by Rosie Thomas
‘Happy Christmas,’ Harriet called after her.
She turned and walked in the opposite direction, back towards Peacocks, hoping that the wintry air would clear the fumes out of her head. It had not been a particularly reassuring lunch. After Christmas, she decided, she would ask everyone to come to Hampstead for supper, Jane and Jenny and Charlie and the others, and they would have one of the old evenings, and then she would be sure that everything was as it always had been. Then she reached the office, and having made the plan she forgot about it.
Robin opened the bedroom curtains and looked out on to Harriet’s garden. The flowerbeds were covered by a thick layer of dead leaves, and the margins of each leaf carried a thin beard of frost. The sky was clear, colourless. It was Saturday and Christmas Eve. Turning back into the room he saw that Harriet was still asleep, her long, thin shape curled into a round hump under the covers. They had been out late last night.
The party had been given by an old friend of Robin’s, a girl he had known since they were both small children. He had gone to his first birthday parties with Rosalie Fellowes, and he had still been her partner for her ‘coming out’ dance held at her grandfather’s house in Gloucestershire. Even though they had known each other for such a long time, Robin had never actually made love to Rosalie. At one weekend party, when he was seventeen, he had progressed as far as removing her white lace pants in an orchard as the sun came up. It had seemed incestuous to attempt to advance beyond that, and they had eventually made their way companionably back to the end of the party, his arm around Rosalie’s waist and her head resting on his shoulder.
Now, Rosalie had been married for over a year to the elder son of a banking dynasty. They lived in an impressive house on the river at Chiswick and last night’s party had been their Christmas celebration. There had been perhaps two hundred people at the party, at least half of them known to Robin from school, or from Oxford, or from the City. There had been a disco in the strobe-lit conservatory, little round supper tables in a long dining room, and a starry Christmas tree in the panelled hallway that soared above the gallery of the landing overhead.
Robin had enjoyed being at the party with Harriet. They had moved through the connecting circles, part of the talk and laughter, and he had been drawn to look at her over and over again, admiring her. Among strangers she was attractive and animated, but she also maintained a kind of separate coolness. It was a combination that he found particularly alluring. He also liked the way that she observed everything, with amusement, as if storing up information and impressions. They were separated at dinner, and from across the room he watched her talking and carefully listening. He knew that she would remember what had been said.
Robin had no doubt that Harriet would be a considerable success as an entrepreneur. He hadn’t persuaded his father to put up Landwith capital just because he found her personally attractive. But now Robin wanted more than Harriet’s success, he wanted Harriet herself, and the force of his wanting was highly stimulating. Robin was used to getting what he wanted, but he also understood and enjoyed the groundwork that was necessary to achieve his ends.
Harriet had turned down his proposal once, but he fully intended that she would accept it in good time, to their mutual pleasure and satisfaction.
After the little tables had been cleared away, Harriet’s dinner partner threatened to monopolise her. They went off to dance together, and so Robin danced with Rosalie, and then with a girl he had been briefly in love with at Oxford, now married to a broker. Everyone was marrying, he thought. They had reached that age. He was suddenly impatient with observing Harriet from a distance. He went to claim her, and they moved under the ribbons of light, their hands touching.
Harriet was wearing her expression of secret amusement.
‘What is it this time?’ he demanded.
She had been observing Rosalie’s English prettiness, envying it but also thinking that it would look better in a stately ballgown than in Lagerfeld black with a river of sequins down the back. Harriet raised her eyebrows at Robin.
‘All this. English society, grande luxe.’ She had been intrigued by the sprinkling of famous faces among unfamiliar ones that were still somehow printed with the heredity of money and power, and all of it commanded here by a pink-and-white girl younger than herself.
‘Rosalie has some useful connections, and so does her husband,’ Robin shrugged.
‘Why didn’t you marry Rosalie?’ Harriet’s eyes were wickedly bright.
He jerked her against him, bending her backwards, his mouth against her ear. ‘Because she’d bore the balls off me within two years, that’s why.’
