by Andrew Garve
Quilter was silent, brooding darkly over her words. Presently he said: “That’s quite an indictment, Julie. I hadn’t an idea that you’d got all that stored away. But now that you’ve told me …”
“It won’t make a scrap of difference. You’re incapable of behaving in any other way—I know that well enough now. Don’t think I blame you entirely, though—I blame myself too. I’ve given way too much. I’ve been so weak that I’ve let you persuade me that what you wanted was what I wanted myself. Sometimes I’ve even been fooled into taking the decisions myself.… Oh, what’s the good of talking about it any more?—we’re just going round in circles.”
“You’re tired, Julie, that’s the trouble—you need a rest.”
“I don’t need a rest. I need release. Do you hear? Release—and I’m going to get it.”
“You mean that you’re actually going on with this fantastic notion of a divorce?”
“Yes.”
“You realise that it will probably mean the end of my career?”
“I don’t see why. Plenty of politicians get divorced these days and survive. You’ll be able to talk yourself out of it.”
“Julie—I implore you. At least give yourself a chance to make sure—we can separate, if you insist, but don’t go rushing into divorce right away. You’re going to make yourself very unhappy, Julie, if you do—I warn you.”
“You may be right, but it’ll be unhappiness of my own choosing, not something forced on me. It’s no good, Laurence, I’ve decided. I’m going up to town on the night train and in the morning I shall find a lawyer. Unless you’ve any objection I’ll use the flat until things are settled.”
He looked as if he were going to make one last appeal to her—then he threw up his hands in a hopeless gesture. “Very well, do as you please. But you’ll regret it in the end—you’ll blame yourself.” He turned away with an unfathomable expression on his face.
Chapter Nine
It wasn’t until she was alone in London that Julie felt the full impact of what she had done. Then it hit her hard. Her life had suddenly become a vacuum. The impersonality of the furnished flat increased the feeling that she didn’t belong anywhere any more, that she had uprooted herself. For a while, loneliness and misery engulfed her. She longed desperately for Ben, but he was out of reach and would be for a long time, if not for ever. She could write to him in Trinidad, of course, but he wouldn’t get the letter for many weeks. Anything could happen in between—and meanwhile she had to live.
She thought a great deal about Laurence. As the days passed, the reasons which had driven her to make her decision seemed as valid as ever, but she missed him as she would have missed an amputated leg. Seven years of shared interests and, on her part, of concentrated devotion couldn’t be written off in a few hours. Every moment of every day cried out for the small familiar things.
Fortunately she was not much given to sentimentality, and there were plenty of practical problems to occupy her. The divorce, for one. Her anger had cooled and the last thing she wanted to do was to injure Laurence in any way. Divorce might not carry much stigma these days but it wouldn’t exactly help a precariously-seated politician to have his amours splashed over the local papers. If Laurence lost his seat because of her it would be a stunning blow to him and she’d never forgive herself.
The only solicitor she knew personally was Laurence’s, and she could hardly go to him. Instead she picked out the name of a firm from a society divorce report and made an appointment by telephone. She was received by an elderly gentleman who listened with respectful sympathy to her story, asked her a few questions about herself, and assured her that the divorce should be quite straightforward since the name of the co-respondent was known and the suit would presuraably be undefended. When, however, she told him she would really like to arrange things so that Laurence didn’t appear as the guilty party, he was horrified. He had no sympathy with erring politicians, the notion struck him as quixotic, and in any case—as he firmly pointed out—the divorce laws weren’t intended to work that way. Of course, if she herself had committed adultery.… He became technical, murmuring of “discretion” and “collusion,” but he left her in no doubt that the success of any attempt on her part to turn herself into a divorce would be highly dubious, and the process itself most distasteful to her. The interview ended unsatisfactorily, with Julie declaring she would think things over and let him know.
She felt in need of a confidante and went down to Dorset again to spend a few more days with Muriel Challoner. It was an immense relief to unburden herself, but when she came back to London she still hadn’t decided what to do. She was rather surprised that there was no letter or message from Laurence—at the very least she’d have expected him to be curious about the steps she was taking, and anyway there were all sorts of mundane things to settle. She wondered how he was getting on, up there in the cottage with no one to look after him. It worried her quite a bit.
Her first task now, she decided, was to get a job and make herself financially independent of Laurence as soon as possible. She looked up one or two old acquaintances and put out some lines, and she kept a close eye on the “Appointments Vacant” column in the Times and the Telegraph. She was actually drafting a reply to an advertisement for a proofreader when, some days after her return from Dorset, the telephone rang and a man’s voice, precise and slightly over-cultured, said, “Is Mr. Laurence Quilter there, please?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Julie. “Who wants him?”
“This is the Prime Minister’s office. It’s rather urgent.”
A tingle of excitement ran through her. “My husband’s up in Cumberland,” she said. “I expect you’ll be able to get him there. The number’s Blean 124.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Quilter. I’ll ring him right away.” The telephone clicked before she could frame a question. Anyway, it wouldn’t have been any use—they wouldn’t tell her anything.
