The Summer House Party

by Caro Fraser

  ‘Arthur! My little Tartur! Tarty darling, come and say hello!’ Arthur paused somewhat unwillingly. Brian grabbed his hand. ‘No, you’re not a tart at all, you’re a dear, sweet thing, aren’t you?’

  Arthur forced a smile and managed to shake Brian off. ‘Good to see you, Brian – don’t let me interrupt your party.’

  ‘Come and sit with us, dear boy! We’re having a shockingly good time. Laurence here is back from the wars and we are celebrating.’

  ‘I’m on my way to meet someone.’ Arthur glanced around the table and caught Dan’s eye. He put out his hand. ‘Ranscombe. I thought it was you.’ Dan shook his hand and murmured a greeting. ‘Sorry I can’t stay,’ said Arthur to the table in general. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Chap I was at school with,’ said Dan. ‘Arthur Bettany. I haven’t seen him for years.’

  ‘Were you at school with darling Arthur? I’m sure he wasn’t so utterly exclusive then as he is now,’ drawled Gavin, lighting a cigarette from a candle stuck in a bottle.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s a rumour he has some secret wealthy lover, but no one knows who the man is.’

  ‘I heard it was an MP,’ said Laurence’s sister.

  ‘It’s too sad that he’s so utterly off limits. Completely naff.’

  ‘Naff?’ Dan hadn’t heard the word before.

  ‘Not available for—’

  ‘Gavin!’ screeched Brian. ‘Remember there are ladies present!’ The table collapsed in hoots of laughter, and Brian closed his eyes and in a wobbling falsetto began to sing, ‘Last night I dreamt my lover came to me…’

  A few moments later Dan leaned across to Harry and said, ‘I have to go, I’m afraid. I’ve got an article to finish and I’m already past the deadline. Need to be up bright and early.’ He rose and left to a ragged chorus of farewells.

  The night was frosty and clear as Dan emerged on to the pavement. The streets were quiet, just a few people leaving or heading for clubs, a couple of sailors on the prowl. He turned the collar of his coat up and began to walk in the direction of Bloomsbury and home, pausing by the railings of Soho Square to light a cigarette, ignoring the invitation of a passing street-walker. As he flicked a match into the gutter he glanced up, and saw Bettany beneath a street lamp on the other side of the square. He was pacing in small circles, hands in pockets, clearly waiting for someone, his breath pluming on the frosty air. He was directly on Dan’s route home, and as Dan had no wish to encounter him again he decided to go the long way round the square. When he reached the far side, curiosity made him glance back. Whoever Bettany had been waiting for had arrived. The two were close together, the other man gripping the lapels of Bettany’s raincoat. Dan stopped and stared for an anxious instant, wondering if Bettany was being threatened. But it didn’t look that way. Bettany dropped his head for a moment on the shoulder of the other man, who relaxed his grip and placed his hands on Arthur’s chest. They were speaking, but were too far away for Dan to hear their voices, let alone anything that was being said. Arthur’s companion turned his head slightly, and Dan could see his face clearly by the light of the street lamp. It was Paul Latimer.

  When he got back to his rooms, excited and appalled, Dan threw off his coat and sat down to think about what he’d seen. Gavin was hardly the most reliable of sources, but if what he’d said about Arthur Bettany having some mysterious wealthy lover was true, could it possibly be Paul? It might seem ludicrous, but it would make sense of what he’d overheard Diana say when she was arguing with Paul, and of what he’d just seen in Soho Square. Dan began to reassemble fragmentary recollections from school and Cambridge, suddenly seeing Paul’s avuncular friendships with younger men, all that tactile, manly affection, in quite a different light. Was it beyond the bounds of possibilities that he had married Meg, not for love, but to establish a respectable façade for some double life? Yet Meg seemed so happy. He remembered the stab of pure jealousy he had felt seeing her exchange smiles with Paul over the dinner table a few weekends ago. It had killed him, seeing that warmth between them. How could that be fabricated?

  This revelation, if true, sent everything tumbling into chaos. It made all the difference in the world if Paul was using her. It would be appalling. She might be happy enough now, but a deceit like that couldn’t last. The longer it went on, the worse the consequences would be for her.

