by Anne Weale
Closing the door behind her, she drew a deep breath. Then with a hand that was not quite steady she picked up the receiver and said, “Hello?”
There was a momentary pause in which she heard a faint click as Hubbard replaced the receiver in the hall.
“Is that you, Andrea?”
It was the first time Simon had spoken to her on the telephone, and she wondered if he always sounded like this or if the circumstances made his voice almost unrecognizable.
“Yes, speaking.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
“Of course I am.”
“They said you were out. They didn’t know where. I thought perhaps ... are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Why shouldn’t I be?”
There was a brief silence.
“I didn’t know what he might have done to you.”
“Who? Justin? What on earth d’you mean?”
“Well...” He hesitated again and then burst out, “After what happened ... he looked capable of anything.”
“He was very angry,” Andrea said flatly.
“Angry,” Simon gave a mirthless laugh. “That’s understatement. Berserk was more like it.”
She stiffened. “You could scarcely expect him to be pleased,” she said coldly.
“Perhaps not, but I didn’t expect to be thrown out on my ear. He went for me like a madman. I’ve been worried sick about what he might do to you. For heaven’s sake, Andrea, you can’t stay with him after this. I’ve always known you were unhappy, but my God, I didn’t guess why. Look, we can’t discuss it on the phone. I’ve got to see you. Oh, my darling, if you knew what I went through last night ... wondering if he was taking it out on you—”
“Simon, stop! Listen to me,” Andrea said desperately, horrified by this fresh outburst. “I’m sorry about last night, but Justin had every right to be furious. You must see that. As for the rest—it was partly my fault for not realizing how you felt. If I had, the whole thing would never have happened.”
There was another tense silence.
“Are you trying to say you didn’t know I was in love with you?” Simon’s voice was harsh.
“I knew you were fond of me in a lighthearted way, but I never dreamed you were ... serious. You’d told me so often that you couldn’t be tied down, that your job wouldn’t mix with marriage. Surely you can’t think that I would have gone on seeing you if I had guessed you were anything more than a friend?”
“Why not? It’s been done before,” he said bitterly. “Women who don’t get on with their husbands very often amuse themselves elsewhere. Of course, if the husbands happen to be rich they generally back out before it gets serious.”
“That’s a filthy thing to say. You know it isn’t true,” she exclaimed hotly.
“Then prove it. Leave Templar and come away with me. Oh, I may have said I couldn’t be tied down and a lot of other rot, but all that has changed. I’m crazy about you, Andrea. I didn’t know a man could want a woman as much as I want you.” His voice shook with suppressed passion.
“You must be mad!” Andrea was white with shock and indignation.
Any compassion that she had felt for him had been killed by his cruel allegation.
“Am I? Are you going to pretend that you didn’t marry Templar for his moneybags?” Simon answered sarcastically. “Oh, come off it, my dear. I know why you hooked him and I know you haven’t found it an easy bargain. Why not admit that you made a mistake? You’re young and lovely. You can’t waste your life on a man who wants only a showpiece.”
Suddenly she was not angry anymore: only sad that a friendship that she had valued should end in this way and that a man whom she had liked and respected should descend to cheap gibes.
“You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “I’m not wasting my life. I’ve only just begun to live it. Goodbye, Simon. Good luck.”
“Wait! Andrea, listen ... oh, to hell with it, then. Hold tight to your luxury life if it means so damned much to you. I wish you joy of it.”
The receiver was slammed down.
Andrea shut her eyes, the echo of his scathing denunciation ringing in her ears. She saw now, many weeks too late, that the bond between them had been a treacherous one, like a shining film of ice over dark undercurrents. Justin had once warned her that there was no such thing as friendship between a man and a woman. It seemed he had been right.
There was a tap at the door and Hubbard came in to ask if she would like tea early.
“Yes, thank you, I would. Mr. Justin hasn’t phoned, has he?”
“No, madam.”
She went to the window. A man was mowing the grass in the square gardens. As she watched he stopped the motor and wiped his neck and forehead with a khaki handkerchief. She thought of Tom Bassett working in the grounds at Lingard with the dogs lolling in the nearest patch of shade. Would she ever see Lingard again?
So far she had thought of nothing but the fact that she was in love with her husband. But now she began to see that, far from solving everything, the discovery made the future a thousand times more complicated.
If their relationship had been difficult before, from now: on it would be sheer torture. Even if she could hide what had happened to her, how could she endure the agony of longing that his nearness must arouse? The thought of being held in his arms set her pulses racing. Did it matter if, when he held her close, he did not whisper endearments? Could she give all that he asked willingly and gladly without wanting anything in return but to belong to him?
Her choice was clear. Either she must live in the faint hope that one day Justin-might come to be fond of her, or she must leave him and try to bury her newly found love for him beneath the structure of another life. The realization of all that the second choice would mean sent a shudder through her. Never to see him again, never to hear his deep quiet voice, never to be warmed by the extraordinary charm of which he was capable. To forget their brief life together would be hard, perhaps impossible, but might it not be harder to stay and bear the knowledge that he would never feel more for her than a passing desire, an affection born of familiarity?
