Going Wrong (v5)

by Ruth Rendell

  “Oh, darling!” He put his good arm round her. She nestled against him. “I wouldn’t have minded if he’d cut off my arm if this is the result. Don’t you know by now you don’t have to ask if we can spend the day together? Don’t you know it’s what I long for?”

  “That’s all right, then.” She put up her face.

  He kissed her as he hadn’t kissed her for years, not even that time by the Embankment Gardens. Her warm, responsive lips opened under his. He felt her breasts press against him. His heart knocked and made his hurt arm throb. The strangest thing of all was that he was the first to draw back, to pull away. He had to because of the pain where her body crushed against his wound. She wasn’t smiling but gazing at him with a curious, half-hypnotized concentration.

  “I must go,” she said at last.

  “You said you’d phone me in the morning.”

  “Of course I will.”

  He stood watching the car turn on the cobbles. The night was chilly, very clear. For once, as very seldom happened, stars could be seen up there in the radiant purple, swimming points of light. She waved from the open car window, rolled it up, disappeared rather quickly. It was almost midnight. He went indoors and drank some more brandy until he began to feel light-headed and his arm no longer hurt.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  He overslept. He had been dreaming he was going to be married. It was Leonora he was going to be married to and in church, or he thought it was, he couldn’t be entirely sure. He arrived at St. Mary Abbots in a taxi and hurried into the church alone. He was late and the guests, hundreds of them, were already there. Breathless, he arrived at the chancel steps, only to realize he had forgotten the ring. He stood, wondering what to do, while behind him a swell of giggling arose from the congregation. It gathered force and became a long sustained roar of laughter. Guy looked down and saw he was dressed in the costume of a fencer, the tight jacket, gloves, breeches, and white stockings. For the first time he was aware he had a mask on his face.

  The phone ringing pulled him out of this dream before worse humiliation could happen. He reached for the phone and, turning over, felt pain from his sore arm. Memory of the previous evening returned as he lifted the receiver, and with it came a surge of panic. What had he done? He said a cautious “Hallo?”

  “How are you this morning, Guy?”

  He could hardly believe it was Leonora’s voice he was hearing. How long was it since last she had phoned him? Years. But, of course, things had changed. He remembered more about the night before. Almost incredulously, he began remembering what she had said.

  “Guy? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, darling. I’m perfectly okay.”

  “Did you get some sleep?”

  “Like a log. I died. As a matter of fact, the phone ringing woke me.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I did wait till nine. I was anxious about you.”

  He closed his eyes at the bliss of it. He said softly, “It’s wonderful to hear your voice.”

  “Do you think you should go and see your own doctor today?”

  “Why? Everything’s been done that can be. It’s only a bit sore.” Downstairs he heard Fatima let herself in and the front door close. “It really is nine. Listen, Leo, did I dream it or did you say you’d spend all Saturday with me?”

  “You didn’t dream it.”

  “Thank God. I’ve had such strange dreams I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. If I get tickets for a show, what would you like to see?”

  He remembered too late that she didn’t like that word “show” but preferred “play” and he waited for her to correct him. She only said, “I don’t mind. You choose.”

  “I know you don’t like musicals. I won’t get a musical. Leo?”

  “Yes, Guy.”

  “Afterwards, in the evening, will you come back here with me?”

  He knew she would say no. She always did. Her hesitation meant nothing, only that she was looking for the kindest way to say no. One day she would say yes, but he wasn’t absurdly optimistic, he knew it would be a long time. He waited stoically. The pause was a long one. He heard her sigh.

  “Yes, I will,” she said. “Of course I will. Anything you say.”

  “Leo, did you really say that? Did you really say you’ll come back with me? You’ll stay with me?”

  “I did say that.”

  “Leo, I’m so happy. I’m so happy, darling. I know I’ve said it before. I can’t help it. I’m so happy. Leo, you’re not crying?”

  “Guy,” she said, “forgive me.”

