified the night before. He took me out to dinner at the Ritz; he got very drunk. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this again, Damian,’ he said, ‘I really can’t. Why should it be all right this time? I’m no different.’
I tried to calm him, to reassure him, but it was difficult, because I couldn’t see why it should be all right either. He shouldn’t have been marrying anyone, and certainly not Chloe. It was a very strange relationship. I mean she’s sweet and lovely and we all adore her, but there was just no way she was a wife for him. She got better at it, over the years, but it was awful at first. I don’t think either of them had the faintest idea how awful it was going to be.
She was one of his obsessions; it was no more than that really. There was always someone. And every time he thought it was the answer. To all the problems.
‘She’s pregnant you know, Damian,’ he said, staring into his food. He didn’t eat any of it, all night; the waiters got very upset.
I didn’t know; I was shocked. I wondered if maybe she’d done it on purpose, to trap him. I said so, as delicately as I could.
‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘no, she’s not up to that. I’ve been caught like that before, Damian. As you know.’
I didn’t know; so he told me.
‘Guinevere did that to me,’ he said. ‘I was leaving her, and she knew it, and she got pregnant, thinking I’d stay. I couldn’t. Not under the circumstances. I just couldn’t. I thought she was better without me. I really did. I believed that, Damian. Do you think I was right?’
I said I didn’t know. He was almost in tears by then.
‘I’m a bit of a case, Damian,’ he said. ‘Bit of a case. You wouldn’t believe the mess my life is in.’
I said most people’s were; he said his was worse than most, that he had seen a life wrecked, someone incredibly dear to him. I asked him how and he said he couldn’t tell me.
‘But I’m trying to put it right now,’ he said. ‘I really am, Damian.’
I didn’t think too much about it, to be honest; he did get very carried away at times, especially when he started thinking about Guinevere.
He was getting rather agitated by then; I thought it was time to get him home. He’s always being recognized, you know; I thought the last thing we wanted was a picture in the gossip columns of him crying into his beer, or rather burgundy, the night before his wedding. I paid the bill, and got a taxi; I went with him, back to Sloane Street. He was being driven out to Suffolk very early next day.
‘Terrible place, East Anglia,’ he said to me. ‘I hate it. Couldn’t spend a night there.’
When we got back to Sloane Street he asked me in for a drink. I said it was very late, but he said he’d go to pieces if he was on his own. Said he was frightened. Just a quick one, Damian, he said, just a quick one. So I went in, very reluctantly.
He had a picture of Chloe, a big one, on the piano in the drawing room. I thought that was a good sign. I said how pretty she was; yes, he said, she is, lovely, a lovely child. What am I doing to her, Damian? He kept on saying that. What was he doing? It was very sad, really awful. I thought of telling him it wasn’t too late, but I was too scared. He might have agreed. I should have done really. I still regret it.
1967
‘Oh, look, Pandora. Joe’s book!’
Chloe was pushing her small daughter down the King’s Road in her pram, gazing enraptured at her, watching people smiling at her; and smile they might, for she had climbed halfway out of her pram despite the constraints of her harness, and was kneeling the wrong way round, smiling toothlessly – or almost toothlessly – at anyone who came into her orbit. She looked terrible, really; Chloe had given her a ginger biscuit to chew on, and it was drifting down her chin in a slobbery stream. Other remnants of it adhered to her cheeks, her hands and her forehead. But oh, she was so pretty, Chloe thought, so perfectly beautiful, with her wide grey black-lashed eyes, her dark red curls (in which there were yet more ginger crumbs, mercifully camouflaged), her creamy, perfect baby skin. Everyone said she was exceptionally pretty, even her grandmother Caroline, even her uncles Toby and Jolyon; and as for those rather more likely to voice such an opinion, her other grandmother, her father, her father’s friends, they never stopped exclaiming upon it.
Piers had become a doting and adoring father, insisting on doing the most unlikely things like bathing Pandora, reading her (somewhat prematurely) fairy stories at be
dtime and even very occasionally changing her nappy. Chloe, still helplessly in love with him, learning painfully slowly to be more at ease with his life, felt absurdly grateful to her small daughter for her contribution to the situation.
The public part of her life was comparatively easy; she was naturally efficient; she had no great trouble running Stebbings and the new London house they had bought, tall and stylish, in Montpelier Square. But she was still finding the private part of it difficult. Piers, she was inevitably discovering, was a complete mystery to her. Intensely loving as he was, he seemed increasingly – what? – out of reach was the nearest she could get to defining it. He would never talk about his feelings (except how much he loved her), his hopes and fears (except in regard to the next production and the next and the next); he seemed indeed to have a near-neurotic need to keep a part of his life to himself. He would disappear up to town sometimes at the weekends, for a few hours, saying vaguely that he had to meet someone, would come home very late, long after dinner, without warning, would become suddenly rather withdrawn and distant from her, and she would catch him looking at her oddly, coldly almost. And then there were the endless trips to the States, either to New York or Los Angeles, usually with some vague explanation about meetings with producers, actors, agents; never for long, just a few days, but as frequently as once a month. She had suggested that she might sometimes accompany him, but he had discouraged her, sweetly dismissive at first: ‘Honestly, darling, you’d be so bored, just sitting around all day waiting for me,’ and then tersely firm: ‘Chloe, I’ve told you, this is all part of my life, and you have to learn to accept it; there is absolutely no point your trailing across the Atlantic with me all the time.’
AN Outrageous Affair Page 43