The Crystal Cage

by Merryn Allingham

  I made a copy of this wonderful extract and closed down the computer. I knew that I should have some lunch and then set out on the job trail again, but I was too excited to eat anything and desperate to tell Nick what I’d discovered. I had no idea how long he’d be at Art Matters or whether he intended to come straight home after the interview. I imagined he would, either to dance in delight or lick his wounds. I didn’t have long to find out. I was half-heartedly trying to cook toasted cheese on a grill that surely predated the Renvilles when I heard him coming down the steps two at a time. Did that mean good or bad news? One look at his expression and I knew it was good, very good.

  ‘Who’s a clever boy then?’ His face was one enormous grin.

  ‘You got it?’ I was dumbstruck.

  ‘You might at least pretend you’re not surprised. Of course I got it.’

  And he grabbed me in his arms and pirouetted around the small space, banging into table, chairs and finally the grill, sending the slice of bubbling cheese flying upward and due south. It landed on the chair that until now had sported the least stains. That was a pity. Now all our furnishings were equally disreputable.

  ‘I got it, Grace! And the interview was tough, no walkover. No fixing either.’ And he looked slyly at me.

  ‘I’ve already said sorry—endlessly. But you must have shone.’

  ‘I did my best.’ He let me go with a smirk on his face. I was finding his pretence at modesty a trifle annoying.

  Then he came down from the heights and confided, ‘I can’t quite believe it’s happened. I know I answered pretty well, but there were a couple of stinking questions. The thing is I got the feeling early on that they were actually wanting me to succeed. They mentioned the series I wrote for them.’

  ‘The Gorski show?’

  ‘I still owe you for that—not throwing me out of the launch, I mean.’

  ‘You’ve just repaid the debt by getting a permanent job. It is permanent?’

  ‘Not only permanent, but I get my own office.’ He was like a child who’d held out his hand for a Smartie and been awarded a Sherbet Dab.

  ‘Anyway,’ he took a breath, ‘they were very enthusiastic about the stuff I did on Eastern European artists. It was different, they said—“radical.” How about that? And that’s what they want to see more of in the journal. Time to depart from tradition, and they think I’ll be just the man to commission that kind of writing.’

  He talked on, his tongue running away with him, while I rescued the toast from its sticky resting place and started cooking another slice. He finally ran out of steam as I put two plates of slightly burnt cheese on the table.

  ‘Why are you home in the middle of the day? I thought you were on the job trail again.’ He had suddenly registered that I shouldn’t be there.

  ‘I decided to wait until this afternoon.’ I had an uncomfortable feeling that I should be excusing myself, saying sorry that I wasn’t out pounding the streets.

  ‘I guess there’s no rush. I start next Monday and it’s a big enough salary for us both.’

  That made me feel even more uncomfortable, but I said, ‘That’s wonderful,’ and kissed him soundly on the lips.

  ‘More!’

  ‘Later, but now let’s eat. I’ve got some news to tell you.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I took your advice.’ That was stretching the truth only a little. ‘I did the newspaper search. I was right about the title, it was The Holborn Mercury and there were online records for all ten years of its life.’

  ‘Good,’ he said absently.

  I could see that his mind was far away and the research had become a distant memory. In his imagination he was already sitting behind a large desk in an equally large chair behind a door grandly labelled Art Matters. When I didn’t continue, he stopped munching his toast and looked across at me.

  ‘Tell me, then. What’s the great news?’

  The excitement of discovery had drained away, and I didn’t feel now that I wanted to share something that was so important to me but meant nothing to him. is His p

  ‘You were right,’ I conceded eventually. ‘A is for Alessia Renville. And you were right, too, about why she was involved—well, according to The Mercury. Her being Italian was deemed helpful to the project.’

  ‘Aren’t I just too clever for words,’ he gloated. I was sure that this must be one of the most glorious days of his life, but he was getting a bit carried away. He needed a small corrective.

  ‘I found the article,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Aren’t we just too clever.’

  ‘Quite clever.’ I needed to keep both our feet on the ground. ‘The paper mentioned that the architect in charge was Lucas Royde and that he worked for de Vere’s. But although that backs up our research, it doesn’t bring us any nearer the plans.’

  ‘The plans are a complication we don’t want, particularly as I cashed the Society’s cheque today. Everything is neatly tied up and that’s the way it should stay.’

  I gave up on the last morsels of my charred offering and sat back on the chair’s hard wooden slats with a sigh.

  ‘Shouldn’t it?’ he asked a little too insistently.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Why only suppose? You’ve found out what you wanted and now you can concentrate on getting a job.’

  ‘I thought there was no rush’.

  ‘There isn’t but I can’t imagine you’ll want to sit here and twiddle thumbs for too long.’

  ‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘It’s just that I have a hunch there’s more to be found.’

  ‘What more can there be? You know who A is and you know the house she was living in no longer exists. So what else can you do? Attempt to trace her descendants?’

  ‘I might. There were two daughters, remember.’

  ‘You’d be wasting your time. It wouldn’t bring you any nearer finding the plans and remember—we don’t, in fact, want to find them.’

