Under the Jeweled Sky

by Alison McQueen

  “I don’t dislike Lucien at all,” Margie said. “But are you sure he’s the right man for you? I mean, he’s a bit…” She struggled to find a suitable adjective. “Stiff, I suppose. He always leaves me with the impression that what he says isn’t necessarily what he’s thinking. There’s a part of me wants to say supercilious, but that’s not what I mean really, although you have to admit he can be a little, well…” She lifted her head slightly and swept the underside of her nose with her finger. “Like that.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “Well, I suppose not, given his job.”

  “Not everyone is as liberal as you.”

  Margie pursed her lips briefly, inspecting the peeled potato in her hand before dropping it into the pan. “I’m assuming you’ve been to bed together.”

  “Margie!”

  “What?”

  “That’s none of your business, and even if it was, the answer would be no.”

  “How Victorian,” Margie said. “I wouldn’t dream of marrying a man without going to bed with him first, otherwise how could you know whether you’re compatible? If you wait until after the wedding, you might find out that he’s not up to it at all. Can you imagine how miserable that would be? All this nonsense about saving yourself. Didn’t you read Married Love when you were a girl?”

  “No, I did not, thank you.”

  “Now there’s a woman who knows what she’s talking about. Most men haven’t the first clue about what they’re doing, and the pity of it is that their women are none the wiser. Everybody should read that book, men and women alike, and we’d all get along a lot better.”

  “Must you talk about sex all the time?” Sophie caught herself, feeling a small shudder run through her, as though her mother’s voice had just spilled from her own lips. She had left her mark, the woman who had refused to acknowledge the facts of reproduction. When Sophie’s periods first started, her mother had acted as though her daughter had committed some kind of mortal sin. She kept a note of Sophie’s days, and every month, for that week, Sophie would be made to feel like a leper, her mother saying it was unclean, the whole house smelling of carbolic soap.

  “I don’t,” Margie said. “I’m merely pointing out the importance of the physical side of things, and if you’re as innocent as you try to make out, which I don’t believe for one minute, you might just be in for a very big disappointment.”

  “I didn’t say I was completely innocent,” Sophie said. “And I didn’t say that I was going to accept him either.”

  “Ah.” Margie checked over her potato. “Now we’re getting to it.”

  “My parents’ marriage was a disaster. I’ve come this far on my own. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to keep things that way.” Sophie’s thoughts wandered to her mother’s voice. “Marriage isn’t for everyone, you know.”

  “We’re not talking about everyone. We’re talking about you.”

  “Well, why should I? I’m happy enough. I’ve learned to stand on my own two feet and I’m free to please myself.”

  “Until you turn into a dried-up old prune like the ones in Mrs. Stanton’s attic.”

  “I’d rather that than end up like my parents.” Sophie’s head dipped. She felt her cheeks flush.

  “Hey.” Margie dropped her knife, reached over the peelings, and took Sophie’s hand. “What’s brought this on?”

  “I don’t know,” Sophie said. “I always wanted to marry, to have a family, but…” She squeezed Margie’s hand, closing her eyes tightly for a second. “I went to see my mother today,” she said. “It was awful.” She paused, as though unable to believe it herself. “Ten years,” she said. “Ten years since we have seen or spoken to each other. I don’t know what I expected to find.” She looked up into Margie’s pale blue eyes. “I thought I could heal the rift, that she might even be pleased to see me. God knows, it’s been long enough. I thought I would tell her about Lucien and his proposal, and that we would at last be able to put the past behind us and make a fresh start. I thought…” Sophie let out a terrible sigh. “Oh, I don’t know what I thought. I should have left it all well alone.”

  “How was she?” Margie asked softly.

  “It was all a bit of a shock,” Sophie said. “I knew she would be older, of course, but I hadn’t expected her to look quite so different. I hardly recognized her.”

  “Did you talk?”

  “That’s the odd thing.” Sophie frowned to herself. “I don’t really remember what we talked about. All I know is that the moment I arrived, I felt like I shouldn’t be there, like I was picking at something that should be left alone. It was as though I was a child again, just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Standing there quaking in my boots. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Margie said. “That must have been tough on you.”

  Sophie shook her head sharply in self-reproach. “I shouldn’t have gone. It’s no good getting all churned up over things that are in the past. Time to think about the future.”

  “I should think so too.” Margie wiped her hands clean on the floury tea towel and delivered her most cheerful smile, setting her elbows on the table. “Does Lucien know you can’t cook?”

  Sophie slid Margie a wry smile. “If I marry him, I’m hoping I won’t have to.”

  • • •

  Outside on the wet pavement, big red double-decker buses rumbled by, engines belching smoke, pungent aromas wafting out of the fish and chip shop. Margie pushed open the door of the Marlborough Arms, releasing a thick blanket of cigarette smoke into the street, and marched toward the bar, announcing loudly: two whisky sodas, large. She and Sophie took their drinks to a dingy corner table, sliding into sticky seats.

  “Here’s to you.” Margie raised her glass.

  “Thank you,” Sophie said.