Harriet stepped away from him again, composedly re-entering the dance. ‘I see. That would be a problem.’ Her coolness made him feel hot. The party was becoming an irrelevance. He thought briefly of upstairs bedrooms with rose chintz valances and long-skirted tables, and then dismissed the idea. He didn’t want a hasty party screw. He wanted to spend a long time making love to Harriet, doing it very slowly and very thoroughly.
‘Have you enjoyed your evening?’ he enquired formally.
‘Is it over?’ She smiled openly at him now. ‘Yes, I have, thank you. Quite an eye-opener for me, coming from Sunderland Avenue.’
He took hold of her wrists, drawing her against him more gently. He could feel her nipples through the thin fabric of her dress. Harriet moved her hips, teasing him with the evidence of his erection. He kissed her mouth, drawing her tongue with his own. He heard the little hiss of her indrawn breath.
‘I don’t care where you’ve come from, so long as you’re here. I do know where we’re both going.’
‘Now?’
‘Jesus, Harriet. This very second.’
They said their goodbyes, and went out under the black sky. They found the Porsche, valet-parked in a semi-circle of BMWs and Mercedes. Harriet’s evening slippers made a ripple in the gravel, Robin sounded heavy-footed beside her. In the car he asked her, ‘Where?’ ‘Hampstead,’ she answered, and he thought, too far. As they drove she put her loosely-curled hand to rest on his thigh, her knuckles brushing against him. He jerked his head sideways for a glimpse of her quarter-profile, serenely turned away from him. He knew that he had never wanted a girl as much as he wanted Harriet tonight.
It was late, and he blessed the empty roads. There was no traffic at Hammersmith, and the Westway beyond was an empty, orange-lit ribbon. Robin slammed up through the gears and the Porsche howled through the tunnel of light. He drove faster, until Harriet’s head was pressed back against her seat and her lips just parted.
When they reached home, and stood facing each other, the silence seemed thick enough to touch.
Robin’s desire was intense, but the urgency had gone with the whirlwind drive. He was clear-headed now, and meticulous in his intentions. He stroked her cheeks with the tips of his fingers, and she looked straight back into his eyes as if she could see deep into his head. He traced the line of her neck to her shoulders, thinking that he would like to put diamonds around her bare neck. When the time came he would buy her jewels, when they were married. Now he turned her around and unzipped her dress and let it fall at her feet. He put his mouth to each breast, in turn.
Robin took off his own clothes, butterfly bow tie and pleated shirt and silk cummerbund, and folded them carefully aside. When they were both naked he put his hands to Harriet’s hips and lifted her against him. Her legs twined around his waist and her head fell forward, the wings of her hair feathery against his skin.
It was Robin who was cool now. He was aching for her but he enjoyed the fine degrees of his own self-control. He made her smooth back arch up to him and her head fall back to offer up her throat to his mouth. He peeled away the layers of her party self-possession until he possessed her himself and she whispered, ‘Please, please,’ in her submission. It was a powerful stimulus. And when he came, Robin gave himself up in his turn. ‘I love you,’ he cried out. ‘I love you. I love you.’ Harriet put
her hands over his ears, cradling his head, so he heard the words trapped inside the bones of his skull.
Afterwards they lay quietly with their faces touching.
‘Good?’ Robin whispered. She smiled, all her muscles loosened, amused by the small-boyishness following the grown man’s performance. She felt wonderfully warm, and drowsy, and comfortable.
‘Are you looking for compliments?’
For a second, he was disconcerted. ‘Of course not.’
‘Well then, not good. Wonderful.’
He looked like a small boy who had won a prize. With their arms around each other, they fell asleep at the same moment.
When he woke up, to see the light strengthening in the corners of the room, Robin lay still with his mouth touching Harriet’s bare shoulder, contemplating his happiness. He was used to succeeding, but he felt that this was the best moment of success. It was uncharacteristic for him to feel the following opposite beat of fear, and when it came now it was as strong as nausea. If he couldn’t have her … Robin sat up, and swung his legs out of bed. He went to the window and looped back the curtains to look at the frost in the garden.
When he turned into the room again, to see Harriet still asleep under her covers, he had taken hold of his certainty once more.