And then, in the room where he had asked her to marry him, she made up her mind and having done so began to make the arrangements that would sever the pitifully few ties between them. First she called a small hotel in Bayswater and booked a single room for the night. Somehow, between now and tomorrow morning, she must decide where to go, where to begin a new life, but one without direction or promise.
Then, having dictated a telegram that would, she was told, be delivered within an hour, she went upstairs and packed a small suitcase. Finally she sat down at the desk to write an explanation to Justin. It took her a long time and she wasted a dozen sheets of paper before she was satisfied that the final effort gave no clue to the real reason for her departure.
She had just signed her name when Hubbard brought up the telegram.
“Not bad news, I hope, madam,” he said anxiously when she had read it.
Andrea hated having to deceive the old man, but it was essential if none of the staff was to guess why she had left.
“I’m afraid it is, Hubbard. A relative of mine is seriously ill. I will have to catch the first train to Liverpool. Would you find out how they run, please.”
“Certainly, madam. This is most distressing for you. Shall I telephone Mr. Justin’s club and tell him what has happened?”
“No, no. There’s no time to lose. I’ll leave a note for him and call when I arrive. I may be away for some time. My, er, aunt lives alone and someone will have to stay with her—that is, if she recovers.”
“I’ll call Miller to pack your bags, madam.”
“No. That isn’t necessary. I won’t take very much at the moment.”
Hubbard hurried away, clucking concernedly to himself, and Andrea breathed a sigh of relief that so far all had gone smoothly. Her great fear now was that Justin would come hom
e before she left the house.
Having found her passport and calculated how much money she would need to last her for a week or two, she took her jewelcase into Justin’s bedroom and slipped it into his handkerchief drawer. Then she remembered her emerald ring and, twisting it off her finger, put it with all the other things he had given her.
With the exception of the money she must have to live on until she found work again, she would take nothing that had not belonged to her before their wedding.
She was sealing the note when Hubbard returned to say the next train for Liverpool left in just under an hour.
“I’ve called a taxi, madam. Is there anything else you wish me to do?”
“Only to give this to my husband when he comes in.” She handed him the envelope. “Thank you, Hubbard. Thank you for everything you’ve done since I came here.”
“It’s been a privilege, madam. May I take your case?” Her heart was thudding as they went downstairs. At every step she expected the front door to open and Justin to come in.
“It’s very unfortunate that Mr. Justin should be out just now. Are you sure you ought not to wait for him? He might want to drive you up. It would be almost as quick,” Hubbard said, opening the door for her.
Andrea glanced quickly along the street, but there was no one in sight.
“I think I should go at once. The telegram said it was most urgent.”
“Whatever you think best, madam. Ah, here is your cab.”
He went down the steps to open the door of the taxi and Andrea followed, remembering the very first night she had come to this house and the day she had entered as its mistress. How brief her reign had been, but how much she had learned in that short time.
“Goodbye, Hubbard. Take care of Mr. Justin for me, won’t you?”
As she held out her hand her voice broke and with a quick clasp she ducked her head and climbed into the taxi. A few seconds later the driver pulled away from the curb, and half-blinded by tears she took her last look at the house in which she had known so much unhappiness but that from now on would enclose all that was most dear to her.
The next morning she caught the boat train from Victoria and began her second journey to Paris. She had lain awake half the night wondering where to go. To stay in England was impossible if she was to return to modeling. She had not enough money to go to New York even if all the complicated formalities could be overcome. Paris was the only place where she was likely to get a job but that was far enough away to allow a clean break with the past. It was true that living in Paris might arouse poignant memories, but at least she was unlikely to encounter anyone she knew, for the chances of meeting the Bechets was slight and they were her only acquaintances there.
CHAPTER NINE
Andrea reached Paris in the late afternoon and spent the night at a hotel recommended by the travel agency. The next day she found a cheap but clean pension in a side street near the Place St. Michel and took a room on the top floor. It was very different from the luxurious suite that she had occupied on her first visit to the French capital. The bed was an old-fashioned iron contraption with brass rails and creaking springs, and the only furniture was a heavy mahogany cupboard, a rickety wicker table and an upright chair. A faded silk screen concealed the washbasin and bidet in the corner. But although it was cramped and shabby, the mattress was fairly new, the bed linen clean and, as the proprietor proudly demonstrated, the tap produced hot water.
Having paid a week’s rent in advance, Andrea unpacked her suitcase and then went down to the bistro on the street for a late lunch. She spent the rest of the afternoon walking and returned to the pension about six o’clock, having bought some rolls, a box of cheese and some fruit to eat in her room. Soon after seven she went to bed and lay watching the sun sink behind the roofs and chimneypots beyond the narrow window.
For three days she existed in a dark void of despair, shut off from the bustling life around her, drained of all feeling but a dull ache of misery: Then, on the fifth day after her precipitate flight from home, she found herself near Notre Dame, and wanting to rest she went inside the great cathedral and sat down in the quiet dimness.
