Anne Weale - Until We Met

by Anne Weale

  "My sister."

  "I didn't know you had one."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Haven't I mentioned her?"

  "No one has."

  "Oh, well, she's been off on her own for some time now and we tend to forget her for spells. Although she's a journalist, she's hopeless at writing letters." He glanced round the room, as if faintly amused by its extreme femininity. "However, she does descend on us occasionally, so we keep this room ready," he explained. "Actually this house is really hers. I'm only living here until I marry— if and when that happens."

  "You mean if you marry you'll leave here?"

  "Of course." He shrugged slightly. "Brides usually like to start a home from scratch, don't they? I've got some building land up on The Ridges, but whether I ever make use of it depends on… a lot of things."

  And with that he left the room.

  Two evenings later, Joanna and Cathy were sitting in Charles's garden when Cathy said suddenly, "Joanna, is your career terribly important to you?"

  It was such an unexpected question that Joanna couldn't answer for a moment. Until Cathy had broken the silence, she had been deep in some rather gloomy thoughts about life and the end of life.

  Earlier in the day they had been among the large number of mourners at Mrs. Carlyon's funeral, for as well as being the widow of a former Mayor and important figure in the shoe industry, Mary Carlyon had been the kind of person who makes friends and admirers in every walk of life. Yet there had been nothing depressing about the simple burial service in the little country church about five miles outside Merefield. The sun had been shining and the birds singing as Mrs. Carlyon was laid to rest in the dappled shade of an ancient sycamore. As the rector of the parish had told them, she had been a kind and honorable woman who had lived a full life and was now deservedly at peace.

  "I don't know, Cathy," Joanna said slowly, rousing herself from her unwonted introspection. " 'Important' is such a relative word to apply to anything. I enjoy my job and I want to be as successful as possible. If one isn't moderately keen, there isn't much point in doing something."

  "I mean would you be terribly unhappy if you had to stop it?" Cathy qualified. "Would it be the… the end of the world for you?"

  "No, hardly that," Joanna said, smiling a little. "I should feel rather lost, I expect, but nothing is ever 'the end of the world' as you put it! Anyway, why this catechism?"

  "Oh… I just wondered," Cathy said vaguely. "I've been thinking about my career, actually. I want to be an actress more than anything—only they never seem to be very lucky in their private lives, do they ?"

  She paused for some moments, plucking at some blades of grass below her deck chair. "It must be so nice to have a husband and children and all be happy together. Some of the girls at school have homes like that, and—well, you can sort of feel it when you go to tea with them."

  Joanna felt a sudden rash of compassion for her. Poor little Cathy! She hadn't put it into words, but she obviously envied the friends whose families were more united than her own. Joanna knew just how she felt. She too had ached for the intangible warmth and security of a loving family circle when she was that age.

  "Oh, I'm quite sure lots of actresses have very happy private lives," she said cheerfully. "It's just that, for some peculiar reason, the miserable ones are better news value!"

  Cathy leaned back in her chair and gazed up at the sky. "I wonder what it's like to be madly in love?" she murmured. "Have you ever been in love, Joanna?"

  " 'In love' is a relative as 'important'," Charles said suddenly, from close behind them.

  He must have been standing there since the conversation started, Joanna realized.

  "Well—have you, Joanna?" he persisted, coming round to the front of them and dropping into the third chair that had been put out.

  But Cathy saved her from answering. "I bet lots of people have been in love with you," she announced decidedly. Then, with a deep sigh, "I wish I had red hair and nice legs."

  Joanna laughed. "What's wrong with your legs, may I ask?"

  "They're so bony—my knees are like rocks. And my hair is like chewed string."

  "No, it isn't, silly," Joanna countered. "It's rather a lovely honey color. Besides, later on, if you really want to change it, you can try a red rinse, or even a black one. If one's born with red hair one can't have any variety."

  Mrs Howard came out with a tray of cold drinks and some sandwiches. Nobody had had much appetite for lunch and there was an hour to go before supper.

