This time, she looks neither right nor left. In St Andrews Street, a gang of children fling themselves past her, laughing and shouting, tossing a ball over her head. She stomps through them, scrapes her keys in The Hideaway’s door and opens it.
Then she closes it and switches on the light.
The cottage smells of paint and turpentine; of a meaty fragrance wafting up from the basement kitchen; and of a cloying scent, like stale hyacinths.
The long room looks larger and wider than the image Eleanor has held in her mind for so many months. Its walls glitter, pristine white. She recognises Felix’s screen with the scarlet poppies; and the portrait of Moira that had hung outside his Driftwood bedroom. Then, with a shock of recognition, she sees that the painting beside it is new work: Moira, sitting on the terrace of her Riviera villa, in a black lace dress that clings to her hips and thighs.
Her delicate watercolours have been removed. In their place hang three that Eleanor has never seen before: larger, bolder, more clearly defined, filled with dazzling Mediterranean colours, tropical fruit and sunflowers.
She looks around the room. A white cloth covers the dining table which has been set for three. At its centre sits a vase of pink winter roses and three candles. Eleanor wonders who the third guest will be.
Without taking off her hat and coat, clutching her bag, she climbs the stairs. Directly ahead of her is a new small bathroom. The bedroom is untidy: the bed’s unmade, clothes are strewn on the floor. The studio looks larger. The new skylight opens up the room to a swirl of darkening clouds and the shadows of swooping gulls.
She moves across the studio to the easel and looks at the portrait Felix is working on. A girl’s face stares back at her: seductive, alluring. In her early twenties, she has chubby cheeks, a sensuous mouth, sharp blue eyes and a mass of bright chestnut hair curling to bare shoulders. Eleanor catches her breath, stabbed by jealousy. She has seen that face before, but she can’t remember where.
She glances along the walls, longing to see her own portrait. Hadn’t Felix said he’d worked on three and given her the best? Is it terribly vain of her to hope he’s finished them all? Perhaps he’d hung the others in the living room?
She’s about to go downstairs to check when she hears the sound of a key in the front door. Her heart thumps with delight. Felix is back…
Then she freezes. A girl’s voice calls, “Felix? Hello, honey, I’m home!”
Eleanor takes several steps back into the studio, her head fizzing with anxiety. Who the hell is that? Why has some girl let herself into The Hideaway with such familiar ease? Is Felix expecting her? Is she a maid, a neighbour, a friend – or, God forbid, something more?
Eleanor hesitates. Should she make herself known? Explain her presence with as much poise as she can muster? Or continue to hide in the studio until Felix does return?
She decides she’s behaving like a petty thief, caught red-handed over a drawer of silver spoons. She must go downstairs, explain who she is with quiet dignity.
Gritting her teeth, she steps onto the landing. She hears the chink of plates and cutlery: the girl’s down in the kitchen.
Feelings of guilt and fear suddenly overcome Eleanor. Maybe if she moves really fast, she can slip downstairs and out to the street without being seen or heard?
But any decision she might have made is immediately quashed. She hears the sound of a key in the door again – only this time, she also hears Felix’s soft, much longed-for and so dearly remembered Cornish burr. Except – her heart contracts – it’s not her name he’s calling.
“Agnes? I’m back! Phew! What a drive! Sorry I’m so late, darling.”
Eleanor hears feet pounding up from the kitchen.
“Hello, Felix! Welcome home!” A smacking kiss, then another quieter one.
Eleanor’s mouth fills with bitter saliva.
“Here, let me take your coat… I was lonely without you, honey. It feels like you’ve been gone forever. How was your trip?”
Felix groans. “A total waste of time, Aggie. I got there, but there was nobody in. I hammered on the door, went back several times. Everything was closed. In the end I had to leave another letter, in addition to the one I wrote in November… Remember how I struggled with that? It took me four drafts before I got it right.”
