by Nicola Upson
‘First Lydia, now Maria – it’s all starting to sound a bit crowded.’ Josephine laughed, but Marta stopped walking and took her hand. ‘Listen, Josephine – promise me this won’t change anything. You won’t do anything ridiculous like sacrifice us when it’s all out in the open because Lydia’s been hurt? I know you, and I know what guilt can do after the fact in a relationship. It can destroy the very thing you’re trying to protect, and if you let that happen, I will kill you.’
‘You’ve tried that before and I’m still standing. But no, Marta, I won’t,’ she added more seriously, understanding that it was her turn to allay some fears. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I couldn’t face the consequences – I love you, and I’m sure.’
The cottage closed in around them as it always did, gracing their life there with an unquestioning, everyday reality that made it possible to believe in its permanence. Josephine stayed awake for a long time after they made love, wanting to hold on to the illusion of safety and peace before the morning came and she had to face her fears.
2
The magazine proofs were in unusually good shape for a Monday afternoon, which was just as well: the earlier deadline, forced by the coronation holiday, allowed no leeway for page after page marked ‘details to come’, or ominous white spaces where instructions to leave four inches were followed by the delivery of two lines. Vivienne glanced through the mock-up of the next issue, noting the final changes and choosing one or two replacement pictures for programmes which had changed at the last minute. She paused at Josephine’s article – a provocative, engaging refutation of Shakespeare’s villainous Richard – and allowed her eye to fall on the author’s photograph and the credit next to it; the name brought back all the shame and humiliation of the previous week, intensified by sleepless nights spent dwelling on it, and she moved quickly on through the rest of the issue. She knew it was petty to take her anger out on someone two or three steps removed from its real source, but pain brought value to the smallest of victories, and Gerard Leaman would never work for her in this building again.
She gathered the artwork together, ready to take to the printer, and collected her coat and hat from the rack. Her assistant looked at the clock and raised an eyebrow. ‘Half past four? That must be a record. Maurice is in for the shock of his life when he gets back from America.’
Vivienne gave her a wry smile. ‘That’s what I’m hoping for. I don’t know why these men make it look so difficult. Left to you and me, Danny, the job would be done in half the time.’
‘And on half the salary.’
‘That will be why, then.’ They both laughed, and Vivienne realised how much she had cherished the easy camaraderie of the office over the last few weeks, doing a job she loved without constantly having to defend her ideas or prove her ability. ‘Let’s just enjoy it while it lasts, shall we?’ She fastened her coat and checked through the pages one last time. ‘I’ll go straight home from Waterlow’s, so I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Do you need to come in tomorrow? Next week’s issue is in good shape already, and I can take care of anything that comes up here until after the holiday. Wouldn’t you rather get ready for the big day?’
The offer was well-intentioned, but Vivienne could think of few things less appealing than rattling round the house on her own, with nothing to distract her from herself. ‘It’s kind of you,’ she said, ‘but I’ll only sit about if I stay at home, and I’d rather be working.’
It was the phrase of a bereaved or jilted woman and it made her sound more vulnerable than she had intended. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Viv?’ Danny asked, looking at her with genuine concern.
‘Perfectly all right. Is there anything else before I go? Shall I drop those articles off to be typed on my way out?’
‘Yes, if you’ve got time.’ She held out the envelope, forcing Vivienne to meet her eye. ‘Don’t let it get to you, Viv. You’re worth ten of him.’
Verity Daniels had demonstrated her loyalty in every conceivable way over the years, but never so outspokenly, and Vivienne didn’t trust herself to reply. She smiled weakly and walked out into the courtyard, taking time to compose herself before facing the thinly disguised curiosity of the general office. The light, airy room on the first floor of Broadcasting House was packed with about forty typists, working on everything from transcripts of talks to general correspondence. The office prided itself on an air of happy efficiency, and the insistent clatter of typewriters greeted her as she opened the door. Afternoon tea had just been served at the desks and she thought she caught some of the girls glancing at each other as she put her envelope into one of the vast in-trays, but Danny, it seemed, had done her a favour: pity from someone who had always looked up to her put the idle gossip of strangers into perspective, and she walked back through the aisles of desks with her head held high.
Of all the temporary responsibilities she had taken on, passing the pages of each new issue was the one she valued most: there was something supremely satisfying about watching her ideas become a reality, and the moment when her signature sent the magazine on its way through the presses – when it was too late to change her mind – came with a sense of finality that was both frightening and exhilarating. The Radio Times had recently changed its printer and the new firm was based in north London, several miles further out than the original contractor, so a car was provided each week to take her there; privately, Vivienne thought that the service had less to do with her convenience than with the fact that a former editor had once lost an entire set of proofs on the Underground, but she appreciated it anyway. The car was waiting for her in Langham Place and she acknowledged the driver with a wave. ‘You did well to get here on time, Billy,’ she said, looking at the traffic snaking back towards Oxford Street. ‘I thought I might be in for a long wait.’
‘It’s not too bad away from the centre, Mrs Beresford. Just as well we’re not doing this tomorrow, though – it’ll be hard to go anywhere once the road closures start.’
