101 Pieces of Me

by Veronica Bennett

  “You look like a girl who’s been badly hurt by some heartless bounder,” he said. “And I’m pretty damned sure I know who. Now come in and make yourself comfortable.”

  He helped me to my feet and up the rest of the stairs. From the doorway of the main room I could see that the flat was the home of a man who cared little for wealth but a great deal for comfort and beauty. There were no thick carpets or silk-upholstered chairs; rather, the comfort of a soft sofa and the beauty of book-lined walls. I had never seen such a room. Since I had left Haverth, I had lived in hotels. I had only seen decoration designed to impress rich people who had the same sort of furnishings at home. But Aidan’s sitting-room, simply furnished and softly lit, had no pretensions to impress anyone.

  The floor was polished wood, over which had been laid a rug. Not the Persian kind with intricate patterns I had seen in so many hotels, but a plain rug, the colour of grass. In fact, the exact colour of the hills around Haverth in the first days of spring. At the windows, which were the old-fashioned sash kind, were cotton curtains, unswagged, untrimmed, unfringed, and the colour of the sky on the hottest summer day. Apart from the sofa, there were cushions on the floor and a wicker chair. The only wall not covered with bookcases was crowded with pictures: photographs of Aidan and other people, sketches, postcards, greeting cards, some framed, some not, some not even mounted but stuck to the corners of others with drawing pins. I gazed and gazed.

  My legs were trembling. I was glad Aidan was still holding on to my arm. “Is this really where you live?” I asked.

  “What an odd question!” He gave me a puzzled, but amused, look. “Do you think I merely pretend to live at 23 Raleigh Court, when my true home is far away in … I don’t know, Ruritania, perhaps?”

  He was right. It was a foolish question. But I was foolish enough to be taken aback at the sight of a modest, pleasant room after months of lying in starched sheets gazing up at ornate ceilings. “I’m sorry,” I said, hoping he could hear that I was sincere. “It’s just very different from everywhere else I’ve been since … well, since I left home.”

  I could not go on. My throat contracted, and I bowed my head, unwilling to allow Aidan to witness yet more tears. I swallowed repeatedly, trying to compose myself.

  Aidan had the decency not to look at me. He settled me in the corner of the small sofa, bustling a little, asking if I were warm enough and could he get me some tea or something to eat?

  “Please don’t take any trouble.” My voice was a whisper. “I am quite all right.”

  “I’ve got some soup I can heat up,” he said, halfway to the door that led to the rest of the flat. “And I’ll do some bread and butter, shall I? And tea. I could do with a cup myself.”

  He brought me a bowl of soup and put a plate of bread and butter and my teacup beside it on a low table, then sat in the wicker chair, balancing his own teacup on his knee, and regarded me carefully. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s brought you to my door?” After a pause, he added, “My real door, that is, not the one in Ruritania?”

  I did not smile. “Thank you very much for this.” I took a mouthful of bread and butter. “I had no supper.” I took another mouthful. “What brought me to your door, as you say, was the piece of paper you wrote your address on, ages ago. It was in my make-up bag, all screwed up and dirty. But I could still read it.” I took a spoonful of the soup. It was too hot but unexpectedly delicious. “This is very good.”

  “It’s only some vegetables and a bit of stock.”

  I looked at him sharply, wondering if it was another joke. I had never heard of a bachelor, or indeed any man, making soup. He looked back at me with an expression of innocence. “Do you think I can afford a cook? I can make eggs and bacon, too. And lamb chops. I assume my cooking skill is the sole reason you turned up here, since I am accustomed to being roundly despised by Miss Clara Hope.”

  I stirred the soup and blew on it, giving myself a little time, collecting the courage I needed to admit the truth. “I came here because I have nowhere else to go,” I told him. “Perhaps you remember that you once offered me help if I ever needed it? Well, I do.”