Robin went upstairs and whistled softly in the kitchen, boiled the kettle and laid a tea tray. Across the gardens, between the black twigs of shrubs, he could see the lights of a Christmas tree winking in someone’s window. He made the tea, enjoying the quiet of the kitchen, and then carried the tray down to Harriet.
‘Wake up. It’s Christmas Eve.’
She was sleepy, stretching and clenching her fists. ‘What time is it?’
‘Late.’ He gave her her cup. ‘Drink your tea, and then we’ll go shopping.’
‘What shall we buy?’
‘I’d like to buy you everything. Furs, and jewels, and silks. Pictures and porcelain and gold.’
Harriet laughed. ‘You’d make me a kept woman. A concubine.’
‘My concubine.’ He put the tip of his finger to the warm hollow at the base of her throat. ‘I’m going to begin by buying you something to go here.’
Harriet looked at the little clock beside her bed, then lifted her arm and put it around his neck. ‘There’s plenty of time,’ she murmured. ‘There are at least six more shopping hours until Christmas.’
In the fading light of the short afternoon, when the last shoppers were already hurrying away with their last-minute purchases, Robin drove Harriet in the white Porsche down the glitter of Bond Street. He left the car to the Christmas goodwill of the traffic wardens and led Harriet into Aspreys. And there, from among the fire and ice that were brought out for their admiration on black velvet trays, he chose a diamond shaped like a teardrop. He fastened the necklace round her throat and the stone lay in the hollow. Harriet looked amazed.
‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s beautiful.’
He kissed her. ‘It’s only the first one. Happy Christmas.’
‘Robin, I—’ She wasn’t sure what kind of protest she intended to make, but he stopped her anyway.
‘Don’t. I just wanted to buy you a present. Why not?’
It seemed mean-spirited to mumble, I can’t accept this, I shouldn’t. The diamond was growing warm against her skin.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
Robin made payment of the seemingly enormous sum apparently effortless. An assistant bore one of his rectangles of plastic away, came smiling back with it, and the diamond was Harriet’s.
They came out of the shop, with Harriet’s hand protectively at her throat, into the blue-grey light. The opulent shop windows still beamed their seductive messages, but the day was nearly over. Soon the streets would be deserted and all the people would retreat behind doors for the rituals of Christmas. The dormancy would end in three days, with the abrupt springtime of the sales. Harriet felt a glow of happiness, and a corresponding reluctance to let Robin go home to the senior Landwiths. She was expected herself at Sunderland Avenue. At this moment, Kath would be flushed with the business of preparation. Harriet put her arm through Robin’s. ‘Let’s walk, just for half an hour.’
They went on down Bond Street and crossed Piccadilly into Green Park. It was cold, with damp in the air that made the street lights shine through greenish haloes. The blackness of the trees made them seem two-dimensional, less substantial than the clouds of breath that preceded Robin and Harriet as they walked. Harriet could feel the warmth of Robin’s body through the weight of his overcoat. He held her hand inside his pocket, matching the length of his steps to hers.
‘Harriet, will you come and live with me?’
‘Oh, Robin. Is that what the diamond was for?’
‘No. The diamond is just a compliment.’
‘I can’t. I lived with Leo for so long. I don’t want to live with anyone else.’ After a second she added, ‘Even you.’
His fingers tightened on hers. ‘Thank you for that. Don’t expect me to stop asking.’
It was a luxury to be loved, Harriet thought. To be loved like this, and wooed with diamonds. She wouldn’t make the mistake of confusing it with necessity.
‘My parents are having lunch for some neighbours in the country on the thirty-first. Will you come down for it?’
Harriet had a momentary picture of one of her mother’s occasional family lunches, with the best vegetable dishes set out on a heated trolley. She was curious to meet Robin’s mother, and to see the house where he had grown up. She had only a hazy idea of what it would be like, except that it would bear no resemblance to Sunderland Avenue.
‘In what capacity will I be attending?’ she asked, only half joking.
‘As a friend of mine,’ Robin answered patiently.
‘Thank you. I’d love to come.’