There was the usual number of tourists wandering around, but she was unaware of them. It was very peaceful sitting there with the sunlight filtering through the beautiful stained glass windows and falling in pools of blue and green and rose red radiance on the worn stone aisles. Presently something of the timeless serenity of the atmosphere penetrated her apathy. She wondered how many thousands of people had come here through the centuries to find consolation and new strength in time of trouble. Many of them must have felt, as she did now, that their lives were in ruins. But was that ever true? Wasn’t there always something to be salvaged if only one could see the disaster in perspective? As a child one was told to count one’s blessings. Even though the supreme blessing of love was now denied to her forever, she still had youth and health and a means of earning a living. In time the pain of finding love only to lose it would become dulled by the routine of living.
When an hour or so later she went out into the street, it was with the determination not to let what had happened defeat her. For the first time in days she ate her evening meal with some appetite and began to think constructively about the weeks ahead. She was fairly confident that she could get a job as a model, if not at once, then as soon as preparations for the autumn fashion shows began. But she was not sure that it was wise to resume her career in the fashion world for a time. Perhaps she could find work in one of the shops catering to British and American tourists.
That night she slept without dreaming and woke up refreshed. Having decided to start looking for work immediately, she dressed in a plain linen suit over a thin blouse of the same pale green color. As she fastened the skirt she realized that she had lost a considerable amount of weight, and the waistband was so slack that she had to pin a tuck in it. Fortunately the jacket was loose fitting. She had scarcely looked at herself in the mirror since her arrival, but now she spent some time skillfully concealing the shadows under her eyes and the accented hollowness of her cheeks.
The proprietor was in the hallway when she went downstairs. He greeted her with his usual remark about the fitness of the weather. So far Andrea had responded with a murmur of agreement. Today she managed a smile and stopped to talk for a minute or two.
Monsieur Bollet watched her go down the street. He and his stout jolly wife, Berthe, were intrigued by the beautiful English girl who looked so pale and sad. Most of their English visitors were students who had little money to spare, but the Bollets had not failed to notice that Madame Templar wore expensive clothes and her pigskin suitcase had cost thirty thousand francs if a centime. Why, they wondered, had she asked for their cheapest room and why was there a haunted look in her lovely eyes? It was a mystery they had discussed with sympathetic curiosity ever since her arrival, and as soon as Andrea was out of sight, Monsieur Bollet hurried to tell his wife that madame was in better spirits today.
Andrea had no difficulty in seeing the manager of the first shop that she tried, as the assistant to whom she spoke assumed that she was an important customer. But although he listened courteously to her, he regretted that he had a full staff and no prospect of a vacancy. He also explained that there were formalities to overcome before a foreigner could get work in Paris.
She met the same reply at another shop but, refusing to be daunted, set off to a third one. Then, as she was waiting to cross the road, a voice cried, “Andrea! What are you doing here?” And turning, she saw Leonie Bechet hurrying toward her.
Two possibilities flashed across her mind. To run. Or to pretend she was a stranger.
“What a pleasant surprise, cherie. Why didn’t you let us know you were here, or have you only just arrived?” Leonie seized her hand and clasped it warmly.
It was too late to run and futile to deny her identity.
“Why ... hello. How are you?” she said lamely.
“So busy that m
y head spins. Where are you going? Can we have coffee together?”
Andrea searched frantically for some reasonable excuse, but before she could find one, Leonie said. “But how thin you are, petite. Have you been ill?”
A painful flush stained Andrea’s cheeks and she avoided the Frenchwoman’s concerned gaze.
“No, I’m perfectly all right.”
Sensing her embarrassment and puzzled by her reserved greeting, Madame Bechet suggested that they go to a nearby restaurant.
“Now tell me, for how long are you here, and how is Justin?” she asked when they were settled at a table and the waiter had taken their order.
“He’s not with me,” Andrea said flatly.
“You are alone?”
Andrea thought briefly of saying that she was with friends, that Justin had been too busy to come. But she knew Leonie was bound to learn the truth eventually and to lie could only involve her in a worse predicament.
“Yes, I’m alone,” she said tightly. “You see ... we’ve separated.”
“No! But I cannot believe it.” Leonie gazed at her, astounded. “Surely you do not mean this?”
Andrea bit her lip and nodded.
“But what has happened? How did this come about?” Leonie asked incredulously.
Andrea opened her purse and fumbled for her cigarette case. Her hand shook as she flicked the lighter.
“It was my fault,” she said in a low voice. “You see ... I married Justin for his money.”
And then, without attempting to excuse or spare herself, she told Leonie the truth about her marriage and its failure.
“So, you see, I am not a nice person. Not at all what you thought me,” she ended bleakly when the whole unhappy story was out.
Leonie studied her gravely for a moment.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
Andrea shrugged. “Find work. I’ve been to a couple of shops this morning, but they had no vacancies. I’ll find something eventually.”