  For the first time since my arrival, I looked at him, properly. His hair had been recently washed but not oiled, and stuck up in tufts at the back, as if he had been resting it on a cushion. It was now almost midnight, so he might have been in his bedroom when I rang the doorbell, though he was dressed in old trousers and a shirt without its collar on. On the front of his pullover I detected a cigarette burn, possibly two, and a smear of something like gravy. His face looked just as it always did – self-aware, mocking, alert, smooth. The injuries David had inflicted upon it had healed. I had never noticed before how slim his shoulders and chest were. Or had he got thinner since I had last seen him?

  “So what has David done?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. “I don’t understand. All I know is that he has broken my heart.”

  He sighed softly. “Oh, Clara. You’re a nice, loving girl with no experience. A blank canvas for David Penn to put whatever he likes on.”

  I could not dispute this. “He said I’m an idiot.”

  Aidan made a sound like Grrrumph! and said, “Only an idiot would consider you an idiot, Clara.”

  “So David’s the idiot, then?” I took another spoonful of soup. “Aidan, please let’s be serious. I am more of an idiot than you suppose. You see, when David asked me to go away with him to Brighton for the weekend, I didn’t realize he meant I was supposed to, you know …” – I could feel myself blushing helplessly – “share his bed.”

  “Ah,” said Aidan with resignation. To my relief, he did not try to make a joke.

  “And he’d booked two rooms, because I’d insisted. But there was a bathroom between them, with a door from each room.” I paused. “I suppose it was easy for someone to hide in there.”

  He frowned. “Someone was hiding in the bathroom?”

  “I know it sounds like something from a penny dreadful,” I said, still red-faced, “but there was a man in there, and when I was changing he suddenly came into my bedroom, and he had a camera and he was taking pictures of me without some of my clothes on.”

  The room was utterly silent. By this hour the residents of Bayswater had retired. The window must have been open; a breeze twitched the blue curtains. Aidan whistled softly. “Christ, Clara.”

  “And do you know what happened next? David came in through the bathroom too, and he wasn’t wearing his shirt, and he pushed me onto the bed, and…” Unable to go on, I put down my spoon. I got up and looked at the bookshelves through watery eyes, trying not to sniff, hoping Aidan would have the grace to let me gather myself.

  But he finished the story for me. “And the man took photographs of you both, on the bed, and David made it look as if you were lovers.” He was on his feet at the gas fire, lighting a spill, fumbling for his cigarettes. “Didn’t he?”

  My embarrassment silenced me.

  “Clara…” He pondered for a few moments while he lit the cigarette. Then he said in a quiet voice, “You might not understand why David did this, but I think I do. Do you remember what he said to you, if anything? Did he threaten you, for instance?”

  “Not threaten, exactly. But he mentioned a woman, and a divorce. And he told me to read my contract and not come near him until it says I have to.”

  Aidan looked at me with a sort of half-nervous delicacy. “Ah. Well, it seems to me that the photographs were taken to be used in evidence in a … um, a divorce case, as you say.”

  As he said this, suspicion fell on me, and crushed me. “Aidan, whose divorce are we talking about?”

  His face was troubled. He took a quick puff on his cigarette, then another one. “Look,” he began, “I am sorry to bring you this news, but as I think you’ve guessed, the divorce in question can only be that of … David himself.”

  I stared at him. “So … just to be clear … you’re telling me that David is married?” An
ger and embarrassment heated my cheeks and made my heart thud. “Why on earth did no one think to tell me?”

  Aidan looked profoundly unhappy. “Clara, I swear I did not know, and I’m sure no one else did either. But secret marriage or not, it sounds like he is desperate to get out of it and has involved you in a set-up.”

  “What do you mean, a set-up?” My anger was subsiding, but my embarrassment had increased.

  “Well, you see,” continued Aidan, “if a man and his wife wish to divorce, there must be grounds – cruelty, abandonment, and so on. The easiest one to get away with is adultery, but there has to be proof that one of the parties has committed it. Private detectives in places like Brighton do thriving business ‘catching people at it’. Sometimes it’s real – the wife hires the detective to follow the husband and photograph him with his lover. But usually it’s agreed between the wife and the husband that he will lure an unsuspecting woman into bed with him, or even hire a prostitute, so that his real mistress’s name can be kept out of it.”