  "Oh, that remands me, I have something for you," Charles said to Joanna. "Alice was checking the drawers in your room at Mere House and she found these tucked away at the back of one of them. Hadn't you missed them?"

  He handed her the shagreen box containing Yve's parting gift.

  Joanna flushed. "Thanks. No, I hadn't," she said shortly.

  "What is it? Jewellery? Can I see?" Cathy asked inquisitively.

  Joanna hesitated for a moment, then passed her the box.

  "Gosh! How super! They aren't… they can't be real sapphires," Cathy exclaimed.

  "Why shouldn't they be real?" Charles asked negligently, his eyes resting on Joanna with a faintly malicious expression.

  "Well, I didn't think you earned as much as that," Cathy explained to Joanna. A thought occurred to her. "Perhaps they were a present from one of your fans, were they? An infatuated French millionaire, like that man who sent two dozen deep red roses every day to some actress. There was a piece about it in a magazine. He died in the end—the millionaire, I mean—but he put a thingummy in his will and, instead of roses, she now gets two dozen white orchids. Gosh, he must have been terribly in love with her." She examined the ear-rings again. "I say, I suppose I couldn't possibly try them on, could I—just for a second?"

  "Yes, if you like," Joanna said, forced to smile at the hesitant tone of the request. She fished a mirror out of her bag so that Cathy could inspect the effect.

  "Oh, they look quite ordinary on me," the younger girl said disappointedly. "I just haven't got the face for sapphires. You put them on, Joanna. I can't think why you didn't wear them at our party."

  "No, I don't think I will just now," Joanna said, carefully casual. "Sparkling jewellery never does look very good in daylight—and these don't really suit me."

  For some reason she could not analyse, she could not bring herself to wear the ear-rings in front of Charles.

  * * *

  It was about nine o'clock and Charles had just advised Cathy to have an early night, when the younger girl suddenly said, "I wish you hadn't got to go to London, Joanna. Couldn't you possibly tell them you don't want to work at this hotel place, and stay here with us?"

  Joanna turned away from the window where she had been watching a pair of swallows skimming in search of insects.

  "I wish I hadn't got to go, too," she said gently. "But I have a contract, you see, and how could I earn my living if I stayed in Merefield?"

  Cathy scratched a midge bite on one thin brown arm. She seemed about to say something, then changed her mind. Finally, she said, "No, I suppose you couldn't. Oh, well— goodnight."

  After she had gone, there was a long silence. Charles seemed deep in a book, and Joanna returned to the window. Recently—with the exception of that brief exchange in the garden earlier on—there had been no clashes between them. But she doubted if the truce had much significance. They were still living under the shadow of her grandmother's death, and were not in the mood for fireworks.

  "Did you mean that—about wishing you could stay here?" Charles asked suddenly.

  Joanna turned. He had thrust his book aside and was reaching for a cigarette. He looked tired and rather strained, she thought. Suddenly, a snatch of conversation which she had had with Cathy soon after her arrival came back into her mind. What was it Cathy had said? Something about Charles being the person they all had to kowtow to.

  At the time, Joanna remembered, the remark had confirmed her opinion that Ch
arles was something of a despot.

  Now she saw that, even if he was a shade despotic, his way was generally the right one. And where would they all have been after her grandmother's death without Charles to take charge and make plans ?

  "Perhaps it's because I've never lived in a place like Merefield before," she said slowly, evading a direct answer to his question. "It's so much more peaceful than a big city, don't you think? One doesn't—isn't bound to rush about, to… to compete with everybody." She smiled and her tone was airy. "Maybe, at heart, I'm a small town girl—or maybe it's just a novelty."

  Charles watched the smoke rising from the tip of his cigarette. "If you'd really like to stay, it isn't impossible."

  It was like the other morning when he had come to her bedroom and asked her to postpone her departure. Her pulses began to race and she had difficulty in breathing evenly.

  "What do you mean?"

  The interval between her question and his reply could only have been a few seconcis, but it seemed an eternity of tension.