  He looked fixedly at me and his expression was stern. ‘You know what I think, Grace? That this isn’t about the plans any more. It’s about you.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ I truly hadn’t, but I also knew I didn’t want to. Nick had an uncanny knack of getting to the heart of things. I tried to sound sensible.

  ‘It’s just that we’ve come from absolute zero and look what we’ve discovered.’

  ‘We’ve made amazing progress, but the search is finished. By all means write an article on Royde and try to flog it to some scholarly journal. You’ve got a new angle with Alessia—Victorian women had more freedom than we thought, etcetera. But then leave it.’

  My face must have registered the stubbornness I felt because he reached across the table and shook me.

  ‘Leave it, Grace,’ he commanded.

  That was sufficient to make me decide that I wouldn’t be leaving it.

  * * *

  It was several weeks, though, before I returned to the story of Alessia Renville. I’m not sure why it took me so long; perhaps it was because I was feeling defeated. My professional confidence had begun to leak away, slowly but still very certainly, and undertaking research, even the most basic, seemed beyond me. Nick was in the ascendant, and against his gleam of success, the struggle to believe in myself was becoming more and more difficult. He’d started work at Art Matters the Monday following his interview and for the next week, I’d hit the phone or email trying to set up meetings with past contacts. I’d given up the agencies as useless. But the contacts proved no more helpful, and I began to wonder if I would ever work again. I toyed with the idea of freelance writing, but I knew how hard it was to break into the market, and how poorly paid. Failure is insidious. It rarely happens in one spectacular burst; instead it destroys gently and I was no exception. Discouragement gradually seeped through me and I began to drift.

  Nick was prospering, though. It was as if he was born to wear a suit. To be fair, the work was interesting and his colleagues congenial, but I
was still amazed at how well he’d fitted into a world I’d never have imagined was his. Or perhaps it had always been his and the casual, spontaneous man I’d first met had been an aberration. I suppose that in some way or another everyone is a prisoner of their family and their first experience of the world can determine the life that follows. Mine certainly had. Perhaps Nick, too, had never entirely escaped his upbringing, his bohemian lifestyle a small rebellion against conformity. Now that a way had opened to more worldly success and he could compete on equal terms with his siblings, he seemed to be having little difficulty in fitting back into the Heysham mould.

  One morning after he’d left bright and early—and his willingness to put in the hours was another shock—I’d had enough of pretending to search for an invisible job and decided to do something practical by sorting out the one wardrobe the flat possessed. I wrenched open the slightly tipsy door and the chaos overflowed gently into the bedroom. Instilling order into the tumble of clothes, shoes, bent hangers and discarded carriers would keep me busy for hours and in a way that was a blessing. It was lunchtime before I could congratulate myself on a job well done and then just as I was closing the door I noticed hidden away at the back of the top shelf a small cardboard box that I was sure I’d never seen before. Out of curiosity I hauled it over the row of sweaters, now sitting neatly in line, and deposited it on the bed. It contained a pile of folded tee shirts. I unravelled the top one and held it up for inspection: I Drink Therefore I Am, it proclaimed. There was something very sad about the find. The box was testimony to the fact that Nick had discarded his former life almost completely. It made me wonder if along with the tee shirts, he’d also discarded forever the person I’d known.

  I should be as ruthless myself. I was carrying a lot of stuff that had come to the end of its natural span and was taking up space, not just in the wardrobe but in my life. I needed to clear the decks, to start over. Like most women intent on remodelling themselves, the easiest thing was to begin with hair and clothes. There was a slight problem: I had no money for new clothes and there was little I could do about my hair. I was a natural blonde and would look odd as anything else; the frenzied curls were also severely limiting as to style. Nevertheless the next afternoon I marched off to a cut-price hairdressers I’d seen around the back of Kings Cross station and asked bravely for a short crop. The girl did a good job despite the modest price and for a short while at least I felt rejuvenated.

  When I got back to Thetford Road, I looked closely at myself in the mirror for the first time in weeks, but it wasn’t the hair that caught my attention. It was the eyes. There are times when my eyes shine a brilliant green and as such they’re very noticeable. They were noticeable now but for the wrong reason. They looked huge, out of all proportion. I’d lost weight—I often felt nauseous these days and wasn’t eating well—and I looked haggard. The rejuvenation took one step back. My problem, I reasoned, was that I was depressed: I had no home, no money and no job, and Nick wasn’t exactly helping.

  Almost his first words each night were, ‘Any luck?’ Tonight he followed the question with a renewed plea that I talk to Lucy since he was sure she could help me find work.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn.’

  ‘It’s called being independent.’

  ‘Independence is all very well, but it doesn’t pay bills.’

  ‘No, you do,’ I finished for him.

  ‘Look, Grace, I’m not rubbing it in, honestly. I just think you could make more effort.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I’m not trying to find a job?’

  ‘Initially you were trying hard, I guess, but now you seem to have given up.’

  He was right of course. I had.

  ‘And I can understand that. God knows, I’ve been there, too.’ He was trying to sound solicitous. ‘But a regular salary makes life a good deal easier. So why not give Lucy a try? If we were both working, we could think about moving out of this hovel.’

  ‘Move?’ I’d almost stopped listening, but at this I was jolted awake.

  ‘I’m not saying we should move immediately. Sort the job first, and then we can look around.’

  It all sounded easy, but it wasn’t. Lucy’s offer of help was generous, but I couldn’t accept it. It would feel too much like surrendering my liberty. Foolish, I know, but I’d had to dig deep to find the strength to break free of Oliver’s sway, and I was stupidly scared of the possibility, no matter how remote, of handing myself over to someone else’s control. I had to find the job for myself and right now a job wasn’t there. But the conversation left me feeling guiltier than ever over my lack of earning power. It also spurred me on to do the only thing I could, which was to write. Overnight I decided I would try to tell the first part of Alessia’s and Lucas’s story, part fact, part speculation, and even though I felt more queasy than usual the next morning, I buckled down to it. Getting involved in writing helped me forget just how foul I felt. It also made me forget about making dinner. We’d fallen into the age-old pattern of breadwinner and helpmeet, and I’d taken on the responsibility of cooking. I was a terrible cook, but either Nick was too tired to care when he got back from work or he considered it was the least I could do to contribute.

  I imagine the latter. To say he was irritated by the lack of food that night was an understatement.

  ‘Couldn’t you even get a meal together,’ he huffed and puffed. ‘I’ve been working all day.’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘You’ve been to work?’ He sounded incredulous.

  ‘I didn’t say that. I said I’ve been working all day. I’ve been writing an article, and I’ve got an idea where I might try to place it.’

  ‘I thought for a moment you’d got a real job.’

  There it was again: that echo of Oliver. His voice sounded down the weeks with crushing effect: The work you do is nothing work.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that.’ Nick looked ashamed but soon recovered. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked Lucy to pop round tomorrow evening and have a chat.’

  ‘About what?’ I said dangerously.

  ‘She can help you. She meets a huge number of people through her PR business. She rang me today with a possibility. She’s met a businessman who’s desperate for a PA. He’s an entrepreneur from Slovakia, or is it Romania? Anyway his PA got homesick and went back to Bratislava and he can’t find anyone suitable. He’s willing to pay a pile.’

  ‘I’m not a PA,’ I said even more dangerously.

  ‘You helped Oliver.’

  ‘Oliver was my partner. Your shady dealer from Eastern Europe isn’t.’

  ‘How do you know he’s shady? You’re far too judgmental.’

  ‘And you’re far too interfering.’

  It was the first time we’d come close to a serious quarrel. I’d been looking forward to talking the article over with him and had hoped for some enthusiasm. This might after all turn out to be my new career. Instead he’d suggested a questionable job and seemed to think I should be grateful. I didn’t even bother with the pretence of making a meal after that and Nick soon trudged off to find the nearest pizza. I was still feeling unwell and glad of the excuse to go to bed early. But I didn’t sleep and when he arrived in the room, I busied myself pretending.

  ‘Grace?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘I know you’re awake, so speak to me. This is silly.’

  I had to agree. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I know things have been a bit rough for you lately. In a way I feel responsible. I don’t know if you’d have left Oliver if I hadn’t been around.’

  I said nothing because I didn’t know either. I preferred not to think about it.

  ‘And I haven’t been much help, it’s true. I’ve been working so hard, trying to get my feet under the desk—literally—that I’ve forgotten how to enjoy myself. What we both need is some fun back in our lives.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ I was cautious.

  ‘We c
ould start small. My senior editor is a really nice guy and we get on well. He wants us to go to dinner at his house. It should be a great evening, very civilised. There aren’t any kids—Hughie values his freedom too much. It’s just him and his wife.’

  ‘Where does he live?’ I asked idly, imagining at best a small detached on a suburban estate.

  ‘Funnily enough, Hampstead.’

  Nothing funny about that. ‘Hampstead?’

  ‘He’s got a big house on Millfield Lane, near one of the ponds.’

  ‘And he’s in publishing? There must be some mistake.’ I hoped I didn’t sound too acid.

  ‘Inherited money, I think,’ Nick said easily and then when I was silent, ‘Surely it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No, why should it?’

  It didn’t matter. I supposed I had a mild prejudice against inherited wealth because of the unfair opportunities it gives those lucky enough to have it, but it wasn’t what was making me pause. It was the feeling that I was once more being pushed unwillingly into somebody else’s world. I’m sure it must be good for couples to share their lives, but this wouldn’t be sharing. Nick wouldn’t be sharing my world because I didn’t have one. I only inhabited others’—first Oliver’s, now his. I was being unreasonable, I knew, but I’d had enough of glass cages.

  ‘I’ll see,’ I said, and with that he had to be content.

  * * *

  Lucy turned up the next evening, her face apprehensive and darting worried glances at me. It was as though I was a wild animal she couldn’t be sure of, unpredictable and possibly dangerous. She’d brought flowers, huge great lilies that looked out of place in the basement’s dingy rooms. I put them in the only large container we had, a plastic bucket, and then they simply looked dejected.