  So what should he do? He sat revolving the matter in his mind, considering it from every angle. To speak to Meg, with or without proof, would be insanely destructive. She would hate him for ever. To speak to Paul would achieve – what? What would he say to Paul that couldn’t simply be denied? He would make a fool of himself without accomplishing anything. He realised, in the end, that there was absolutely nothing he could do.

  *

  Meg had never expected to find life at Hazelhurst as dreary as she did that December. In the short, dark days of winter the world seemed to shrink in on itself, and the countryside, so full of life in spring and summer and fruitfully pleasant in autumn, lay dank and still. The house, with its cook and maids, gave her little to do domestically, and with Paul away for days on end, she felt very lonely. She made occasional expeditions to Woodbourne House to see Sonia, but she came away from those visits feeling envious of how happy and busy Sonia seemed, looking after Laura.

  A few days before Christmas, things reached a peak. In an attempt to spin out the afternoon, Meg had gone into Alderworth to pick up some things from the chemist’s, and on the way back decided to drop in on Anna Kentleigh, in the hope of a cup of tea and some company. She found Anna in the nursery with her three children, making Christmas decorations. All was lively chaos. The table was littered with bits of card and tissue paper, and there was much squabbling over glue and glitter. Anna was sitting at the end of the table, smoking and supervising matters with mild indifference. She seemed pleased to see Meg.

  ‘Thank heavens you dropped in – I was just trying to invent an excuse for having a drink. I gave Nanny the day off to do some Christmas shopping, most of the maids are out, and being in charge of these three has left my nerves completely frazzled.’ She got up and tapped her eleven-year-old son smartly on the crown of his head. ‘Frank, don’t hog the glitter. Esme, share the scissors with your sister. If you’ll keep an eye on them,’ she said to Meg, ‘I’ll rustle up some sherry and some of Mrs Ruddock’s heavenly mince pies.’

  Esme, the five-year-old, turned to Meg with serious eyes and held up a card on which she’d drawn a fat angel, its wings daubed with glue and silver glitter. ‘This is for Grandma. She’s spending Christmas with us, and I’m going to leave it in her room as a surprise for her.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll love it,’ said Meg. Esme, gratified, returned to her labours.

  Meg surveyed the scene wistfully. This was what she had envisaged for herself, a warm, busy household, a family to love and care for. She and Paul had only been married for half a year, so it was ridiculous to feel this way. It had probably been fanciful, too, to move to the countryside and expect a life like Anna’s miraculously to spring into existence. If it ever came, it would be a long time in the making.

  When Anna returned, she announced, ‘Mince pies, troops!’ and the children scrambled from the table. Anna handed Meg a glass of sherry.

  ‘Cheers. How are your Christmas preparations coming along?’

  Meg knew that Paul fully expected to have a quiet Christmas at Hazelhurst, but she said, ‘They’re a bit up in the air at the moment. What about you?’

  ‘Oh, we have a full house every year. James’s mother always comes – she never quite lets me forget that Alderworth Hall was her home once, and always manages to imply that it was better run in her day. And my sister and her husband and their brood generally spend a few days with us. It’s rather tiring, but tremendous fun.’

  Meg sipped her sherry and watched the children. She remembered her own childhood Christmases in London, going
to Selfridge’s to see Father Christmas, the brightly lit shops, the carol service at Chelsea Old Church. She came to a decision. She was not going to spend Christmas in deepest Berkshire, alone with Paul.

  *

  When Paul came home the following afternoon, she told him so. ‘I think we should spend Christmas in London. My mother’s away, but we could stay with Diana, and maybe go to some parties. It would be more fun than being on our own here.’

  Paul, who was standing by the mantelpiece cleaning out his pipe, seemed astonished. ‘But we’ve spent half a year making our own home perfect. Why should you want to leave it at Christmas, of all times? I was looking forward to a quiet few days, just the two of us.’

  ‘But I have quiet days all of the time, Paul! You can’t imagine how dull it is when you’re not here. And it’s not as though we have a family of our own to make Christmas for.’

  ‘Am I not your family now?’ He knocked the contents of the pipe bowl into the fire. ‘Besides, I don’t find the idea of being in London as attractive as you evidently do.’

