by Parks, Adele
‘Who is taking care of her?’
Lydia smiled. ‘I think she rather takes care of herself.’
‘You know what I mean. Who is she with?’ Lawrence wasn’t reassured.
‘A whole gang, as usual. Freddie, Johnnie and Doug.’ There seemed to only ever be a handful of men at these parties, but however many or few attended, they were guaranteed to be found clustered around Ava.
‘Are they sober?’
‘Absolutely not. But they are game and they’d rather die than leave her side. I don’t think we need to worry. She’s not travelling home tonight. She’s staying for the hunt on Monday.’ Lydia was usually thrilled with her husband’s caring attitude towards her friends, but she wished he’d just give the driver the nod; it was late and she was tired. No, more than that: she was bone-sore weary, the way she so often was in company nowadays. She didn’t know how to explain her mood, even to herself, so she simply struggled to disguise it. Harder when it was deathly cold and her feet were blistering.
‘I really don’t know how they do it,’ commented Lawrence.
‘Do what?’
‘Stay up so late.’
Lydia decided not to mention the cocaine; her husband wouldn’t approve. The fact of the matter was that many had turned to alcohol or drugs since the Great War to numb pain or as a means of escape.
The combination of five glasses of champagne, the rattling windows and the rumbling of the wheels fought against the freezing air and won. Lydia was rapidly lulled to sleep, only waking as they pulled up at Dartford Hall. Grateful to have lost the icy hour inside the fusty car, she stumbled out into the pitch-black night. The butler and a footman had, as ever, been on the lookout, and as they spotted the car approach they came outside to assist, their breath and impatience just visible against the night’s blackness. Lydia shivered for them; they were only wearing waistcoats and jackets, as coats would have been improper.
‘Happy new year, Jenkins,’ she murmured sleepily.
‘Happy new year, my lady. Can I give Cook any instruction as to what time breakfast ought to be served tomorrow?’
‘Midday. I’m so tired. I need a glass of water.’
‘Dickenson is up, my lady. She’ll attend to everything.’
‘Excellent. Good night.’ Lydia nodded to the footman but didn’t wish him a happy new year; naturally she hoped he had one, but she couldn’t remember his name. The young staff came and went like April showers nowadays; she rarely got the chance to know them.
Lawrence followed his wife up the mahogany staircase. Two steps below her, his eyes were in line with her elegant, slim back, exposed by the daring dress that plunged to the waist, showing off her shoulder blades and the delicate bumps of her spinal cord. Impulsively he swept in and kissed her thin white skin. ‘You look beautiful tonight.’
She stopped to appreciate the compliment and the sensation of his warm lips on her back. His whiskers scratched and stirred something. A memory rather than an actuality. A memory of wanting him, rather than the definite feeling of wanting him. Sex had once been so delicious and hopeful; now it was simply familiar. She turned and saw that his face was shining with expectation. It was different for him, clearly. The difference hurt her too.
‘Are you really so very tired, my darling? It is a new year after all.’
That was true. She was too woozy to believe it might be properly satisfying, but she’d drunk an amount that meant it would be the uninhibited sort of sex that was always fun. She’d get into it once he started; she almost always did. Besides, he was her husband; she was his wife. It was her duty by law and tradition. She shouldn’t refuse him too often. Theirs was a rare marriage because it wasn’t made convenient by infidelity. Too many refusals might edge him along that dreaded path. ‘All right then, as long as you are quick,’ she replied. It was as generous an answer as she could muster.
6
AVA THOUGHT THAT men had their uses – they were excellent at fetching her drinks and mink stoles when she needed them, buying meals and paying for clothes and all that – but she probably wouldn’t go so far as to say she’d ever met a really useful one. She would not even award her father that distinction; Ava had found she was not the sort of girl who simply adored her father, hero-worshipped him, just because of the intrinsic intimacy of their relationship. In fact, she found that the closer she was to a man, the more harshly she judged him. She could not ignore the faults that other women seemed to glide past. She saw the flaws and fears of men; she smelt out their inefficiency or arrogance, their wildness or weakness. Not that Sir Peter Pondson-Callow suffered from any of these specifically; he was not wild or weak or inefficient, and his arrogance at his abilities was countered by a deep sense of needing to be approved of. He was, however, a coldly ambitious man, and his ambition, left unchecked, could bubble into something more insidious, like greed or even cruelty. Ava had no problem with his avarice. He had made a lot of money – a lot – and she had benefited from his business acumen and ruthlessness; it would be churlish to despise him for that – foolish. Yet still she couldn’t quite adore him, couldn’t believe he was ideal just because he was her father. Unfortunately, he was not one hundred per cent appropriate; he wasn’t quite quite. Not quite dignified enough, not quite calm enough, a little too commercial in the drawing room and a little too friendly with shop girls, who he liked to impress by paying for everything with filthy wads of cash. Simply put, he was not a purebred, which annulled his chances of being properly useful to Ava, no matter how rich he might be.
Her father had married her mother for money, and her mother, a plain girl, had married Pondson-Callow for his looks. They appreciated one another in much the way a farmer and a loyal sheepdog might: they accepted that their alliance was mutually beneficial, a fair deal. Undoubtedly, her mother had backed the right horse; her father had done a marvellous job at turning her respectable dowry into a small fortune. Before Ava was born he’d been awarded a knighthood for his industry; his efforts during the war had further increased their wealth fortyfold. He was indisputably a success. Her father seemed content with his side of the transaction too. As far as Ava was aware, he’d never complained that there was only one live child; a girl at that. He had no doubt calculated that as his title wasn’t one that could be passed on, and his daughter was ravishing, forever appearing in the society pages, he could be sanguine. A boy might have been lost in the carnage in any case. Besides, all his friends’ wives were plain-looking now. They were at the age when everything sank south and beauty no longer counted; when they had counted, Lady Pondson-Callow had allowed Sir Peter to freely pursue pretty faces, shapely legs and full breasts outside their marriage and had never so much as raised an eyebrow.
Ava had been brought up to believe that affairs were the only genuine excitement the rich experienced during the Edwardian period. Restricted as they were by protracted and inflexible formality and an intricate, if hypocritical, code of etiquette and values, sexual intrigue added impetus to an otherwise leisurely but dull life. The aristocracy protected their high social positions by adhering to a phoney social code where husbands, and sometimes even wives, took lovers. The majority were willing to ignore extramarital affairs so long as an outward appearance of domestic bliss endured. It was an extremely functional, although entirely depressing, modus operandi. Ava understood that the rules had been manufactured to warrant that family life was not ruined by sexual feats and adventures. Public exposure, which led to unharnessed gossip, resulted in names being cut from guest lists; the indiscreet were summarily and promptly made socially extinct.
Ava had often thought that if ever she was to settle on a man, he would have to be a thoroughly admirable one. By this she did not mean admirable in that hopelessly sloppy way Sarah or Beatrice might define the term. She was not looking for a knight in shining armour who would flatter and fawn, arrive at her door laden with acres of land and the neurosis of inheriting a title he couldn’t carry; for one thing, those sorts of men invaria
bly had such weak chins. Ava’s definition of an admirable man was one who would (needless to say) be obscenely rich, because even though she had her own enormous wealth, she didn’t want to be one of those women who was known for buying a title; he would challenge her, amuse her, perhaps even attempt to control her (no doubt he’d fail, but it would be exciting to see him try). Finally he would be horribly good-looking, completely breathtaking, the sort of man whose fidelity couldn’t be taken for granted. It was a meeting of equals that she longed for.
Ava had not met such a man. She doubted he even existed. If he once had, the chances were he was buried in mud in France, face down in an unmarked grave. She reasoned that as the man she wanted did not exist, she might as well have lots of fun with those who did.
She had a thing for ex-soldiers, which was convenient, because there was hardly any other sort of chap around, Kitchener’s propaganda had been so thorough and successful. There was something about their raw hedonism, their fragility, the fact that they were angry or damaged, that she found fascinatingly attractive, but they weren’t the sort that she’d want in her life in any sort of permanent way; that would become quite a drain.
They’d found their way to the library, a group who were unwilling to go to bed, the ones who were planning to roar through the twenties, hoping to drown out the echo of the artillery, although they said that the reason they were still up was that someone wanted to find a particular book of poetry to check up on the exact wording of a poem. There was a bet running between two posturing chaps: two pounds was at stake. The discussion had become rather heated. Ava wondered if they secretly missed the war and now just needed something to fight about, a theory that gained more weight once they were in the library and there was some fuss about the fire being low. Ought they to build it themselves or call a servant? The chaps who had been arguing about the quote forgot the poem and started to argue about the best way to build a fire. Ava draped herself on a chaise longue and gazed disinterestedly at the shelves of leather-bound volumes; through the haze of the champagne she’d consumed, the books struck her as self-important and remote. She couldn’t summon the energy to get up and find a collection of Donne to prove that the one with the moustache was right and the other was mistaken, something she was absolutely sure of. Her feet were icy; she wished the men would stop squabbling and simply call a maid to build the fire. One of the girls found a gramophone and some records. They rolled up the rug and four or five of the most game souls started to dance again.
Soon the music lost its flamboyant buoyancy and slower tunes were selected. Bodies melted into one another. Hands began to stray but weren’t curbed. The other girls were kissing fellows now, hungry, enthusiastic kisses. Ava watched, wondering from where they summoned up the unchecked desire. She’d never been so consumed by a man that she’d consider being indiscreet in public; desire was always on her terms and in private, and whilst she’d probably made love with many more men than any of the other women in the room, no one could be sure. Her reputation was enhanced by eager whispers and keyed-up conjecture, but not sullied by indisputable facts. Freddie sat on the floor by her feet. He caught her watching the couples and misinterpreted her look of incredulity as one of longing; he kissed her foot, opportunistically. She could feel the dampness of his lips even through her silk stocking. That was Freddie’s flaw. Wet kisses, somehow an embodiment of his general demeanour, which was one of soppy overeagerness.
Dougie passed Freddie a small packet; he took it gratefully. He’d been given opium as a painkiller, to help after he’d been shot in the calf. He’d become rather fond, but the doctors had made a fuss, said he was addicted and refused to give him any more. He’d gone half mad with pain. Then a charming chap from America had introduced them to cocaine, and what a gift. Ava didn’t indulge herself. She’d tried it once, like most things, because she couldn’t bear not knowing. Admittedly the high had been stupendous – she’d felt invincible, alert, supreme, masculine – but it hadn’t lasted long and the downer was more ghastly than anything she’d ever had to endure. She’d vomited violently, which was undignified. Then she’d felt anxious, something she’d never experienced before; she was usually assured in her actions and presence. She’d been convinced a maid was looking at her oddly and had had her dismissed. Terribly embarrassing, once she was through it all; she occasionally wondered where that maid had ended up. So now she simply watched as the boys pushed cold needles into their arms, enjoying their expressions melt as they anticipated the sweet relief that was to follow. She stood up and blew kisses to everyone; she always left the room before they started weeping and wailing, swearing and swiping.
Ava had been put in the South Wing, the one with the reputation as the most comfortable and close to the hostess’s private rooms. She knew it was a compliment; that or an elaborate exercise in gathering gossip. Either way she didn’t care; she had a room with an en suite, and that was so important on these weekend jaunts to the countryside. So many of these enormous houses were hideously uncomfortable and old-fashioned. Ava absolutely preferred London, where everyone and everything was modern. When she arrived in her room, she was surprised to find Lord Harrington lying on her bed in his night clothes.
‘Charlie, I’d rather expected to be greeted by my maid,’ she said flatly.
‘I sent her away.’
‘And how did you explain your presence in my room?’ Ava took off her earrings and put them in a small china pot on her dressing table, then stared at her lover with nonchalance.
‘I’m next door. I told her I’d made a wrong turn.’
‘I don’t suppose she believed you.’
‘She’s a maid, I don’t suppose it matters.’
It mattered to Ava, but not as much as it ought and not for the expected reasons. Obviously, unmarried women were somehow expected to remain virginal until their wedding night, but Ava thought that was outdated and hadn’t paid any attention. It was simply this business about feeding rumour that bothered her. She didn’t like to be known; it seemed so very similar to being owned.
‘Besides, since the duchess has thoughtfully given us adjoining rooms, I imagine she suspects we’re lovers, and if she suspects, then everyone else knows. She’s famously very slow on the uptake.’
Ava scowled, not wanting this to be the case. ‘Let’s hope it’s just coincidence then.’ Suddenly she felt a basic and needful desire flood through her body; it overtook her concern about the gossip. She changed her tone. ‘So since you’ve sent my maid away, how am I supposed to undress?’ she asked with a small smile.
Harrington patted the bed. ‘Come here, I can help you.’
Afterwards, he asked, ‘Did you like that?’
‘Yes. You’re very good.’
‘Your best?’
‘One of them,’ she conceded. Lord Harrington looked disappointed, but wisely chose to rally. Ava was not a woman who responded to self-pity; in fact she was very likely to be regretfully contemplating the ghastly sameness of all encounters such as these. He jumped out of bed and poked the fire, and then he threw the rubber condom in the grate and poked it again, hoping it would burn. It was not the sort of thing one wanted one’s wife to find, but Ava always insisted on one, seemingly unaware or at least unconcerned that the only other women who did so were French whores. She wouldn’t trust withdrawal; in an amusing perversion of the usual roles of the sexes, she insisted that men were out to trap her.
Lord Harrington reached for two cigarettes and lit them both, handing one to Ava. She sat up in bed, not bothering to modestly pull the covers up to hide her breasts. She didn’t think about it, but if she had, her actions would have been equally bold, because she secretly enjoyed the frisson of shocking. Clearly the lord liked it too, because he leapt back into bed with the energy of a child on Christmas morning. He swooped down to kiss her breast, and as he gently tugged on her nipple he mumbled, ‘Darling, you are perfect, will you marry me?’
Ava took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘That’s
terribly sweet of you, Charlie, but aren’t you already married?’
‘Well, yes, presently, but I’d divorce her. For you, my love, I would divorce her.’
Ava stubbed out her cigarette and considered. ‘But if you were single, you wouldn’t have any attractions at all,’ she replied with a yawn. ‘Now, darling, do be quiet. I want to get some sleep.’
7
THE DOCTOR’S SURGERY was almost identical to the half a dozen or so other doctors’ surgeries Lydia had visited over the past seven years: austere, silent and tinged with the smell of chloroform, a smell that always made her feel anxious and nauseous by turn. The dark mahogany floors, shelves, wall panels and doors in the small waiting room shone with polish and elbow grease, but their shine didn’t please or comfort Lydia in the least; she fought the feeling that she was trapped in a coffin. She couldn’t stay seated for more than five minutes in a row, but leapt up from her chair and strode around the room. She fingered the brass bell on reception, touched the handles on the drawers of the impressive display cabinet housing an eagle that a taxidermist had captured mid pounce and flicked through the magazines set on the table until Sarah reminded her, ‘Not everyone wears gloves nowadays.’ Even though Lydia did wear gloves, for warmth and form, she instantly drew back, sat down and rested her hands on her lap.
There was no good news.
Dr Folstad was tall and slim, fitter than most men his age. His moustache, white and thick, drew Lydia’s eye as it danced with his lip, probably made all the more fascinating by the contrast with his head, which was entirely bald and shone so audaciously that Lydia believed it quite possible that he had it polished along with the wall cladding and shelves. However, for all his reputation as an experimental, forward-thinking doctor, he had nothing new to offer Lydia, who had hoped for a miracle at best, innovation at least. Whilst he looked very different from all the other doctors she’d met, he sounded the same. He took her temperature, asked about her menstruation, made her lie down on her back as he put his hands on her belly. Just as all the other doctors had.