  That made him laugh. “There’s nothing to forgive. Say you love me. Say I’m the only one for you.”

  “You’re the only one for me. I love you. One o’clock on Saturday, then?”

  “One o’clock on Saturday, darling. Goodbye till then. Take care, save yourself for me.”

  It had happened. She had come back to him. Not a promise of next year, not years ahead, but now, the day after tomorrow. He could confess to himself now that he had doubted, he had sometimes lost hope, but the constancy, the struggle had not been in vain. He had won her. He had fought for her and he had won. The battle scar on his arm he looked at with pride. If he had lost his arm, it would have been worth it.

  When he had had a bath, for showers must be avoided for the time being with that arm, he wondered if it would be wise to keep the sling on. No blood had come through the dressing. His arm was sore but no more than that. Slyly, he saw through his own doubts about the sling. What he really meant was that he wanted to go on wearing Leonora’s scarf. Wasn’t that what knights of old did—well, they did in movies—wore their ladies’ favours? Susannah had called him Leonora’s knight, had said his constancy was beautiful.

  The scarf Leonora had given him was a silky woven red-and-black thing. He dressed carefully in blue jeans, a pink shirt, a sweater he hardly ever wore but which was coincidentally very much like the scarf, a ribbed pattern in vertical stripes of dark grey and Venetian red. Guy found himself looking into the mirror for longer than he usually did. He was so much better-looking than William Newton, so superior a physical specimen, that it was almost a joke.

  What he would have liked to do was spend the morning at the rifle club but that would only make his arm worse. He started phoning theatre box offices. Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Aspects of Love was what he would have preferred. The price of tickets in the black market would be astronomical but that never bothered him. Leonora didn’t like musicals, so that was out. Celeste had told him what M. Butterfly was about and he thought he might have enjoyed seeing it with her, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you could take the woman you were going to marry to see. In the end he settled for Ayckbourn’s Henceforward and booked two seats on his American Express Gold Card in the third row of the stalls.

  Next day Celeste phoned to remind him they were dining with Danilo and Tanya and some American friends of theirs who were in London. Guy considered refusing on the grounds of his injured arm but thought better of it. It would pass the time until tomorrow. The dinner party was at the Connaught. The obvious thing would have been to call for Celeste in a taxi. He decided instead on the Jaguar. The idea appealed to him of driving it one-armed. He was going to tell everyone the truth, that he had got his wound in a duel.

  “You’re kidding,” Danilo said.

  The Americans looked to Guy like a couple of gangsters. They were both short, dark, Italianate, showily dressed. One of them had a scar on his cheek the circular shape of the broken-off base of a wine bottle. Tanya was up to her old trick of forgetting to change her shoes and wearing white sandals with her smart black minidress and black stockings. She gave one of the Americans a wink.

  “Someone got fresh with Celeste, did they?”

  “It had nothing to do with Celeste.” Guy saw her wince, though he had already explained everything to her in the Jaguar on their way there. “A private matter.”

  “Be honest,” said Danilo the abstemious. “You did it yourse
lf when you were pissed.”

  It wasn’t a very successful party. Tanya talked about her children. The Americans responded as if children were a rare species of mammal and one in which they were uninterested. This didn’t deter Tanya, who told anecdotes about Carlo putting red dye into the swimming pool and telling her the gardener had cut his throat before falling in. Guy drank a lot. He moved on to brandy. He had promised Celeste they would leave by ten-thirty at the latest. She had to be at a photo-call in Kensington Gardens before eight in the morning. When it got to ten forty-five, she said she had to go.

  “Just half an hour and I’ll be with you.”

  “No, Guy. It’s all right, I’ll get a taxi.”

  “I’m not letting you do that.” He struggled to his feet and suppressed a cry at the pain in his arm. “I’ll drive you like I said.”

  “You’re not fit to drive and I really have to go. I’ve already asked them to get me a taxi.”

  He was aware of only one thing. This way he wouldn’t have to have her back to spend the night with him. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” she said.