  ‘Then why do you spend most of your time there?’

  ‘Because, as you well know, I have business to attend to.’ He opened a tobacco tin and began to fill his pipe, adding, ‘I’m sorry you’re bored with your life.’

  ‘Oh, Paul, of course I’m bored! There’s nothing to do here!’

  ‘Dear me, you sound like a petulant child.’

  Anger welled up in Meg. She had noticed Paul using this tactic increasingly – if she said or asked something to which he objected, he would become chilly and critical, knowing she hated any antagonism between them, and depending on that to make her back down. Which she generally did. But today she didn’t feel like backing down.

  ‘Perhaps that’s because you treat me like one. Sometimes I feel you like having me cooped up here, your obedient wife, waiting for you to come home, with no purpose in life except to provide you with meals and company, and perhaps one day to produce some children.’

  ‘Which you show precious little sign of doing.’

  Meg was genuinely shocked, but a little bit of her was glad he had said it, glad of the chance to have a fight. There were things inside her which, if she didn’t say them, might burst her heart. ‘Are you surprised, given the way… the way…’ But here she faltered, unable to find the words.

  ‘The way what?’

  ‘The way we make love. It’s all wrong! It’s… it’s… oh, I don’t know!’ She knew she was about to become tearful, and hated herself for being weak. ‘It’s so unloving!’

  She gazed at him, and in a transfiguring instant his expression of aloofness became one of concern. He put his pipe on the mantel and came and put his arms around her.

  ‘My darling, what a thing to say!’ She returned his embrace longingly, wanting so much to be reassured, yet knowing at the same time that it would be dangerous to let things rest there. ‘You know I love you. I don’t understand what you mean.’

  Yes, you do, she thought. She lifted her eyes to his and said quietly, ‘I mean there is no passion. No desire. Sometimes, Paul, it’s as though you just…’ from somewhere, nowhere, she dug out a word that she knew was closest to what she felt, ‘as though you just fuck me, not because you want to, but because you have to.’

  He recoiled as though she had slapped him. ‘I never expected to hear that kind of language from you. Never. Do you realise how it defiles you? How utterly repellent it makes you?’

  She grasped his arm, instantly sorry, her anger forgotten. ‘Oh, Paul – I didn’t mean to! I was only trying to say, to make you understand—’

  He shook her off. ‘Stop it! This is worse than disgusting. You say a thing like that and then try and abase yourself – good God, Meg, show a little control.’ He picked up his pipe. ‘If things are so unsatisfactory for you, I will sleep in my dressing room until you say otherwise.’

  He left the room. Meg stood by the hearth, letting her emotions subside. Her instinct was to follow him, make everything all right, but she steeled herself not to. The despair she felt had nothing to do with having displeased him; its source lay in the knowledge that something was deeply wrong, but that Paul refused to admit it. Refused, not just because he didn’t want to, but because he felt he didn’t need to. She thought, too, of what he had said about her showing precious little sign of having a baby. It was the kind of cruel remark she had never thought to hear from the Paul she knew and loved. Did he really blame her?

  After a few minutes she left the room. The glow of the light under the library door told her where he was. She made a phone call to Diana, then went upstairs and packed a small case. She went downstairs, put on her coat and hat, and knocked on the library door. Paul was sitting in his leather armchair by the fire, reading a copy of Horse and Hound, his pipe in the ashtray next to him.

  ‘Paul?’

  He glanced up.

  ‘I really would rather spend Christmas in London,’ she said calmly. ‘So that’s where I’m going now. I’ve rung Diana. You and I just seem to be getting on each other’s nerves, and I can’t bear feeling lonelier than I already do. If you would like to come with me, of course, that would be nice. Besides which’ – she glanced at the window, where rain had begun to patter – ‘it would mean you could drive.’ She couldn’t resist the desire to placate, to make things sound again.

  Paul sighed. ‘You are a chump.’ He stretched out a hand. ‘Come here. I’ve already forgotten that awful thing you said earlier. It wasn’t like you, and I forgive you.’ She approached the chair and let her hand be taken. ‘Now, go and take off your coat and hat and let’s hear no more about it. This is your home, and we shall spend Christmas here, just the two of us.’