“And you said you never wanted to write to her again—”
“I didn’t! Truly I didn’t. I’m no good with words on paper. I always sound pompous and absurd. And it’s brutal and cowardly to hide behind a letter. But I had no choice. I didn’t want to hang around a minute longer than necessary.”
Another kiss, this time lingering.
“Anyway, it’s done and dusted… She’ll have got my second letter last night… How’ve you been?”
“Busy in the office, as usual. But I took an hour off this morning to make us a casserole. Best beef with red wine and garlic, just as you like it.”
“It smells delicious.”
“Good. Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous… But there’s something even more tasty we could do before we eat.”
The girl laughs. She sounds joyful, confident, flirtatious. “Naughty Felix! I wonder what that can be.” Another kiss.
“Are there any candles in the bedroom?” Felix again, his voice muffled.
“Yes. We only burned half last time before I blew them out.”
“Excellent… Come on then, my darling Aggie… Show me how much you’ve missed me.”
Eleanor backs into the studio until she can go no further. For a wild moment she imagines making a leap for the skylight, pushing it open, slithering over the rooftops, vanishing from everyone and everything into the churning belly of the sea.
She hears footsteps climb the stairs, push into the bedroom. The door shuts. The girl laughs. Felix chuckles. Eleanor hears a match being struck, the scuffle of clothes being pulled off eager bodies. She tries not to listen, pressing her hands over her ears, standing there, paralysed.
Then she knows she can’t bear being there a moment longer. She bolts towards the door, out of the room, across the landing. Halfway down the stairs, she hears Agnes cry out with joy. Instantly Eleanor loses her footing and slips. Now she’s tumbling – heavily, clumsily, noisily – down the stairs. She lies at the bottom in a crumpled heap, pain screaming from her right wrist, her ankle throbbing, her head banging like a drum. She wants the earth to swallow her in one all-consuming gulp.
Felix flings open the bedroom door.
“Who’s there? What the hell is going on?”
He stands at the top of the stairs, his dressing-gown flapping around his naked body. Eleanor gazes up at him. He looks older and thinner. A dark, well-trimmed beard and moustache gave his face a new authority. He stares down at her.
“Eleanor?”
She heaves herself to her feet, trying to rescue her remaining dignity. “I’m so sorry, Felix. I didn’t mean to intrude… I never meant… I’ll leave immediately.”
The pain in her ankle shoots up through her leg. She clamps her lips together to stop herself crying out in agony.
“What in God’s name are you doing at the bottom of the stairs?” Felix turns away to call into the bedroom, “It’s all right, Aggie… It’s Eleanor Drummond! There’s been some terrible muddle. I’ll sort it out.”
Eleanor clings to the banister to take the weight off her ankle, flinching from the echoing pain in her wrist. She says through clenched teeth, “I wrote and told you I was coming… Didn’t you get my card? I sent it last week—”
“I only got it on Monday. It must have been delayed in the Christmas post… I left for Woodstock immediately. To find you… to explain… But the tea-room was closed and there was no answer from your house.”
Eleanor gasps, remembering how Felix had said, “It’s done and dusted.”
He’d been talking about her, about being in Woodstock. She says, “And you left me a letter?”
“Yes.” Felix is downstairs now, helping her towards the sofa, his arm around her. He’s knotted the belt of his gown but Eleanor can smell the musky scent of his skin. She wants to bury her face in his chest. But he helps her sit down – and then draws away.
“I hadn’t heard anything from you for weeks… You never came to St Ives… You never told me Anne knew about us.” Felix clears his throat. “I assumed you were never going to tell her. I wrote to you in November, calling the whole thing off, and telling you why.”
“I never got the letter.” Eleanor’s heart thumps with despair. “Do you really think I’d be here if I had?”
“No, maybe not.” Felix’s face is white. “When you never replied, I had to assume you’d decided to forget about me… Then I got your card. It made me panic. I’d thought you didn’t care. That Anne would never know about us because you didn’t really want it to happen.”
“Far from it.” Eleanor’s voice shakes. “I’ve been longing to hear from you. I had to assume no news was good news. I’ve thought about very little else.”
Felix says flatly, “I had no idea.”
Eleanor takes a deep breath, trying to come to grips with the ghastly new reality. “So now you’re with… Who’s the girl upstairs?”
“Aggie. Agnes Lanham. She’s James’s daughter.”
Eleanor gasps. Of course! She remembers meeting Agnes at the agent’s office. That’s why she’d recognised her face on Felix’s canvas. And that’s why James had greeted her so nervously…
“I’ve known Aggie for years.” Felix swings into a chair opposite Eleanor, carefully folding his gown over his legs. “Walter and James Lanham were friends from the moment they met, but Aggie’s five years younger than me. We didn’t meet properly until I moved into Driftwood… Nothing happened between Agnes and me for ages, but in October we saw each other again at a party. We just hit it off.”
Eleanor’s heart knocks against her ribs with jealousy. “So it’s serious?”
Felix lowers his voice. “Who knows? She’s still terribly young. And beautiful, of course. We have fun together.” He looks Eleanor in the eyes. “I need a woman in my life. Someone to talk to, walk with, dance with. Someone I can paint. You must understand.”
“Of course I understand!” Eleanor burns with anger. “I thought that someone was me!”
“It was, Eleanor… I loved you very much. I drove to Woodstock but you refused to come back with me. You dithered so half-heartedly. In effect, you turned me down.”
On the verge of tears, Eleanor says, “It wasn’t as simple as that!”
“Oh, but I think it was. It is. Or it should be. You work out what you want in life and who you want. Then you go for it. You let nothing stand in your way.” Felix gives her a brief smile. “Look at the Prince of Wales, at the complications he faced. But he made everything simple. He loved Wallis. He said she was as necessary to him as the air he breathed. That’s real love, Eleanor. You move heaven and earth for it—”
“But I did!” Eleanor blazes with indignation. “I have. I’ve planned everything… I’m free to be with you. I’ve turned my small world upside-down to be here. My friend Kathleen will run the Woodstock tea-room. I want to open one here, in St Ives, and live with you. But Mummy was right. I shouldn’t be here. I feel like an idiot. You’re telling me it’s already too late, aren’t you, Felix?” She looks across at him. “I was willing to give up everything for you, but you don’t give a damn.”
Felix says nothing.
She reads his answer in his eyes. She can’t bear to see it a moment longer. She wills herself to stand, fumbles in her bag. “I’ve brought you some Christmas presents.” She throws them into his lap.
He stares down at them, sucking in his breath. “You shouldn’t have, Eleanor… I’m so sorry about all this… Thank you for the gifts—”
“I hope you’ll enjoy them.” Eleanor’s anger mounts. “I rescued some of Daddy’s paintbrushes.” Her voice sharpens. “And I bought you a very expensive watch. I spent hours in Turl Street choosing it.” She swallows back the vomit lurching into her mouth. For a terrible moment she almost bursts out laughing. “So now, when you read the time, I hope you’ll spare me a second’s thought!”
Defying the pain in her leg, she hobbles across the room to the front door. She dips into her handbag again for The Hideaway’s keys and drops them on the table.
Then she’s standing outside in the cold night. She slams the door. A bitter wind blows into her face. Her eyes stream with tears.
The only thing she can hear in her head is the thunder of waves.
The Nature of the Beast
St Ives, Cornwall, December 1936
Eleanor limps to the corner of St Andrews Street.
She hears Felix open the door, shout, “Eleanor! For God’s sake, don’t just leave like that! Have supper with us… There’s plenty of food… It’s Christmas!” His voice fades. “Now I feel terrible!”
Eleanor glances back. He’s standing in the doorway, his legs sticking out from beneath his gown. She sees him turn to talk to the girl at his elbow. Then Agnes pulls him back into the warmth and light, into her arms.