  My heart was still beating very fast. Thud, thud, thud. “So …” I ventured in a small voice, “are you telling me that David not only has a wife, he has a mistress as well?”

  “Oh, Clara!” This was uttered as a sigh. “There is more between David and Marjorie than the Atlantic Ocean, you know. They are lovers, and have been for years.”

  Thud, thud, thud. Aidan’s tone was not patronizing, but full of sympathy. He took a resigned breath, and went on. “David has done this so that your name, rather than Marjorie’s, will be mentioned in court. You see, a correspondent has to be cited for the grounds of adultery to be proven, and the divorce to be granted. And the photographs do prove that you were there, in a hotel room with David, don’t they?” He considered a moment. “Indeed, the only grain of truth in this whole sorry tale is that you agreed to go away with him for the weekend. And how fortunate for him that you did! The little scene he was planning could not be set in motion without its leading lady, could it?”

  Thud, thud, thud. I pressed my fingers to my forehead, as if I could erase my discomfiture by force. No wonder David had been so anxious to secure my agreement! Leaving messages for me at the hotel, rushing to meet me there as soon as I telephoned. And I had thought it was because he was besotted with me! I tried to breathe steadily, but it was no use. I took a few quick steps about the room, my shoes clicking on the polished floor.

  “Aidan, for pity’s sake, why did you not tell me the truth about Marjorie when I asked? Of course it would have been heartbreaking, but since my heart is broken anyway, what does that matter? I would not have gone to Brighton, and everything would be all right!”

  I thought he would apologize, but all he said was, “For heaven’s sake, sit down. You’re making this look like one of David’s ghastly theatrical scenes; ‘pace about agitatedly, move stage left, say your line, move stage right, adjust the curtains to show nervousness, move stage left, sit down again…’”

  “Stop it! Will you just stop it!” I cried, as theatrically as any director might wish. “This may be a big joke to you, but to me it’s the…” I floundered for words. “It’s the end of everything. It’s the end of love.” My voice faltered. My chin dropped onto my chest. “I was sure David loved me, as I loved him. I know he has wronged me, but I cannot forget what happened between us and how he made me feel.” I raised my head and looked at him steadily. “Aidan, haven’t you ever been in love?”

  He did not answer. He smoked to the end of his cigarette, stubbed it out and lit another, his face so consumed with concentration I wondered if he had forgotten I was there. I sat down on the edge of the sofa, like someone expecting bad news. Finally, Aidan turned to me. His eyes contained a thoughtful expression; I could not guess what he saw in mine.

  “Yes, I have been in love,” he said. “I too have discovered that even if the object of one’s passion does not return it, the passion remains unaffected. And even if they misbehave, it is not automatically extinguished. Love is not subject to the usual rules of engagement. It is not organized, like war between nations, or a game of cricket. It is the stirring of deep emotions and includes the pain of having them stirred.”

  My heartbeat had slowed during his silence, but now it gathered pace again. I had never heard such words from him before. The grip in which he usually held his feelings had loosened: now, perhaps, whatever lay in his heart was on the edge of release.

  “Of course,” he went on, “I understand that an attachment such as you felt for David cannot vanish upon the instant of betrayal. And I am contrite at my flippancy. It is a habit of mine to joke in order to avoid admitting some things are serious. I should curb it, I think.” Unexpectedly, he took my hand. His touch was familiar from the many times we had been in a “clinch” on the film set. I was comforted by it. “I must impress upon you how deeply I regret keeping the truth from you,” he continued. “But I had no idea of the depth of your feelings for David, or that things had gone so far with him. I imagined, along with everyone else at Shepperton, that it was a flirtation.” He was smiling one of his humourless smiles. “Actually, I did broach the subject with Robert once, but he said, ‘My dear boy, if the director’s having a bit of fun with the leading lady, that’s hardly news, is it?’ And he was right, after a fashion. It was not my place to preach to you, so I said nothing.”