They turned, and began walking back the way they had come. There was no one else in sight, the park was deserted and almost completely dark. Piccadilly made an ochre glow ahead of them.
‘And in return, will you come with me to Jane’s?’
Robin sighed. ‘I don’t think Jane likes me very much.’
‘Jane doesn’t approve of some of the things you represent. That isn’t the same as not liking you. I wish you would come.’
There had been many similar parties. Harriet was too loyal to admit it even to herself, but she was afraid that without Robin’s company the day might not be very interesting. She excused herself with the reasoning that her free days were few and precious now, and she was less willing to let them drift by in the old way.
‘Of course I’ll come,’ Robin said. He stopped walking, took their linked hands out of his pocket and kissed Harriet’s knuckles. ‘I love you.’
Then he took her arm in his again and they walked on towards the emptying streets.
Eleven
Christmas at Sunderland Avenue followed the usual pattern in every detail, even down to the presence of Leo at dinner.
‘You’ve invited Leo?’ Harriet stared at Kath in amazement when her mother made the casual announcement on Christmas Eve.
‘Why not? Averil and Harold have gone to Eilat, Leo always enjoyed his Christmases here with us, he said so when he rang up, and so I asked him for this year too.’
‘He enjoyed himself? You could have fooled me,’ Harriet muttered. As far as she could remember Leo had complained routinely about Kath’s cooking, Ken’s heavy-handed humour, their insistence on watching the Queen’s speech, and his own tendency to fall asleep on the sofa in overfed boredom.
‘Leo and I separated two and a half years ago. Why should he want a family Christmas now?’
‘I don’t know, love. He rang up to wish us Merry Christmas, I invited him, and he accepted. Lisa thought it was a good idea.’
‘What’s it got to do with Lisa?’
Kath sighed. ‘Don’t make one of your awkwardnesses about this, Harriet. It’s Christmas. Here, chop this up for me, will you?’
Obediently Harriet sliced vegetables and wondered if her mother was making a misguided attempt to bring herself and Leo together again. Kath worried about her being alone, she knew that. You know what they say, Harriet. All work … Harriet smiled a little, and tried to imagine what Robin was doing at his parents’ house. She must find the right moment to tell Kath, very lightly, that she wasn’t alone, but that she had no plans to marry again either. The only reason she had never mentioned her affair with Robin, she reflected, was because she didn’t want her mother making elaborate schemes for their future together. But it would be worth running the risk of that if it would stop Kath trying to engineer reconciliations with Leo.
‘I’ve been so busy,’ she said, ‘I haven’t seen Leo for months.’
Kath pressed her lips together. ‘I know you’re busy. Don’t busy yourself out of your life, will you?’
Harriet laughed, and hugged her. ‘No, I won’t do that.’
Leo came, on Christmas morning, in a good humour and bearing appropriate presents for all of them. He listened to Ken’s jokes and contributed his own, flattered Kath and carried plates and dishes for her, was brotherly to Lisa and friendly to Harriet, and behaved throughout like a model son-in-law. His presence made the day more enjoyable; even Harriet was glad that he had come.
After the lengthy ritual of the meal, Leo and Harriet insisted that they would wash up. Lisa, who had lost weight and looked almost ethereal in a white knitted dress, yawned delicately and said, ‘Good, so I can watch the film.’
In the kitchen Harriet dried the dishes after Leo had washed them. She said, ‘Leo, don’t you think we should make this arrangement between us formal now?’
‘Get divorced? Yeah, we’ve been separated more than two years. It is only a formality. Why not?’
That was all. Harriet was surprised, although she had no particular reason to be.
As he swished Kath’s dishmop through the greasy water, Leo was thinking how much Harriet had changed. She had always been firm; now she seemed positively metallic. She had always been brisk; now she seemed in perpetual driving motion. He had loved her competence once, and had imagined himself bereft when she left him. But from what he had seen of Harriet lately, he was relieved to have nothing to do with Peacocks, or with bloody Meizu. Any man coming within twenty yards of his ex-wife these days, Leo thought, was running the severest risk of having his balls crushed. He preferred women, or one woman in particular, to be pliant and yielding.