Eleanor takes a shaky breath. She waits until the door clicks shut. Her wrist and ankle throb with pain. St Andrews Street blurs with bitter tears, huddles in thickening darkness. A group of carol singers stand three doors down, valiantly singing, “Away in a Manger”, their voices almost drowned by the wind.
Eleanor starts to hobble into town. She has no idea where she’s going or what she intends to do. Sobs surface from the depths of her lungs. A dreadful self-pity grips her – and then an almighty fury.
With herself.
She’s been so stupid, so naïve. Kathleen had warned her, but Eleanor had chosen not to listen. She’d trusted Felix. How many times had she said to herself, “No news is good news,” willing herself to believe it. Who else would have fought so hard, with such determination and perseverance, to find his beloved Mama?
Instead, Felix has utterly betrayed her.
So has James Lanham. Eleanor finds herself limping past his office. She stops in her tracks. Lights still burn inside the agency. Anger bubbles into her mouth. Damn it! She’ll confront him, tell him exactly what she thinks about how he has behaved.
She flings his door open.
James is sitting at the far end of the office, opposite a woman wearing a luxurious fur coat and a dark, wide-brimmed hat. Her back is towards Eleanor.
He leaps to his feet. “Miss Drummond!”
“You might have told me.” Eleanor spits out the words. “You might have warned me Felix and Agnes were having an affair… That I was about to walk into their little world, instead of meeting up again with the love of my life!”
“I’m terribly sorry.” James flushes with embarrassment. “I thought you knew… I assumed you were here as their guest.”
Eleanor stands in the doorway, gripping the door handle. The pain in her ankle snakes ferociously up her leg.
The woman in the hat stands up and turns to look at her.
“Eleanor Drummond!” she says. “How wonderful… We meet at last.”
Her voice is beautiful: low, modulated, with a sweetness about it that makes Eleanor want to cry. Cornflower-blue eyes stare into hers as the woman moves towards her, gripping her hand, seeming to notice how Eleanor flinches with pain.
This time, it seems – at last and properly – Eleanor has found Moira.
“I can’t believe it.”
Eleanor looks into the face she feels she knows so well. Lines hover around Moira’s eyes and mouth, and crease her forehead, but her poise, the way she wears her elegant clothes, her air of serenity and confidence: these all make her undeniably
beautiful.
“I thought I’d never find you,” Eleanor stutters. “I got so close in Juan-les-Pins, and then you vanished. I hoped so much we’d meet.”
“And now we have! I’m here. Really here.” Moira makes Eleanor sit down. “What have you done to yourself? Are you in pain?”
“I was in The Hideaway. Felix was with Agnes. They didn’t know I was there. I was trying to hurry off without them seeing me. Stupidly, I fell down the stairs.” Now Eleanor’s half-laughing, half-crying. “I feel such a fool. I’ve come all this way for your son, only to find him in somebody else’s arms.”
“Instead you’ve found me. Let’s hope something good has emerged from this fiasco.” Moira turns to Lanham. “James, could you do me a favour? Trot over to St Andrews Street. Tell Felix I won’t be joining him for supper. Eleanor and I have our first real chance to spend a few hours together. It’s an opportunity neither of us wants to miss.”
The next thing Eleanor knows she’s sitting in Lanham’s dusty back office, her throbbing ankle propped on a low chair. Moira holds a cool damp handkerchief to her forehead. The scent of cloves hangs in the air, sharp and refreshing.
“That’s better, Eleanor. I thought you were going to faint… Here, drink this. Hot sweet tea… Then I’ll take you to my hotel. You can stay there as my guest for as long as you need to. Your ankle’s swollen, and your wrist, I can see that’s also painful. Am I right?”
Eleanor nods. “But there’s no need—”
“There’s every need! What on earth do you plan to do? Drive to Woodstock at night in the dark? Crash your car because you’ve fallen asleep at the wheel? I’d never forgive myself for letting you go.”
“You’re right. I’m in no fit state to drive.”
“So drink up. I’m staying at the Porthminster Hotel—”
The Choice Page 35