She hung up, feeling absurdly pleased. So it had happened at last—the long-awaited offer of a job. It couldn’t be anything else—mere party matters were conducted much less formally. Laurence would be so delighted, and it would help to take his mind off his personal affairs. He’d be tremendously stimulated. He’d love having to make decisions, he’d be excellent at answering questions in the House, he’d enjoy the feeling of leadership among his staff. She hadn’t a doubt that he’d be a good Under-Secretary, if only he’d learn to compromise a bit. He’d certainly welcome the challenge of responsibility. She wondered if it was the Defence job he was going to be offered, or something else. Not that that mattered a great deal—the main thing was that he should get a foot on the ladder.
She was thankful now that she’d done nothing about the divorce—publicity just at that moment might have spoiled his chances. Perhaps he’d ring her after he’d had his interview and tell her all the news. He hadn’t really any grievance against her, and he must know that she was still terribly interested. The thought brought back all the ache and emptiness, and she sighed as she turned again to the appointments list. What a beastly mess it all was!
It was late in the afternoon when the telephone rang again.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Quilter …”—it was the same precise voice—“… but we’re having a little difficulty in getting hold of your husband. It’s seems there’s no reply to his number.”
“I expect he’s gone out,” said Julie. “Can’t you try him this evening?”
“We’ve left the call in, naturally, but the exchange up there say they’ve been unable to get any reply for two days.”
“I see,” she said thoughtfully. She felt little surprise—it was natural that he should have wanted to get away. She was silent for a moment. “Well, I really don’t know what to suggest—I should think he may have gone off walking for a day or two.”
“You mean without telling anyone?” Julie could almost hear the eyebrows lifting.
“It’s possible. After all, he is suppo
sed to be on holiday …”
“Oh, quite so, but—dear me, this is most unfortunate. You see, Mrs. Quilter …”—the voice hesitated—“… well, I can’t tell you very much except that there’s an appointments involved and a very urgent mission. It’s quite imperative that we get hold of him by to-morrow at latest.”
“I do understand that, of course,” Julie said in a troubled voice. “I hardly know what to advise, though. If he is walking I should think he’s probably somewhere in the Lake District, but I haven’t the least idea where. His secretary might know—that’s Jane Harper, Flaxman 99431. And you might try ringing his agent, Adam Johnson—it’s just possible some message was left with him.” She reached for her handbag and turned up Johnson’s number. “Blean 2471. And if I do think of anything else I’ll let you know at once.”
“I wish you would, Mrs. Quilter. We’ve got to find him somehow.” There was a sudden buzz of conversation at the other end and the man rang off abruptly.
Julie sat for a while considering the problem. She still thought her first guess was the best—walking in the hills would be Laurence’s equivalent of going off to Africa to shoot lions! But it was only a guess—he might be anywhere. She picked up the telephone and rang Jane.
“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Quilter,” came the secretary’s voice at once. “The P.M.’s office just called me—it’s thrilling, isn’t it, but I do wish he’d show up, they’re in an awful flap.”
“You’ve no idea where he is, then?”
“I haven’t a clue. As a matter of fact I was just beginning to get a bit bothered myself—I tried to get through to him yesterday but I couldn’t and there’s a terrific stack of stuff waiting to be dealt with.”
“When did you last speak to him, Jane?”
“The evening before last. He rang me.”
“From Blean?”
“Yes. He seemed in a bit of a hurry, I thought, and left a lot of things undecided, but he didn’t say a word about going anywhere.”
“Then I shouldn’t think he’ll be away long—we’ll have news to-night, I dare say. It’s very aggravating, but we’ll just have to be patient. Do ring me the moment you hear anything.”
“I will,” Jane promised.
Julie hung up, feeling rather cross. Really, it was exasperating. Here had Laurence been waiting for a summons for years and years, and now that they wanted him he wasn’t there. Of course, they could hardly expect him to sit at the end of a telephone line on the off-chance, but he ought not to be so frightfully casual, even if he was fed up. Going off like that without a word to anybody! It would be too frightful if they couldn’t find him in time and the job went to somebody else. After all, they’d said something about a mission, and perhaps that couldn’t wait …
Still, it was no good worrying—there was nothing more she could do. She passed the evening listening to a rather indifferent feature programme on the radio. It was odd, she reflected—in all her life she could hardly remember a bored moment, and yet in the past few weeks she seemed to have been constantly trying to kill time. By nine o’clock there had still been no word. She heard Big Ben strike and the announcer begin to talk and suddenly she was sitting stock still, her attention held.
