Old Sins

by Penny Vincenzi

  They had; moving so gracefully up the stairs she appeared to float, they passed Audrey Hepburn, stunning in a black Givenchy sheath dress, a drifting mass of black ostrich feathers on her head; Zsa Zsa Gabor rippled through the crowd, in a cloud of red ruffles; Cary Grant smiled his way round the room.

  ‘Camilla invited Jackie Kennedy. She knows her, it seems. She might come. But I fear not now. They are out of town. They say he has a very good chance of becoming president. I hope so,’ he added fervently. ‘It would be nice to have some chic in the White House. I would certainly vote for him, if I were allowed.’

  Eliza liked the idea of a president elected in the cause of chic. ‘Then I hope for your sake he gets in,’ she said. ‘Come on, Paul. Let’s dance.’

  When the party finally ended, with a rain of golden fireworks over the city from the roof garden, they had gone out in a huge party to Sardi’s, with the Emersons, Paul, Camilla North, Letitia, Susan, and the Silks and the diMaggios.

  Eliza, who had drunk a great deal of champagne by now, in sheer nervousness and desperation, and was sitting in between Scott and Mick, talked and giggled loudly a great deal, flirted with them both outrageously at first and then, as she became increasingly drunk, more and more recklessly garrulous, suggested to Scott that she should have a place on the board, that Mick might like to give her a job in his studio, and even that she might open up her own department at Circe, selling children’s clothes. Everyone humoured her, fielded her suggestions gracefully, laughed at her jokes, but that could not hide the fact that she was, of all the people present, with the possible exception of Madeleine Emerson, a total outsider, and an awkwardness in the party. And despite the champagne, she knew it very well herself.

  While they were waiting for their dessert she got up and walked round to Julian; he had been engrossed in conversation with Camilla for some time, and she felt an overpowering urge to disrupt them.

  ‘Darling, move over,’ she said, ‘I want to share your chair.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Eliza,’ said Julian coldly, ‘there isn’t room.’

  ‘Then let me sit on your knee. Just for a minute. I’ve hardly been near you all evening.’

  ‘Eliza, please.’

  ‘Oh, Julian, don’t be so stuffy. All those celebrities must have gone to your head.’ She picked up his glass and drained it. ‘But we’re with friends now. Aren’t we? Or aren’t we?’ She looked round the table. ‘We’re all friends aren’t we?’

  Nobody spoke. ‘Of course we are. Great friends. So come on, Julian, be friendly. I’m your wife. Remember? Move up.’

  Camilla stood up and smiled at her graciously. ‘Here, Eliza, do take my chair. I’m going to the ladies’ room anyway.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Eliza, ‘thank you very much. How kind of you. How very very kind. Julian, Miss North is very very kind. And beautiful, don’t you think? Yes, of course you do. You always notice beauty, don’t you, my darling. Lots of beauty here, isn’t there, among our friends. Well, just your friends, really, until tonight. You’ve been keeping them to yourself. I hope they’re my friends too, now.’

  The table had fallen into a ghastly silence. Julian stared at his plate, white faced, pushing back his hair compulsively. Eliza picked up Camilla’s glass and raised it. ‘A toast,’ she said. ‘To Circe. I named it, you know, in a way. It was my idea to give it a classical name. Julian’s forgotten, of course, but we’re all friends, so I can tell you. To Circe, then. Raise your glasses.’

  Mick diMaggio, who had been watching Eliza intently, half admiring, half fearful for her, suddenly raised his glass. ‘I echo the toast,’ he said, ‘to Circe. And to Eliza, who named it – her. And to all of us – friends – who sail in her,’ he added quickly. It was a charming and graceful gesture; it eased the situation totally. ‘To Circe,’ they all said, even Julian managed a shadow of a gesture, mouthed the words.

  Susan, who had been watching the scene with particular horror, her heart constricted with panic and sympathy for Eliza, spoke suddenly. ‘It is such a good name,’ she said. ‘Who was Circe, anyway?’

  ‘She was a magician,’ said Nigel Silk, in his impeccable Boston tones. ‘She turned Ulysses’ companions into swine.’