  "I happen to know that Grandmother has left you some money. Not a fortune, but enough to maintain you for a year or two."

  "I see." It took all her control not to burst into wild peals of half-hysterical laughter. You fool, Joanna Allen! she thought bitterly. That's the second time you've let yourself in for an unwitting rebuff. What did you expect? That he was going to fall on his knees and implore you to marry him?

  It was a moment or two before she could be certain that her voice wouldn't crack. Then she said coolly, "That was very kind of Grandmother. I had no idea. But somehow I can't see myself leading a life of leisure, and I'm still really more French than English, you know. I wouldn't want to settle here and then find myself desperately nostalgic for Paris. And now, if you don't mind, I'll go up to bed, too. Goodnight, Charles."

  Without waiting for his answer, she went swiftly out of the room.

  * * *

  The following afternoon, Mrs. Howard summoned her to the telephone. The call was from Gustave Hugo. He wanted her to meet him in London in forty-eight hours.

  When Cathy heard the news, she was disconsolate. But Charles accepted it with his customary calm.

  "You must let us know when you are due to appear on television. We shall want to watch you," he said casually.

  To Joanna that last day and night in Merefield were the most subtle emotional torture she had ever experienced. If this was loving someone, she would never be caught a second time. And at their final breakfast together she felt like a condemned prisoner with the minutes ticking her life away.

  At the last moment Cathy said abruptly that she didn't, want to come to the station after all. She looked on the verge of tears.

  "Oh, Joanna—shall we ever see you again?" she asked forlornly, as Charles carried the bags out to the car.

  "Why, yes, I expect so, dear. Maybe… maybe when you're older you could come on a visit to Paris."

  "We'd better be off. We haven't too much of a margin," Charles warned, coming back into the hall.

  Joanna gave Cathy a brief hug. "Don't forget to write and tell me what you think of the TV show," she said unsteadily.

  Then they were in the car and driving swiftly to the station.

  Mercifully, Charles didn't prolong their goodbyes. He found the seat she had reserved, swung her bags on to the rack and stepped out of the compartment again.

  "I won't hang about, Joanna," he said briskly, shutting the door. "Good luck with your new show, and… thanks for coming."

  "Goodbye, Charles." She bent to the window and held out her hand.

  His lean fingers closed strongly but briefly over hers.

  "Goodbye."

  Joanna hung out of the window and watched him return to the barrier, but he never looked back. At last, when his tall broad-shouldered figure was lost to sight, she slumped into her seat and closed her eyes.

  She was still sitting limply in her corner when the collector came into check her ticket. There was one thing which was 'the end of the world," she had discovered. That was leaving the man you loved because he didn't love you, and most likely never seeing him again.

  On the first of September, a few days before her opening night, Joanna walked down Piccadilly to buy gloves at Fortnum and Mason. She had expected London to compare unfavorably with Paris. But although, architecturally, it was not as beautifully laid out as the fabled Gty of Light, it had a character all its own which she found most delightful.

  Whoever had started the legend that Englishmen were uncouth? she wondered, admiring the many immaculately- tailored, bowler-hatted business men who passed her in the streets. And why was the bowler hat such a joke abroad? It seemed to her most becoming.

  But thinking about Englishmen, even in the mass, was dangerous ground. It was better to contemplate the women and girls, and they were certainly quite as chic as their Parisian counterparts.

  France might have the greatest fashion houses, but if you couldn't afford haute couture, you had to rely on the skill of some "little woman"; and "little women" were not always as marvellous as they were said to be. Here, in London, the windows of the big stores were full of extremely well-made "off the peg" garments at, so it seemed to Joanna, incredibly cheap prices.

  She spent most of her free time searching out blissful tweed skirts and lambswool sweaters, or browsing in antique shops or just seeing all the sights. She was always busy: always going somewhere or doing something. But she was still utterly wretched.

  On this particular afternoon, she bought her gloves and then lingered on the ground floor grocery department—-if one could apply such a humdrum term to the pink marble and soft carpets, the frock-coated assistants and mink- wrapped customers of that gourmets' Mecca. After wandering round the cold buffet section where one could order almost anything from a full-scale banquet to a very special picnic hamper, she went out into the sun again and strolled leisurely up to the Ritz.