  They must have made some arrangement. He would phone tomorrow morning and stop her, he couldn’t come out with it in front of everyone. Feeling guilty, feeling obscurely ashamed, he touched the lightly resting hand. She said goodbye and was gone.

  “Nice little looker,” said one of the Americans, unbelievably to Guy.

  Guy thought how extremely embarrassing it would be to take Leonora home with him and find Celeste there. Or for poor Celeste to arrive while he and Leonora were there together. He must give some serious thought to explaining to Celeste the turn events had taken.

  “We’ll drive you home,” said Tanya. “I mean, we’ll drive your car. We came in a cab, so we can take you home and get a taxi to take us on.”

  Danilo didn’t say anything. His frog face was set in grim lines. Guy couldn’t remember where he had parked the car and they trudged the dark empty Mayfair streets looking for it.

  “I’m going to love you if they’ve clamped it,” said Tanya.

  They hadn’t. Guy got in the back. The fresh autumnal air had brought him round. It was nearly midnight, nearly the day that would mark the beginning of his life with Leonora. What would Danilo and Tanya have to say to that?

  He could have driven himself. He felt perfectly all right apart from his aching arm. They were driving along Knightsbridge when he remembered about Rachel Lingard. Tanya knew all about Danilo’s activities—or as far as he knew she did.

  “Can you put a stop on Chuck, Dan?”

  “Can I what?”

  “Just call it off, will you?”

  Danilo was silent. Guy could tell he was upset. He went the wrong way and got them into the Fulham Road. With a little shrug Tanya said, “Don’t mind me. I’ve had to learn when to shut my ears.”

  “Turn right when you can,” Guy said. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t want the three grand back.”

  “I should fucking think not,” said Danilo.

  “But you can do it?”

  “Ah, shit, Guy, I can live without this.”

  “But you can manage it?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know. I don’t know who Chuck’s put on the job and Chuck’s been in Ireland. Maybe he’s still in Ireland. I don’t even know if Chuck’s boy’s doing it or Chuck’s boy’s boy.”

  Danilo turned left along me Old Brompton Road. Guy said, “You’ve got a fortnight. Well, two weeks tomorrow. She’s away for another two weeks.” He was suddenly aware of where they were and what they might see.

  Danilo said in a bad-tempered way, “Yeah, yeah, okay. It’ll take time but maybe not that long. Only don’t reckon on doing that kind of business with me again, right? Christ, what is it now?”

  Guy was tapping on his shoulder. “Please stop, will you? Just for a minute. Just park over there. It won’t take long, I promise.”

  “What is all this, Guy?” Tanya was losing patience with him now. “I have to be in the shop tomorrow morning.”

  “Please pull in over there, Danilo.”

  They had to walk back. The tall thin man lay stretched out on the doorstep of the health-food shop. He was dressed in the same soot-coloured rags, but this time he lay on his back, with the cap, which had been a receptacle for alms, covering his face. Guy said, “It’s Linus.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No, I’m sure it is. This is the third time I’ve seen him. I know it’s Linus. It’s been worrying me, on my conscience, you know. Dan, we can’t just leave him here. We’ll have to do something for him.”

  Danilo went across the pavement, took hold of the cap and lifted it from the man’s face. It woke him. He sat up and began screaming at them, his face contorted, his bright, white, perfect teeth bared. A stream of meaningless obscenity poured from him.

  “Ah, for Christ’s sake,” said Danilo. He stuck up two fingers at the screaming man.

  Guy could see now that it wasn’t Linus. He was no more like Linus than he was like Danilo. “At least give him something.”

  “Give him something yourself,” said Danilo and he walked back to the car, followed by Tanya.

  Guy felt deeply disturbed. What was going on in his mind that he had confused this derelict with his old friend? He gave the man a tenner, which had the effect of shutting him up but not of eliciting thanks. He took the note, thrust it into his trouser pocket, and rolled back onto the doorstep, once more covering his face.