Billy Whiting had worked for the BBC for years and Vivienne knew him well. They chatted easily as the car inched forward through the familiar streets, and it was a relief to be with someone who seemed genuinely oblivious to her private life, although Billy – a royal chauffeur, too, in his time, and the soul of professional discretion – would never have indulged in gossip, despite being privy to more secrets than anyone else she knew. As the traffic thinned out a little and they picked up speed through Edgware, he turned the wireless on and smiled at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘You won’t want to miss this.’
Preoccupied by the business of the afternoon, Vivienne had quite forgotten that Anthony was giving a five o’clock talk on the National Programme. The subject was free entertainment in the city, and she listened as he described the colour of a London street market, picturing him in front of the microphone, his notes carefully laid out in front of him, a glass of water close to hand. His voice was so well-known in every home that people who had never met him could judge his mood as well as she could; if he had the slightest cold, packages would arrive at Broadcasting House with cough tablets or obscure family remedies, and she had lost count of the cufflinks and white silk scarves that she had sent to charity, anonymous gifts from women who thought his voice was ‘simply marvellous’. The talk, as always, was perfectly judged and flawlessly executed. Each week, as Vivienne prepared the copy for the Radio Times, her heart sank at some of the more obscure subject matter, and it often occurred to her that before broadcasting was invented, nobody had ever had such opportunities for boring so many people simultaneously – but Anthony was never dull. His voice gathered pace slightly as he described the thrill of a fire engine dashing through the West End, then slowed as he recalled the joy of Regent’s Park on a sunny afternoon, and Vivienne marvelled at the natural way in which he felt about for his words, for all the world as if he were having a conversation with the listener rather than reading a script whic
h had taken him hours to prepare. And most valuable of all, he had that rare ability to make you think that he was talking just to you. That was the quality she had fallen in love with, and the quality that so many other women had found attractive since. She wondered if all those listeners, hanging on Anthony’s every word by their firesides or in their kitchens, would feel betrayed if they knew that he was as flawed as they were, that the honour and integrity they so admired was merely a professional skill? It was the hypocrisy of it all that Vivienne hated most, but hypocrisy was fostered by the world they moved in: to be involved in a divorce was the quickest way out of the Corporation, yet sex and adultery were the staple fare of office life; and while Anthony did as he pleased, she and other married women had to fight tooth and nail for the right to work at all. Her husband and her employer had both assumed that she would resign as soon as she walked down the aisle, and it would have been hard to say which of them was more rankled by her decision to stay.
The calm, confident voice pecked away at her mood, and she was glad when the signal crackled and faded, defying Billy’s best efforts to revive it. He turned the wireless off with an apologetic shrug, and Vivienne settled into the silence, wishing it was as easy to remove her husband from her thoughts. The car wound through the suburbs of Acton, past alternating rows of factories and terraced houses, and every now and then she caught a glimpse of children playing in the streets, solemnly acting out their own improvised version of Wednesday’s ceremony with crowns cut from cereal packets and mud-stained red cushions. Would children have made a difference, she wondered? If she had agreed to give Anthony the son she knew he wanted, would he have been less inclined to stray? It was a futile line of thought, but one that she had often tormented herself with, and she was glad when their arrival at Twyford Abbey Road prevented her from taking it any further. She gathered her things together as Billy turned into Park Royal and pulled up outside a handsome, purpose-built construction of brick and steel. The Radio Times was a difficult contract with a large print-run and a high proportion of last-minute changes, but Waterlows was more than equipped to meet those demands: as well as being a pleasure to deal with, the firm offered the last word in modern printing, and Vivienne would never forget how exciting it had been to walk onto the factory floor for the first time when the presses – the largest in the world – were working at full speed. It was a thrill she would greatly miss when she relinquished the reins in a few weeks’ time.
She left Billy to wait with the car and made her way through to the office at the back of the building, breathing in the smell of ink and rubber that filled the corridors. Even here, as far from the vast machine-room as it was possible to get, the roar of the presses was barely muffled and she had to knock twice on the glass door before Philip Berkeley looked up from his work. ‘Sorry, Mrs Beresford,’ he said, moving a stack of paper samples off a chair so that Vivienne could sit down. ‘I thought I’d be ready for you, but it’s been a busy day. Is everything all right with the proofs?’
‘Yes, there’s nothing major to change. A couple of replacement programmes, some better photographs – the usual stuff, really.’
‘Well, anything would be a breeze compared to last week. That one pushed us to our limits, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.’
‘You and me both, Mr Berkeley. It was worth it, though. We’ve sold three and a half million so far – that’s a record for a weekly. Even the Director General is pleased – or so I’m told.’
‘So he bloody should be. You worked your socks off to get it done on time. We all did.’
He looked genuinely pleased, and his words reminded Vivienne of the two things she liked most about Waterlow’s general manager: his pride in his work, and the fact that he had never once felt the need to adjust his behaviour because he was dealing with a woman. ‘And this is from Richard Nevinson,’ she said. ‘High praise indeed.’