  Gustave, who seemed to know London as well as he did Paris, complained that even the best hotels and restaurants were becoming grossly overcrowded. But the Ritz was the last bastion of a more gracious era. There one could find proper elbow room, and did not have to shout one's conversation over a hubbub of other voices.

  Joanna went in by the Piccadilly entrance and, being five minutes early, decided to freshen her make-up. Like Fort- num and Mason's epicerie, the cloackroom seemed to have been hewn out of a huge block of rosy marble. Leaving her parcels in the care of the attendant, she sat down at a large gilded looking-glass and examined her reflection.

  Fortunately Gustave didn't seem to have noticed it, but she was far from looking her best. She had lost a good deal of weight, and it took an elaborate make-up to disguise the hollowing of her cheeks and the dullness of her eyes.

  I can't go on like this, she thought worriedly. I shall have to get a prescription for some sleeping pills.

  "You have taken up smoking, I see?" Gustave remarked, when they had finished their tea.

  "You don't object, do you?" Joanna asked warily, fitting her cigarette into a short amber holder.

  "It is not a habit I admire in women," he said bluntly. "But at least you are not one of these." He gave a brief imitation of a woman with a cigarette dangling from a corner of her mouth and one eye screwed up against smoke. "Ah, believe me, such manners are quite common—even here. See, at that table." He indicated a pair of middle-aged women of extreme elegance who were seated close by; one of them was smoking exactly as he had demonstrated.

  "Tell me, cherie, when did it become necessary for you to smoke?" he asked.

  Joanna stiffened. "It isn't necessary exactly," she said airily. "But most people do nowadays and… and I find it relaxing."

  "Hmph!" He gave her a shrewd glance, but didn't pursue the point.

  It was not until they were on the point of leaving and Joanna was drawing on her gloves that he said abruptly, "Enough of these evasions. We both know that matters are not right—and we both know the reason. T
he time has arrived to discuss it"

  "The reason?" Joanna said, mystified.

  There was a gleam of sardonic amusement in Gustave's eyes. "One does not become so noticeably debilitated without a reason," he said dryly. "No, please don't try to insist that you are filled with radiance. Permit me to tell you, ma petite, that not only do you look like an owl—those circles under the eyes are not a la mode at present—but also you begin to sing like one."

  Joanna sighed. She might have known that Gustave would detect that she was off form.

  "I'm sorry," she began wearily. "Perhaps I'm a bit ran down. I'd better———"

  Gustave held up his hand. "I have noted the symptoms, I have diagnosed the condition — and I am about to effect a cure," he announced. "Immediately after your first appearance, you will retire to your suite. You will, I am confident, have had an enthusiastic reception. And for success, there must be some rewards. Yours, ma chere Janine. will include a delectable supper, some very good champagne — and an ecstatic reunion with your handsome young de Mansard!"

  Joanna was horror-struck. "Yves!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Gustave, what have you been up to?"

  But for once the agent was too delighted with his own deep-laid schemes to notice her consternation.

  "You had no sooner left Paris," he explained, "than I was besieged — but positively besieged — by this most ardent young man. Having discovered that you were not in Brittany, he insisted on knowing where you were. When I refused to tell him, he was extremely angry — he even became quite violent. However, assuming that you had parted on bad terms and that you, at least, were not anxious to repair the breach, I remained adamant. But when I come to London — ah, now the situation has changed. Janine is pale and listless. Janine is busy all day, but does not seem to sleep. She smokes. She fidgets. She is clearly very unhappy. It is evident that Monsieur de Mansard is not alone in his desire for a reconciliation."

  "But, Gustave——— "

  "So I have arranged it," he continued, ignoring her interruption. "And when a woman sings to the man she loves, she cannot fail to be ravishing," he ended happily.

  Feeling as if all the breath had been knocked out of her, Joanna leaned her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands.