‘Couldn’t you mention it to Shearman yourself some time, Laurence? I’d so much rather it came through you. I mean, Claude’s bound to think it funny that I should get an introduction through outsiders when I’ve got a husband who’s connected with the theatre.’
‘Oh, but that’s quite an ordinary thing. Everyone gets introductions in the most casual and unexpected ways. If I praised the thing it would only put Shearman off. He and I never think the same way about plays.’
‘Well, tell him you dislike it. Then he might take a fancy to it.’ Her smile was pleading as well as mischievous.
Harwell hesitated. To be asked and to give, even to the half of one’s kingdom, should be accounted one of the seven joys of marriage. And it could do no harm. Rosamund would be pleased, the play would be returned with thanks in due course and he would have done his best. Shearman wouldn’t be ass enough to put the play on, and if he did it would be damned. It must be. It couldn’t possibly turn out to be the case of The Brazen Serpent all over again. That had been the purest fluke. All the same, perhaps it would be wiser to have another look at the script. Confound the Peter Wimseys; why did they want to interfere?
‘Look here, darling, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll read it again myself, and if I think it’s got a dog’s chance . . .’
‘Will you put it on yourself?’
‘I couldn’t promise that,’ said Harwell, a little taken aback. ‘It means getting a management and a theatre.’ To women, everything always seemed so simple. When one tried to explain the enormous diplomatic complexity of the theatrical world, they simply couldn’t grasp what one was saying.
‘Oh, Laurence, don’t be absurd. Of course any management would put a play on if you backed it.’
He was flattered by her certainty of his omnipotence. And it was true that he could probably get a management – not any management, not Shearman, for instance – to put on even an uncommercial play, provided (he thought a little contemptuously) he was ready to shoulder all the risk and pay all the losses. And in a dazzling moment he saw himself making the magnificent gesture, pouring thousands down the drain, so that Rosamund might go on looking as she was looking now. What had he married her for, if it was not to fulfil her every whim, however unreasonable?
‘Are you really so keen on it?’
‘Oh, Laurence!’
‘You’re a witch,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe there’s any tomfool thing you couldn’t persuade me to do.’
‘Isn’t there?’
Her smile mocked and invited him.
‘I haven’t promised.’
‘Oh, but you will.’ She put out her hands to ward him off. ‘Not till you promise.’
‘All right. I promise.’
‘Darling . . . Claude will be so thrilled, poor boy.’
‘Damn Claude. I’m not doing it for him. I’m doing it for you.’
This time her laugh was at once triumph and enchantment. It was like an exultant arpeggio upon the harp. He was committed now, he supposed, to making a fool of himself, but it was worth it, to justify her confidence and her pride in his power.
‘You do spoil me, darling, don’t you?’
‘Well, what am I here for?’
Yes, by God! If there was anything in the world his wife wanted, he would give it to her. She could tell the world, show ’em she didn’t need favours from the Wimseys or Jude Shearman either. Shearman! A tight-lipped, tight-fisted Yorkshire tradesman, who turned over every bit of his brass before he spent it. No wonder two wives had found him impossible. Women liked men to be generous; it was their delight to return surrender for surrender.
‘Happy now?’
‘Terribly happy. Yes, but – no, sweetheart, no, not now. Let me go. I must write and tell Claude.’
‘He can wait till tomorrow. Dash it, you can ring the fellow up. You stay exactly where you are. He doesn’t want you as much as I do. Or perhaps he does, but he’s not going to get you.’
‘Poor Claude!’ said Rosamund, dismissing her poet with another little arpeggio of laughter. She let Harwell pull her back upon his knee, and then sprang up again with an exclamation.
‘Oh, Laurence, we must behave ourselves. There’s the waiter coming to clear the coffee things.’
‘Damn!’ said Harwell. He released her and took up a newspaper rather hurriedly. Rosamund stood before the fireplace, arranging her hair in the mirror. The waiter attached to the service of the flat entered and collected the china in a detached manner.
‘Will there be anything further tonight, sir?’
‘No, thank you. Tell the valet I shall be wearing the brown suit tomorrow.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The man withdrew.
‘Well, thank God for a service flat,’ said Harwell. ‘When the staff goes, it goes. You can come back.’
Rosamund shook her head. The interruption had destroyed her mood. ‘I’m going to ring up Claude straight away. He’s waited such a long time.’
‘Another few hours won’t hurt him.’
‘No, it’s a shame to keep him waiting. Don’t be so selfish, darling.’
She picked up the scarlet-enamelled telephone and dialled, while Harwell had time to think that it would have been more satisfactory, in a way, if she had been a little more selfish. To spend money on her was his prerogative; to spend money on her tame poet might look to some people like a weakness. Everybody might not understand, as he did, her naïve and uncalculating pleasure in making others happy. Then he grinned; Bootle, the Sealyham pup, had sat up suddenly in his basket, and was beginning to trundle his fat body across the hearthrug. Ludicrous little dog. He made for Rosamund and began to play foolishly with her silver slippers; she stooped to pat him with her free hand, playing with him, laughing at his lavish red tongue and his frantic mumblings of adoration. Claude’s incoherent ecstasies on the phone would be just another rapturous and absurd puppy-gambol. All in a moment Harwell saw happiness tossed like a ball from him to Rosamund, from Rosamund to Claude, from Claude to the whole preposterous litter of theatre folk to whom a new play meant work and money and self-importance, from them to their children: a ball that gathered as it went like a snowball. He put his hand beneath the sofa cushions and found Bootle’s rubber ball tucked away there. He bounced it across the floor. It hit Bootle on his round hindquarters, startling him, so that he looked round with an idiot face. Harwell laughed.
‘Hi on, Bootle! Fetch him. Good dog.’
Rosamund slowly put down the receiver. ‘He doesn’t seem to be in.’
Her voice sounded a little chilled, as though she had surprised Claude in an act of ingratitude. She called to Bootle, who had chased his ball under the edge of the rug and was whuffling at it in what he considered to be a menacing and grown-up manner.
‘Bootle! Stop it, precious. Come to Muzzer. You’re destroying that rug.’
‘He won’t hurt it,’ said Harwell, easily.
‘He mustn’t get into a habit of worrying the furniture. Bootle, give it to Muzzer. There! Now, then, where is it? Where’s your good ball? Who’s got it? No, Muzzer hasn’t got it. Look! Hand empty. Ozzer hand empty. Now where’s ball? Wow, wow!’
She crouched by the puppy, passing the toy from one hand to the other behind her back, thrusting it into his eager face and spiriting it out of sight again, teasing and exciting him.
‘He’ll ruin your frock.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. No, you wouldn’t ruin Muzzer’s lovely frock, would you? No-o-o! Clever dog, zen.’
The ball rolled away as she caught the puppy up in her arms. He scrabbled and licked her face.
‘Oh, darling! Muzzer’s beautiful make-up! Isn’t it lucky it’s kissproof?’
‘You shouldn’t let him lick your mouth. It’s dangerous.’
‘Oh, did you hear zat, Bootle? As if you wasn’t a nice little clean dog! Kiss Muzzer again. Master’s cross because he’s jealous of poor Bootle!’
Harwell recaptured the ball and bounced
it invitingly across the parquet.
‘Oh, Bootle, don’t be so rough! Whatever did you do that for, Laurence? He’s laddered my stocking all to bits and scratched me right across the arm.’
‘I’m sorry, darling. Show me.’
‘That’ll do, Laurence.’
‘Damn it, you let the blasted dog kiss you. What’s the matter with you tonight? You’d better go and wash your face.’
‘You needn’t be rude.’
‘And put some iodine on your arm.’
‘It’s all right, thank you; it hasn’t broken the skin. He didn’t mean to hurt. It was only you calling him off like that. It’s silly to be jealous of a puppy.’
‘I’m not jealous. That’s ridiculous.’
‘You are, or you wouldn’t sound so cross.’
‘I tell you I am not jealous.’