  ‘A sorceress,’ corrected Camilla.

  ‘Same thing,’ said Nigel.

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Letitia under her breath to Madeleine, ‘Vassar versus Yale. Who would you put your money on?’

  ‘Vassar, I think. More staying power.’

  The conversation had become mercifully more general. Camilla and Nigel were engrossed in a dazzling display of mythological knowledge and had moved on to the influence of Sappho on modern poetry; Letitia was making Mick diMaggio laugh as she described how no fewer than three of her would-be suitors that evening had asked her if she could introduce them to the Queen; Madeleine Emerson had managed to engage Eliza in conversation about interior designers in London, and the possible career she was planning for herself among their ranks. Susan looked at Julian, silent and withdrawn, and felt suddenly and inexplicably sorry for him. She went and sat down next to him.

  ‘It’s been a lovely evening. A very special occasion. You must be really happy.’

  She had chosen her words carefully.

  ‘I was,’ he said shortly, as she had known he would.

  ‘Oh, Julian, don’t be silly. It didn’t matter. She’d had a bit too much to drink, that’s all.’

  ‘She looked stupid. Ridiculous.’

  ‘And your wife is not allowed to look stupid?’

  ‘No. She isn’t.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never. And certainly not on an occasion like this.’

  ‘Well,’ said Susan, ‘I’m glad I’m not your wife.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Julian, ‘I wish you were. As you very well know.’

  ‘Maybe. But I can assure you if I was I’d look stupid a great deal more often than Eliza does. She’s a great asset to you, Julian, and she’d be more of one if you’d let her be.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you shut her out.’

  ‘How do you know? Has she been talking to you?’

  ‘Of course not. She hardly ever talks to me, about anything. I wish she would. I like her. But anyway, she’s very very loyal. More so than you deserve.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I know you shut her out because I have eyes in my head. It’s extremely obvious, Julian. You never talk to her. You don’t tell her anything. It’s ridiculous. She could be such an asset to you. You should talk to her and you should listen to her. Then this sort of thing wouldn’t happen. It was very sad, seeing her tonight, pretending she knew more about everything than she did, talking away, covering up for herself.’

  ‘Stop lecturing me, Susan.’ But he looked less angry, more relaxed.

  ‘It’s a bloody sight more interesting lecture than the one that’s going on on my left.’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’

  Camilla and Nigel had left mythology for primitive American art; Letitia, who was now nearly as drunk as Eliza, was regaling Mick diMaggio with her stories of the Prince of Wales; Scott Emerson was nodding gently over his bourbon.

  ‘I think,’ said Julian sotto voce to Susan, ‘that it’s time to go home.’

  ‘I agree. Now promise me you won’t be angry with Eliza.’

  Julian sighed and raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘All right. I promise. Why is everyone on her side? You, Madeleine, Mick.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Susan with some asperity, ‘because we’re sorry for her.’

  Eliza, waking in the morning to a hideous hangover and an empty apartment, knew they had been sorry for her, and decided it would never ever happen again. If she could not persuade Julian to share his life with her, then she would have one of her own, and make sure she didn’t share that one with him.

  She had apologized to him on the way home for beh
aving badly, and he had said shortly that it hadn’t mattered so very much as they had after all been with close friends, and clearly wished to end the discussion. But he had slept in his dressing room, after giving her the briefest good night kiss, as increasingly often now he did.

  She booked her flight home immediately, instead of waiting another week; she phoned Madeleine to tell her.

  ‘Eliza, I hope this isn’t because of last night,’ said Madeleine, ‘because that would be very silly.’

  ‘Well,’ said Eliza in a rather tight voice, ‘it is and it isn’t.’

  ‘But darling, it just didn’t matter, and nobody minded if that’s what you mean. Nobody.’

  ‘Yes, they did,’ said Eliza, ‘I minded. I made a fool of myself. And in front of a lot of people who matter to Julian. People I hardly know. People like the Silks and – and Camilla North.’

  ‘I see,’ said Madeleine quietly.

  ‘But thank you for being on my side. You were wonderful. And when you come over next month, you will come and stay, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course we will. Now Eliza, promise me you’re not going to rush off back to London and do anything silly.’

  ‘Oh, Madeleine,’ said Eliza with a sigh, ‘I’ve spent the last five years trying to be sensible. It doesn’t seem to have worked. I feel a bit disillusioned with it all. I just want to get home.’

  ‘Eliza, you sound so sad,’ said Madeleine. ‘Please, please believe me, I know Julian cares about you very much.’

  ‘Maybe he does,’ said Eliza with a sigh, ‘but he has a very strange way of showing it.’

  ‘Well, I know so,’ said Madeleine. ‘He talks about you so much. And if – if you’re worried about – well – Camilla North, you shouldn’t be. They just work together. I’m quite sure there’s no more to it than that.’

  ‘Oh goodness,’ said Eliza, dangerously bright, ‘Camilla North is the least of my worries. It’s nothing like that, Madeleine. Really. I just need to get away from it all. I feel like an outcast here. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Madeleine, ‘yes I think I can.’

  ‘And besides,’ said Eliza, ‘you never know, I might even find a job of my own to do. Who knows what Fate might have in store for me?’

  The Connection Two

  Los Angeles, 1957–8

  LEE WAS DISCUSSING sex with Amy Meredith when she realized her period was late.

  She had never been much in the habit of noting down dates; she had long given up serious hope of a baby. Unlike some of her friends she never had any bad cramps, so she didn’t have to plan around it – when it happened it happened, and that was all there was to it.

  They were lying on the beach, she and Amy, one afternoon, not talking about anything in particular, and she was just debating for the hundredth time whether she should tell Amy about Hugo, it might help bring him a bit nearer, ease the loneliness and the growing hurt that he had only phoned twice briefly in the past four weeks (although he was coming down to stay in a fortnight), when Amy had said she mustn’t be back late because Bob was bringing a client home for dinner.

  ‘Dreadfully boring it’ll be too,’ she said, turning over on to her back and rearranging her hair on the towel, ‘the wife is coming as well, and it’ll be new drapes and the PTA right through to dessert. The only advantage is that Bob will probably get seriously drunk and then I’ll have a bit of peace tonight.’

  Lee laughed. ‘Amy, is it really so bad?’

  ‘Well, it mightn’t be if it wasn’t quite so predictable. I mean, you say Dean doesn’t do it enough, but at least you have the luxury of being able to go straight to sleep from time to time.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Lee, ‘but then you see I sometimes want it so much I can’t get to sleep anyway. Maybe we should swap for a bit.’

  ‘I honestly just can’t imagine actually really wanting it,’ said Amy. ‘I mean, I don’t think I’m properly frigid, but all those years of force feeding do put a girl off. The only time I get any peace at all is when I get the curse. He really doesn’t like that. How about Dean?’

  Lee looked at her, and smiled, shaking her head, and then froze suddenly into absolute petrified stillness. She felt as if she was falling helplessly, sucked down into some fearsome vortex. She put out her hand on the sand to steady herself; the beach seemed to rock. She shut her eyes tightly for a minute and then opened them again; the sun looked harshly, whitely bright, the heat all of a sudden unbearable.

  She looked at Amy, and a huge fist-sized lump grew in her throat; she tried to swallow, her mouth felt dust-dry.

  ‘Lee, for heaven’s sake, what is it? You look awful, terrible. Do you feel all right?’

  ‘Yes – no – that is, oh, shit, Amy, what have I done? What have I done? Amy, do you have a diary, here give it to me, quick, quick, oh Jesus, Amy, I feel . . .’

  Her voice trailed away; she was feverishly counting, checking off weeks. She threw the diary on to the sand, looked at Amy, her cheeks flushed, her eyes big and scared.

  ‘Amy, I’m late. Really late. Nearly three weeks.’

  ‘Well, honey, isn’t that good news? Don’t look like that. You and Dean have always wanted a baby. What’s the panic? Anyway, it probably doesn’t mean a thing anyway. Do you have any other symptoms?’

  Lee shook her head. ‘No, I feel perfectly normal.’

  ‘Well then. Calm down. When I was trying to have Cary I was late every other month for nearly a year, until it actually happened. But I honestly would have thought you’d be pleased. I mean it certainly doesn’t matter. It’s nothing to panic about. Christ, I thought you were going to die on me then.’

  Lee managed a shaky smile. ‘So did I. It must have been the sun.’

  ‘Lee Wilburn, when did the sun ever give you the vapours?’ She looked at her friend sharply. ‘Is something worrying you, Lee? I mean, you know, something that you should tell me?’

  Lee looked at her, and longed to tell her everything, and knew she never could. If nobody knew, then nothing could happen to her. If she kept quiet, she would be safe. Probably in any case Amy was right, and it was just nothing; and if it wasn’t, if the unthinkable had happened, if she had to think it, then it was far far better nobody knew. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Amy, it was just that it was too much of a burden to lay on her, to ask her to carry. Besides, if she didn’t tell, anyone, anyone at all, then she could just make herself believe, make it true even, that the weekend with Hugo hadn’t happened, that the terrifying consequences of it couldn’t happen either.

  She began to feel calmer; that was it, she could see now, of course, how stupid, if she was – well, if there was a real reason for her period being so late, then it must surely be Dean who was responsible for it. She had been sleeping with him extremely regularly for years and years, just as regularly over the last few weeks, how silly to think there could be any other explanation. She lay back on the sand again, feeling her panic ebb away; then a new one started to rise, smaller but just as fierce. She hadn’t slept with Dean that much lately. He had been so tired, so worried about his job, drinking too much; night after night he had just gone straight to sleep, snoring loudly, leaving her lying beside him, thinking of Hugo, fantasizing. But once or twice – surely – yes, of course, at least once – well, that was enough. She could persuade Dean of anything, anything at all. Only – she shivered suddenly, remembering what Doctor Forsythe had said last time she had been to see him about her inability to conceive. ‘Time it very carefully, Lee. It’s no use just leaving it all to Mother Nature. She’s not always too reliable. Be sure you make love right bang in the middle of your cycle. Every one of the three or four days. And take your temperature to check it. That’s very important.’

  She had made a lot of that to Dean, she remembered; ironically seeing it as a surefire way of getting sex now and again. He had taken it very seriously, too; and it had become something of a habit with him, even though it hadn’t worked, every month he would ask her to make
sure to tell him when the time was, to take her temperature, so that they could be quite sure, say, ‘Come on honey, baby-making time, we have to keep trying, he’ll be along sooner or later.’ And this month, he hadn’t; he had said he was sorry, he was too tired, too distracted, maybe next time; and then he had felt bad about it, apologized to her a few days later. He would remember that; Lee shut her eyes again, feeling suddenly sick. She sat up, smiling shakily at Amy. ‘Sorry about that. I can’t think what came over me. Let’s get back anyway. It’s late, and you have dinner to cook.’

  ‘Now are you sure you’re all right?’ said Amy solicitously, as she dropped Lee off at her house. ‘You look a little pale. Honestly, Lee, I tell you, I would just love it if you were pregnant. Now you go in and put your feet up and have a drink of milk. I’ll call you in the morning.’

  Lee didn’t have a drink of milk. She poured herself a large gin. Over the next few days she drank a lot of large gins. She had heard it could help. She followed all the other old wives’ advice too; she took endless unbearably hot baths; she bought a skipping rope and did five hundred jumps a day; she jumped down the stairs. She even went to a drugstore down at Venice, where they wouldn’t know her, and spun them some cock and bull story about her period being a few days late, and she wanted to hurry it along because she was going on vacation. The pharmacist gave her a funny look and sold her some pills for twenty dollars which she had to take every day for three days; all they did was make her feel violently ill and throw up all over the back yard.

  Dean was mercifully away for a few days; she moped about the house avoiding everybody, even Amy. Especially Amy.

  Every hour on the hour she went hopefully into the toilet; her pants remained stubbornly white. She dreamt twice her period had started; awaking, she shot out of bed, joyfully convinced it was true and then crawled back in again, shivering with disappointment and fear. She made bargains with God: If I’m not pregnant, I’ll never speak to Hugo again, give up beer, keep the house clean and tidy.