  “I wish Fred would ask me to marry him.” Margie took a long sip from her drink. “I just don’t think he’s that interested.”

  Sophie smiled at her sympathetically. Margie had fallen in love with the cellist with the dark hair and doe eyes last autumn. He liked to play Elgar for her through the open door as she lay in the bath, and he cooked omelettes sometimes on a Saturday morning after staying over, though he always slept on the couch, never once trying to get into her bed.

  “If I were to leave, what would you do about the flat?” Sophie asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’d probably keep it on. I couldn’t be doing with the bother of moving. You never know, Fred might decide to come and live with me. I don’t want to be with anyone else, but sometimes I think he’ll never make up his mind.”

  “Have you talked to him about it?”

  “What’s to talk about?” said Margie. “Either he wants to be with me or he doesn’t.”

  “Of course he does.”

  “Then why is he taking so long about it? I’m beginning to wonder if it’s not just because he feels bad about letting me down.”

  “He’s just shy. You know how he loves you.”

  “I do,” Margie said. “And that’s the tragedy of it. He loves me but he doesn’t want to sleep with me. We should be lovers by now. He should have got me into bed months ago, or at least tried to.”

  “He has more respect for you than that.”

  “I don’t want respect. I want him to stop dithering and act like a man. And now you’re getting married after just five months and here am I, dancing around the mulberry bush, waiting for something I know is never going to happen.” Margie picked up her drink again and nursed it. “It feels so unfair.”

  “Unfair.” Sophie laughed to herself. “Somebody else said that to me today.”

  Margie looked at Sophie curiously, noticing the sudden note of sadness in her. “You are in love with him, aren’t you?”

  Sophie felt her insides tighten.

  “Yes,�
� she said.

  The word fell from her automatically. Of course she was in love with him. She had no reason not to be. In love. In sensible, adult love. This sort of love she could manage. This sort of love would not tear the flesh from her bones and eat her alive from the inside out. This sort of love would not leave her wishing she were dead, knowing that she had nothing to live for. She would be safe in this love, safe from the abyss that had once threatened to swallow her whole.

  7

  Lucien Grainger stubbed out his cigarette and tried not to smile, glancing over at the pianist playing thin, watery tunes from the far corner of the restaurant, an elegant candlelit affair just a stone’s throw from the blackened Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Sophie had been like a cat on a hot tin roof all evening, and he could see that the wine had gone to her head. Unsurprising after the enormous martinis they had sharpened their appetites with at seven. Let her take her time, he thought. It was perfectly obvious that she was going to say yes.

  Lucien knew very well that women could be strange creatures, contrary in nature, often just for the sake of it, yet she had clearly given the matter a great deal of thought, hence her avoidance tactics over the last week, and this had served to elevate his opinion of her further. He had expected Sophie to jump at his proposal with an immediate yes, but credit to her, and somewhat to his surprise, she had seemed nothing short of shocked. It wasn’t quite what he had had in mind. Later that same day, he had mulled it over while swimming lengths in the pool at his club and had arrived at the uncomfortable conclusion that he had seriously miscalculated the manner of his broaching of the subject.

  He had assumed, quite wrongly it seemed, that Sophie was beyond the tender age when a girl expected to be swept off her feet with a grand gesture on bended knee. Instead, he had brought the idea to her as one might float a business proposal, confidently setting out his stall, expecting her to melt into his arms. How wrong he had been. At first she had seemed both panicked and crestfallen, as though the bottom had fallen out of her world, and at that very moment he had realized his monumental error. It was no wonder she had been so upset. She had probably dreamed of this day for years, since girlhood, the perfect marriage proposal, and he couldn’t have made more of a hash of it had he tried. Poor Sophie, it wasn’t her fault that he had come to the idea slightly hard-boiled, nor was it surprising that she had taken off like that. He’d been a bit of an idiot and would have to make it up to her. After all, any man about to take a wife would be well advised to learn her foibles as quickly as possible and to remember that women were just girls in grown-up clothes. A lifetime partnership required a great deal of diplomacy, and a little romance went a long way in keeping a woman happy. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, and he hoped that the ring in his pocket would be more than adequate when it came to redeeming himself. It had cost a small fortune, but as the man in Garrard’s had said, an engagement ring is just as much a reflection of the gentleman who gives it as of the lady who wears it, and this one would reflect on them both very well indeed.

  Lucien leaned comfortably into his chair while the white-coated waiter swept a few loose crumbs from the table. Picking a stray thread of tobacco from his lip, he opened the subject she had so diligently skirted through the soup. “You realize I’m in hell, don’t you?” Sophie smiled at him. He pretended to look injured. “I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be left hanging by the woman I want to marry. Why don’t you just put me out of my misery and be done with it?”

  “It’s such a big step.”

  “Of course it is, but we’re ready for it, aren’t we?”

  Sophie’s head began to throb again. She had thought about it all so much that it had turned into one big, confused mess. Why was she hesitating? She had already made up her mind. If she didn’t get married now, she might never have another offer, and she did want to get married, she had decided. She wanted to have a family and to build a life with a good man by her side and have a nice home and, she admitted to herself, a sense of security for her future. What else was there? It wasn’t as though she had a profession, or a vocation, or anything at all that she could speak of for that matter. She should marry and have a family before it was too late, or she would probably regret it for the rest of her life, and there was not one single good reason she could think of for not marrying Lucien.

  • • •

  It was no accident that Sophie had ended up working at the Foreign Office. England was such a small place, so claustrophobic in its outlook. Perhaps she was one of those people who would never feel settled. She never had, not for as long as she could remember, always looking over her shoulder, waiting for something bad to happen.

  She had spotted the vacancy advertised in The Times while eating a ham sandwich in the café beside South Kensington tube station after visiting the Natural History Museum. The museum was one of her Sunday destinations, where she could revisit, frozen in glass cases, the birds and animals that had populated the grounds of the grand palace she had once lived in, in a place far from here. The hidden cobras, the mongooses kept for the purpose of keeping their numbers down, the monkeys that gamboled across the rooftops, arms laden with stolen fruit. She would watch as the museum visitors pointed and stared, laughing sometimes, exchanging uneducated opinions about what they were like in real life. After visiting the stuffed tigers and pinned butterflies, she had headed for the café, ordering a sandwich and a cup of stewed tea from the steaming pot, and had sat at a table with only the newspaper for company. And there it was, advertised in the secretarial positions, the posting crested with the emblem of Her Majesty’s Foreign Office. It had hit her, just like that. Here lay an open gateway to the whole world. It was a menial position and the salary was low, but she didn’t care. Two weeks later, she found herself being interviewed by a no-nonsense matriarch who tested her secretarial skills and asked her outright whether she was on the verge of getting married or anything like that, given her age. Sophie seemed rather mature for the position, and they didn’t want to hire somebody who had their mind on other matters. To work for the government was a serious undertaking, the woman had said, and she would be expected to concentrate on her job, with no chattering. This was not a venue for husband-hunting, and anyone thinking otherwise would soon find themselves dismissed. The woman’s finger bore no wedding ring, and Sophie had the presence of mind to assure her that she was a confirmed spinster with very little time for the opposite sex. The letter of appointment arrived within a week, and the following Monday morning, Sophie had presented herself at the Foreign Office in Carlton House Terrace.

  She had started in the typing pool, churning out endless tedious reports and minutes, and quickly garnered a reputation for her knack of deciphering other people’s shorthand and the worst of the men’s longhand, which she attributed to the fact that her father was a doctor, saying that his scrawl was unintelligible to anyone other than himself and her. One morning, quite out of the blue, she was told to go to the top boardroom to replace the director’s secretary, who was off with a bad dose of the flu. Had she known that she was to be presented at such a senior level, she would have worn something different that day. The weather had been unseasonably warm, the vault of the upper rooms ripening to a sweltering heat, and she was wearing a cotton dress that she had thought she might just get away with, sleeveless, nipped in at the waist, with a full skirt that gratefully received every small breeze beneath its layers. Her usual light wool skirts had stuck to her and prickled at her skin, and she had noticed that some of the other girls had submitted to the humidity in less substantial garments. So long as their skirt fell below the knee and they had something with which to cover up, a light cardigan perhaps, nobody had minded.

  The gravitas of the boardroom had made Sophie self-conscious the moment she walked in. A dozen men, simmering beneath their shirtsleeves, had turned their eyes to her as she scurried in with her notepad. In that instant, she had been paralyzed by nerves, r
ealizing that she had no idea where she was supposed to sit before being directed to a chair in the corner, set back from the men, as though to remind her that she was not really there, her ears not her own. As the meeting began, she had recorded their words, their ideas, their idiotic suggestions, leaning into her pad, concentrating hard, determined to prove herself every ounce as skilled as the absent secretary, so that she might be moved up soon and spared the misery of the windowless dungeon where typewriters rattled a constant stream of meaningless transcripts that nobody would ever bother to read. When the meeting came to a close, Sophie realized with horror that the skirts of her dress had ruched up beneath her pad, exposing the beginnings of her stocking top. It was no wonder that that awful man Christopher Soames had turned up at the pool not two hours later, asking her if she had any plans for lunch while perching himself suggestively on the corner of her desk. The way he had looked at her, she had felt as though her dress had disintegrated and fallen to the floor, and she had endured the rest of the short heat wave in a stifling twinset.

  Lucien saw that Sophie’s thoughts had drifted. He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers.

  “How long does it take to know you’ve met the right woman?”

  “But you don’t know me at all.” She thought for a moment and corrected herself. “We barely know each other.”

  “And isn’t that wonderful?” he said. “What two people really know each other when they marry? It takes years, my darling. Years and years before we’ll know one another inside out. That’s part of what marriage is all about. Didn’t you know that?” Sophie nodded a little. He was right, of course, as usual. The waiter arrived with their entrées, a fillet of sole for her, a piece of steak for him. “You see this?” He cut into the beef, juices running red. “I like my steak bloody, very bloody. And you?”