‘You’re jealous of Claude, or you’d have done something for his play months ago.’
‘My dear girl, don’t be absurd. How on earth could anyone be jealous of Claude?’
‘Why not? He’s a very attractive boy.’
‘Is he? I suppose he appeals to women.’
‘Yes, darling. That’s what I was trying to convey to you.’
‘Well, dash it! If you prefer that sort of limp rag—’
‘I didn’t say I did. I didn’t marry a limp rag, did I?’
‘By God, you didn’t. And why you should accuse me of being jealous—’
‘But you are. You’re always being jealous. You’re jealous of Gaston Chapparelle.’
‘I’m not jealous of him. But he doesn’t have a good reputation.’
‘I suppose that’s why you come and wander round the studio while he’s painting. It’s rather insulting, I think, and must be frightfully irritating for him.’
Bootle, finding his grown-ups self-absorbed and unhelpful, withdrew to worry his ball in the corner behind the walnut cocktail cabinet.
‘My dear girl, do get this straight. I don’t care about Chapparelle and I don’t like his manner with women, but it has never for one single moment occurred to me to be jealous of him or anybody else. I won’t come with you again if you’d rather I didn’t. I thought you might prefer it, that’s all. But if you can put up with his insolence, I’m sure I don’t mind. You don’t imagine I’m afraid of competition from a hairy painter with a thick French accent?’
‘I do love your self-satisfied way of dismissing people. It would be more flattering to me if you were, wouldn’t it?’
‘Good God! But I thought that was what you were attacking me for. Well, I’m not jealous, and I absolutely refuse to pretend I am.’
‘I’m glad, because I might find people to be jealous about, too. All those actresses you take out to lunch and kiss at the stage door.’
‘One has to kiss actresses. They expect it. It doesn’t mean a thing.’
‘I know it doesn’t, darling. That’s why I don’t mind it. But you object if I even kiss Bootle.’
‘Kiss him as much as you like, so long as you don’t catch anything from him. Anyway it’s not good for that sort of dog to make a baby of him. If only you would—’
‘I know what you’re going to say. If only we had a child of our own—’
‘Well, I will say it. If we had a child, you’d have something to occupy your time—’
‘And keep me happy and quiet while you’re taking actresses out to lunch. That would make you feel freer, and be very nice for you.’
‘Well,’ said Harwell, steadily, ‘say if you like, while I’m taking actresses out to lunch and soothing their vanities, and calming down managements, and working out costs, and attending to my business. I’m afraid you do often have a dull time when I’m out. There isn’t much to do in a place where everything’s run for you.’
‘I’m glad you aren’t suggesting I should take up housework to keep me out of mischief. No, Laurence; we’ve been over all this so many times. Please don’t bring it up again. It isn’t that I don’t love children, and I wouldn’t be a bit afraid of having one – in that way. But it wouldn’t do. It would just be Bootle all over again, only worse. You think it wouldn’t, but I know it would. You’d be terribly, terribly jealous, and I couldn’t bear it.’
‘Jealous of my own child? Really, Rosamund, that’s a dreadful thing to say.’
‘Heaps of men are, all the same. Or else you’d love him better than me, and I should be miserable. Darling, can’t you see? It’s so wonderful, just you and me, and if anything, anything at all came to divide our happiness—’
‘Oh, but Rosamund, darling . . .’
‘Yes, and suppose I were to die. Well, I shouldn’t mind that so much, but suppose it made me get all out of shape and ugly, and I lost all my teeth or something horrible so that I couldn’t be your Rose of the World any more. It’s an awful toss-up, having babies, and I’ve got nothing but my looks to give you, no money and only a thief’s name.’
‘You mustn’t say that.’
‘But it’s true. I’m so thankful Father’s gone home. It’s terrible for you to have him always talking to people about prisons and making things so uncomfortable.’
‘Poor old boy. I don’t mind him.’
‘I mind for you. And Laurence, suppose that sort of thing’s in my blood. If I had a baby and he turned out like – like Father, you know, weak and dishonest . . .’