  ‘No,’ replied Meg. ‘You’re not listening. I don’t want to spend Christmas here. I want to be with people, with friends. I have been unbearably lonely recently. The last thing I want is to hate being at Hazelhurst. I need a change of scene. If you come too, we can have a lovely time.’

  Paul withdrew his hand and picked up his magazine. ‘You’re being tiresome. I suppose you think marching off to London like this somehow wins you the argument.’

  ‘Paul, it isn’t as petty as that. I wish you would listen sometimes. Anyway, I’m going. If you don’t want to come with me now, I hope you decide to join me soon. I would rather not spend Christmas without you.’

  ‘Then stay here.’

  Meg closed the door without a word, picked up her case, and left the house.

  9

  DIANA WAS OUT when Meg arrived at the flat in Kensington, but had left a key with the hall porter. The following morning she and Meg met at breakfast.

  ‘Have you and Paul had a row?’ asked Diana.

  Meg explained what had happened. ‘The last few weeks have been so lonely. I couldn’t face Christmas there, just the two of us.’

  ‘I can’t say I blame you. I remember what winter is like in deepest Berkshire. My brother can be very stubborn, but I bet you anything he’ll be here in the next couple of days.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Don’t look so glum. Unless you have plans, I vote we go and do some Christmas shopping. Then tonight you can come with me to Ava von Hoffmanstahl’s do. She throws quite the best parties. I’ll telephone and tell her I’m bringing you along. Paul, too, if he sees sense. Have you something to wear?’

  ‘I’ve brought a couple of dresses, but they’re not exactly party attire.’

  ‘Then you can raid my wardrobe. Go and have a look while I run my bath.’ Diana disappeared to the bathroom with her tea.

  Meg wandered into Diana’s bedroom. Diana’s clothes from the night before lay on the floor where she had dropped them. If it weren’t for the maid tidying up every day, Meg suspected the place would be chaos. As it was, when she opened the doors of the wall-long wardrobe, garments were neatly arranged by type and hung on padded satin hangers. Diana seemed to have any number of cocktail and party dresses. Meg drew out a couple of shorter ones
. Diana was taller than she was, and anything floor-length would swamp her. One was a halter-neck dress in rose chiffon with bead trimming on the bodice; the other was black, made of silk, with diamond-shaped panels and thin shoulder straps. She went to Diana’s long cheval glass and held each one in front of her. She had just decided that the rose chiffon was safer, when Diana wandered in, in search of some cosmetic. As she passed, she pointed to the black one.

  ‘Try that. It looks nothing hanging up, but it’s divine on. Chanel – I picked it up in Paris last summer.’ She took a pot from the dressing table and disappeared.

  Meg took off her clothes and wriggled into the dress. She was slightly curvier than Diana, but it still fitted beautifully. Glancing down, she realised it wouldn’t do with a brassiere. She slipped the black straps down, unhooked her bra and tossed it aside, then pushed the straps back up. Black was not a colour she generally wore. She had always thought it too sophisticated, something for older women. But as she gazed at her reflection, she knew she looked stunning. The diamond-shaped panel on the front of the dress moulded itself to her figure, and the bodice was cut so that it cupped her breasts perfectly. She caught up her hair and half-turned her head. Worn with the diamond necklace and earrings Paul had given her, it would look simple but dramatic. She felt a delicious thrill such as she hadn’t experienced for a long time – the pleasure of wearing beautiful clothes, and knowing she looked wonderful and would be admired. Carefully she took off the dress and put her own clothes back on. Then she put it back on its hanger and carried it back to her room.

  *

  Diana lay soaking in her bath. In some ways it would be beastly inconvenient having Paul and Meg here. She was having a tricky enough time with Roddy without Paul finding out they were still seeing one another. If only she could exercise more self-control where Roddy was concerned. She knew how off-putting it was for a girl to appear too keen on a man, and in the past she’d never had any trouble playing the game perfectly, making herself unavailable and then available at precisely the right moments. Somehow Roddy got to her in a way that other men never had, and it probably showed. Maybe she was a bit in love with him. It was an interesting, if worrying, thought.