“Before the news,” the voice was saying, “here is a police message. Will Mr. Laurence Quilter, M.P., who is believed to be on a walking tour in the Lake District, or anyone who can give any information about his movements, please communicate at once with Whitehall 1212, or with any police station. I will repeat that …”
Julie snapped off the radio. Heavens, they must want him badly. Of course, it was the obvious way to get him—he’d be sure to hear now, wherever he was. Laurence wasn’t the man to be modest about his identity, particularly in his own constituency, and anyway he was well known there, and wherever he stayed he’d have to sign the book. Somebody would be sure to tell him about the broadcast even if he hadn’t heard it himself.
All the same, the announcement had upset her a little. A police message—well, of course, that must be the routine way, but it was a bit too dramatic for comfort. It almost made it sound as though he were a missing person, as though something had happened to him …
Then a horrible idea flashed through her mind. Suppose something had happened to him!
For a moment she felt sick with apprehension. She remembered how white and ill he’d looked in the cottage, and how desperately he’d pleaded with her. She remembered, too, the last words he’d spoken to her—“You’ll regret it in the end, you’ll blame yourself.” And that odd look he’d given her. Oh, God, had he meant to kill himself? He had always been given to extremes, he had always seemed capable of desperate action. If he had felt as wretched as she had, and with his temperament …
In sudden panic she rushed to the bedroom and began to throw some things into a bag. He might be lying in the cottage at this moment! Then she took a grip of herself and tried to consider the matter calmly. Laurence was an unpredictable man, an unstable man, but she couldn’t believe she’d meant so much to him that he’d feel his life wasn’t worth living without her. He wasn’t the sort of man to end his life on account of any other person—unless she were completely mistaken in him. And he certainly wouldn’t have done it quietly, without fuss, as though what he was disposing of were of no value. He had too strong a sense of his importance—he’d want a good last curtain. No doubt he’d been lonely, but he’d have found some less drastic way out of his loneliness …
That started another train of thought. When you broke with one person, you usually went to someone else, if you could. And Laurence could have done. He could have gone to Brenda Marlowe for comfort. Of course, he’d insisted once again that that was all over and done with, and he’d looked as though he’d meant it, but he might easily have changed his mind under the pressure of loneliness.
Once the possibility had entered her head, Julie had to make sure. Brenda was almost certain to be in the telephone book. The idea of talking to her was distasteful, but if Laurence were there with her now and they happened not to have listened to the news he might not learn that he was wanted until it was too late. Quickly Julie ran her finger down the M’s. Markham … Marley … Marlowe. Brenda Marlowe!—here it was. A Grosvenor number. Julie hadn’t realised it, but Brenda lived in a block of flats only a few minutes away. She took a deep breath and dialled.
A woman’s voice broke the ringing tone almost at once, low and attractive. “So I think we might do it again some time …” it was saying, finishing a sentence, and then, “Hello!”
“Miss Marlowe,” said Julie. It was a statement rather than a question, for after all this time she remembered the voice.
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Julie Quilter.”
There was a perceptible pause. “Oh, hello! Sorry—I couldn’t quite place you for a moment, it’s such ages since we met. How are you?”
“Miss Marlowe—it’s not very pleasant having to ring you like this, but—is Laurence there? I’ve an urgent message for him.”
The pause was even longer this time. “I’m afraid I don’t understand …”
“Oh, please don’t stall. It’s terribly important for him—the Prime Minister wants him. If he’s there, do tell him.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes, you do—what’s the use of trying to pretend …?” Julie broke off as she heard a man’s voice in the background. Then the telephone suddenly clicked and went dead.
Chapter Ten
So he was there! Rather miserably, Julie replaced the receiver. It hardly concerned her now, of course, but they might have been more open about it. In the circumstances, Brenda’s attitude was ridiculous. Still, the important thing was that Laurence should have the message, and Brenda would at least pass that on.
Julie picked up the bag she had begun to pack and tossed it into a corner. What a fool she would have been, rushing up north like a hysterical wife when Laurence was consoling
himself here in London! The whole episode had been too unpleasant for words. She wished now that she hadn’t tried to help. Laurence would think she was weakening, and that wasn’t by any means true.
She sat down to write out her application for the proofreading job. It was nearly eleven when she had finished and she was just thinking of going to bed when there came a sudden ring at the bell. She opened the door and a tall blonde woman swept unceremoniously into the room. Julie had no difficulty in recognising her. It was Brenda Marlowe, beautifully dressed, perfectly groomed, and heavily made up. She came straight to the point.
“Will you kindly tell me what all this nonsense is about?” she demanded. “What’s the idea of ringing up your husband at my flat?”
Julie looked at her with icy hostility. “Because I thought he was there, of course.”
“But why? You’re not by any chance accusing me of having an affair with him, are you? It sounds very much like it.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“I certainly am not,” said Brenda indignantly. “I haven’t set eyes on the man for years.”
“I can’t think why you bother to lie,” Julie said. “I know all about it. I know that you and he have just been away together, and that it wasn’t the first time. Laurence admitted it.”
“Admitted it!” Brenda gave a theatrical laugh. Then she looked curiously at Julie. “I say, you’re feeling all right, aren’t you?”
“This isn’t a joke,” said Julie.