  “Linus is dead,” Danilo said when he was putting the Jaguar away in Guy’s garage. “They strung him up in Kuala Lumpur. Have you ever thought of joining the AA?”

  “I’ve been a member for years.”

  “Danny didn’t mean the Automobile Association,” said Tanya, by this time laughing helplessly. They went off together to find a taxi.

  He would drink less when he was with Leonora all the time. If she wanted him to give up smoking, he would have a go at that too. In a month’s time he would be thirty and it wouldn’t be very many more years before he’d be unable to hold the drink as he could now. When he was happy all the time, leading a contented life, he wouldn’t need the drink to cushion him against blows, he wouldn’t need his consciousness changed from misery to limbo.

  He felt none the worse for the excesses of the night before and his arm was much better. The sling wouldn’t be needed any more but he wanted to wear it because it was hers. Sentimentally, he thought of wearing her scarf today for the last time and then, when she was back here with him, returning it to her ceremoniously. She would smile her Vivien Leigh smile for him and at last it would be full and unrestrained.

  What to wear this morning was something of a problem. Although he knew she had never been that keen on Newton, although he had been procured for her and she persuaded to take him, there was something about the man that appealed to her apart from his conversation. And Newton always dressed in clothes that were a combination of the Housing Trust Charity Shop and Dirty Dick’s. It had to be faced that nice clothes didn’t interest her, either for herself or her man. Perhaps he should start learning to care less about them himself. With that end in view he chose the jeans he had worn the day before, a plain blue shirt in sea-island cotton, and a blue-and-grey-striped seersucker jacket. It still looked over the top, or would to her. Changing the jacket for yesterday’s sweater was a real sacrifice for him, but he made it. Carefully, he reknotted the ends of the scarf and arranged it around his neck to support his arm.

  He was on the point of leaving when he remembered the ring. He still had the engagement ring he had bought for Leonora all those years ago. It was in the safe. He hadn’t used the safe, hadn’t opened it, for four years, there had been no need to do so. The last time was after Con Mulvanney’s visit. He went back upstairs, opened the safe and took out the ring. It was in a small blue leather box and the ring itself, a large square-cut sapphire with “shoulders” of diamonds, sat in a bed of midnight-blue velvet.
Guy put ring and box into his pocket.

  It was twelve when he left the house, much too soon for an appointment in the West End at one. But he had nothing to do. He had already made a careful tour of the house, checking that everything was as it should be to receive her. He had refilled the ice trays in the fridges in the kitchen and the drawing-room bar, arranged on the coffee-table The Guardian, The London Review of Books, and Cosmopolitan, which, wonder of wonders, the newsagent had remembered to deliver, and put into the bathroom that would be her bathroom the various Paloma Picasso toiletries he had yesterday sent Fatima out to buy. There was nothing left to do, and sitting about reading the paper was intolerable. He had made several attempts to phone Celeste and stop her from coming before he remembered she was out being photographed somewhere. At twelve he left to walk part of the way, stopped to look in an estate agent’s window, and on an impulse went inside.

  On their books they had a beautiful house in Lansdowne Crescent, Notting Hill. The price, they said, ran into seven figures. When they saw he didn’t flinch they told him precisely what the price was. Photographs of interiors were produced: a grand staircase, swan-neck-shaped; a magnificent drawing-room forty feet long; octagonal bathrooms in each of the turrets. Guy made an appointment to view for Monday afternoon. By now it was twenty minutes to one, nice time to get there punctually in a cab.

  The traffic was less dense than usual and the taxi put him down outside the Café Fish. It was two minutes to one. She might be there already, it had been known, and those familiar sensations repeated themselves—me little jump his heart gave, his insides tightening, pressure in his head. He paused on the pavement for a moment, gathered himself, went into the restaurant.

  It was crowded but she wasn’t there yet. The girl who came to show him to his table told him that. Smoking or nonsmoking? One day he would choose non-smoking to please Leonora but that time hadn’t come yet. He lit a cigarette the moment he was sitting down.