Berkeley read the card she had passed to him, a thank-you from the artist for the careful reproduction of his cover painting. ‘That’s nice. We don’t often get fan mail. It does look good on the stands, though, doesn’t it? This one will, too.’ He nodded approvingly at the design for the following week, a striking image by John Gilroy – simple but eye-catching, and easily recognisable as the work of a man who had made his name in advertising, most famously for Guinness. ‘Right – let’s go through it page by page.’
It took a couple of hours to finalise everything to their mutual satisfaction. Pleased to have another issue under her belt, Vivienne signed off the final proofs and stood to leave. ‘Will you print it overnight?’
‘First thing in the morning, all being well, but don’t worry – we won’t pack up for the holidays until it’s done.’
‘I know you won’t. Then you’re closed until Friday?’
He nodded, and held her coat for her. ‘That’s right. It’s more than my life’s worth not to take a couple of days off. I don’t know who’s more excited – Angie or the kids. Wild horses wouldn’t keep them away.’ He smiled, and she was touched by the affection in his voice. ‘I expect you’ll be in the posh seats?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, think of us while you’re there – six rows back and soaked to the skin. We probably won’t see a thing.’
But you’ll be happy, Vivienne thought, wondering if Philip Berkeley had any idea how much she envied his ordinary, family coronation. She thanked him and walked back to her car, apologising to Billy for keeping him waiting, even though it was his job and something he never minded. The skies were heavy and overcast, inviting darkness to close in quickly, and the first drops of rain fell as the car reached the outskirts of the city. She looked at Billy’s profile in the half-light, oblivious now to everything but the road ahead, and thought back to the night of her sister’s death, when, at Anthony’s request, Billy had driven her out of London to avoid the press and the scandal. She would never forget how surprisingly kind Anthony had been in those dark, difficult days – so attentive and protective as she struggled with her regrets and her guilt, quietly handling everything to shield her from the mess that Olivia’s life had created, even though the scandal was as big a risk to his career as it was to her family name. At the time, she thought that they had come through the crisis unscathed – stronger, even – but of course she was wrong. She didn’t blame the circumstances of Olivia’s death for their problems, but she realised now that her behaviour in those early days had set the tone for their marriage: a little too grateful, perhaps, always feeling to some extent in his debt, encouraging him to believe that she would put up with things that made her unhappy. But she had not imagined his kindness to her, of that she was sure, so where had that Anthony gone? Looking out at the rain, she understood now that what she felt for her husband was a form of grief, far deeper than she had ever felt for her sister. Over the last few days, when this crisis of shame had driven her to consider the most drastic of solutions to her sadness, she had begun to imagine the practicalities of a world without Anthony – where she might live if she kept her freedom, how she would feel if she were made to pay for what she had done – but in hindsight they were small considerations: the real mourning, for the man she married, had been going on for years.
Now, as it had back then, the car felt safe and warm, an interlude from the cold reality that awaited her when the journey was over, and she was sorry to leave it. She watched as Billy drove away, turning towards home only when his tail lights blended into the rubies and pearls of Kensington High Street, and reluctantly put her key in the lock. The hallway was in darkness and Vivienne knew she was wasting her breath, but she called Anthony’s name out of habit and walked through the silence to the sitting room; in her heart, she had known he would be out, celebrating the success of his talk in Millicent Gray’s bed. The decanter on the side was nearly empty, so she went upstairs to the study to find the quantity of whisky she needed and sat down at the desk to drink it. The desk was as tidy as usual, but Anthony’s passport was caught
in one of the drawers, as if it had been hurriedly put away. Vivienne stared at it, suddenly fearful of what she might find if she didn’t get up now and leave the room, but her curiosity was too strong. She opened the drawer and took out the passport and some travel tickets, trying to work out what they meant: two passages to Canada, booked in her husband’s name for the following month, and with no mention of a return journey. At first, the discovery bewildered her: Anthony never left his desk unlocked – God knows she had checked often enough – and for the briefest of moments she dared to hope that he had placed the tickets there deliberately as a surprise for her to find, a declaration of a new start for them both. It took just a single sheet of paper to dispel the illusion: a letter from John Reith, reluctantly accepting Anthony’s resignation on the grounds of an impending divorce.
In that split second, Vivienne realised that she had never truly known the meaning of anger until now. Her rage disorientated her, refusing to take any of the forms that she might have expected; there were no tears, no sudden outbursts of violence, no urge to hurt the woman who had replaced her – just a cold conviction that Anthony would pay. She sat there for a long time, afraid that the anger would give way to a sense of loss and betrayal, but it didn’t; if anything, it grew stronger with each passing moment, until she knew exactly what she was going to do. Calmly, she put everything back exactly as she had found it and went downstairs to the telephone. ‘Danny? Sorry to bother you at home, but I’ve changed my mind about coming in tomorrow, if you’re sure you can manage? No, nothing’s wrong, but Wednesday’s going to be such a big day for Anthony. I need to make sure that he’s ready for it.’