‘Rosamund, sweetheart, don’t. You’re tormenting yourself. You’re being hysterical. My darling, I’d no idea it was worrying you like that. Hush, now. We won’t talk about it any more.’
‘You do see, don’t you?’
‘I don’t think there’s the least risk of anything like that happening, but of course if you feel like that it’s no good arguing about it.’
‘Honestly, I’m not being selfish, but I should be worrying and worrying all the time. Of course, if you say I must . . .’
‘Should I be likely to say anything so disgusting? Darling, I’m sorry. Forgive me. I didn’t understand. We won’t think about it any more. Look! There’s old Bootle, wondering what on earth has happened to his missus. He has got a silly face, hasn’t he? Just like a white cloth boot.’
‘Poor Bootle. Oh, Laurence, I’m so glad we’ve had all this out. It’s such a relief. So long as I’ve just got you I don’t want anything more.’
‘Nor do I, darling. Only you. I have got you, haven’t I? All mine? Every bit?’
‘Every bit. You see, you are jealous.’
‘Of course I am. Jealous as hell . . . Sweetheart . . .’
Dear Lady Peter,
Many thanks for your letter. It was very kind of you to think of mentioning Mr Amery to Sir Jude, and I am sure he will be most grateful when I tell him. However, in the meantime, my husband has decided to sponsor the play himself, so I expect it will be better to leave it to him to approach a London management. But thank you very much all the same. Yes, indeed, we must meet again some time. Just at the present, of course, in view of the poor King’s death, we are not doing any entertaining, but we must make an opportunity later on.
With again many thanks,
Yours sincerely,
Rosamund Harwell
Bless me, thought Harriet, what it is to be able to twist one’s husband round one’s little finger! ‘Peter, would you put money into a play you didn’t believe in, if I asked you to?’
‘Harriet, you alarm me. You’re not writing a play?’
‘No, my good lord, I am not. I meant somebody else’s play.’
‘Nothing would induce me to back a play. Whose play?’
‘Claude Amery’s. Mrs Harwell has wheedled her husband into backing it.’
‘And beauty draws us with a single hair. No, Harriet, I have already informed you that as a husband I am the world’s worst wash-out. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in. You might bump your head in the dust to me and I would still refuse to back any play, more particularly, of course, a b
ad one.’
‘I was afraid not.’
‘Nor,’ pursued Peter, warming to his subject, ‘should you entangle me by any less honourable means. I may be an effete aristocrat, but I am not the King of France. I will not hold a Bed of Justice – still less, a Bed of Dramatic Criticism. In a moment of weakness one concedes everything. Kindly understand, here and now, that I make no official pronouncements except clothed and in my right mind, between breakfast and bedtime.’
‘Does that go for me, too?’
‘Certainly. By the way, last night, somewhere about midnight, you voluntarily informed me that you would pull yourself together and return Lady Severn and Thames’s call. You are at liberty to rescind that decision.’
‘Thank you. I will reconsider the matter and let you have a memorandum through the Secretary of the Home Office.’
‘It shall be read to me, as Disraeli once observed, “by a Privy Counsellor”. Are you going out this morning?’
‘I have a date with Gaston Chapparelle.’
‘Oh, yes, the gentleman who is in love with your bones. I hope he is making a good job of your flesh. I hold certain mandatory concessions in that department.’
‘I think it’ll be a good bit of painting,’ said Harriet, doubtfully. ‘I don’t know whether you’ll like it.’
‘I shall wait till it’s finished and then issue a speech from the throne. At present I am urgently called for in a little matter of local sewage. Can I drop you at the studio in passing? I am going St John’s Wood way.’
‘Thank you,’ said Chapparelle, putting down his palette. ‘That is very good. You may sit down now, and withdraw your mind from the agreeable thoughts upon which I requested you to fix it. You obey instructions à merveille. If the wife is as obedient as the sitter, everything in your household should march as if on wheels. I would just make one little reservation – a cigarette? – that the behaviour of married women with other men affords no criterion of their behaviour with their husbands. I am not drawing any conclusions, I simply state a little fact.’
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