  I was too crushed to speak. Aidan took a long drag on his cigarette and thought for a moment, then he added, “If we had known he was married, you may be assured we would have warned you.” He gave me a rueful look. “They may be louche, or degenerate in their habits, or vain, and they are definitely tiresome, but film people are generally more moral than they would have you believe. And I did, if you remember, ask you to be careful of yourself.”

  “But I did not understand what you meant!” I protested. “I assumed you were jealous!”

  “So you thought I had designs on you myself?” He blinked rapidly while he breathed smoke. Crestfallen, he let go of my hand. “You must have a very low opinion of me.”

  I did not know what to say. My opinion of Aidan had been revised so many times in the last hour, I no longer knew what it was. “I just wish you’d told me,” I said softly.

  “So do I, Clara,” he said with feeling. “God knows, so do I.”

  Aidan insisted I sleep in the only bedroom, while he settled down on the little sofa – uncomfortably, I was sure. I slept as if I had been beaten over the head and left for dead. Aidan did not wake me. When I eventually appeared in the sitting-room at half past twelve the next day, bathed, and dressed in my only remaining clean blouse, he handed me a buff envelope and said, “Have a look at that while I make some breakfast. Then get your hat and we’ll go out, shall we?”

  I went to the window and looked at the street, which daylight had revealed to be a mews behind large houses, narrow and cobbled, with a gutter down the middle. The envelope, which was unsealed, contained a collection of folded papers. The stiff cream paper reminded me of the correspondence I’d received from David Penn Productions, and when I held the title page to the light I realized why. In my hands was Aidan’s contract.

  “Why have you given me this?” I asked when he came in with a tray of tea and toast.

  “Because I’m assuming you haven’t got yours about your person.” He put down the tray and straightened up. “You didn’t drink the tea I made for you last night, you know. Don’t you like my tea?”

  “Oh … last night!” I shrugged helplessly. “I was beside myself. I did not know what I was doing. The tea was probably as delicious as the soup, but I forgot all about it. Sorry.”

  Aidan smiled, and nodded towards the contract in my hand. “I reckon your contract is much the same as mine, though you probably get paid more than I do. You said last night that David told you to read your contract, so maybe if we read mine, we can work out what he meant.”

  This was obviously a good idea. “Thank you, Aidan,” I said, hoping he would believe I was sincere. “Yo
u’ve helped me more than you needed to, you know.”

  He put his hands in his pockets and raised his thin shoulders in his nervous way. “I believe our American friends would say ‘Aw, shucks, ma’am’ in this situation. So put it on the table and let’s look at it.”

  He poured the tea and we began to read through the contract, sipping solemnly, nibbling bits of toast. I could not understand any more of it than my own. “It’s all in legal language,” I said. “You’ll have to tell me what it means.”

  “I’m not sure I know,” mused Aidan, scanning the pages. “But the bit I’m looking for … ah, this might be it.” He put down his cup and used a corner of his slice of toast to point to a section at the bottom of one of the pages. “Here. I bet you’ve got the same clause in yours. I am under contract to ‘make such public appearances as deemed necessary by the producers for advertising purposes’,” he read. “And in fact, Clara, since I signed this, I’ve had to sign another agreement to the same effect or risk being sued. I was only sacked from the filming, not the subsequent appearances for advertising purposes.”

  I looked at him, stricken. “Public appearances! What does that mean?”

  “Well…” He finished his toast and began to collect the pages. “Attending the premiere, for a start.”

  “But I have no intention of attending the premiere! I never want to see David again. And how can I face anyone else who worked on the picture? Jeanette, and Robert, and … oh God, Simona! I wish the whole film could be destroyed and thrown in the rubbish bin!”

  Aidan’s face looked thin and hungry, and his eyes narrowed. “You cannot mean that. And anyway, you have no choice. If David’s wife cites you as the object of his ‘adultery’, it will be all over the newspapers. The story has everything they adore: money, sex, beautiful people and just the right touch of sleaziness to titillate the masses. It will be the biggest scandal of the year. The public will flock to see Innocence so they can nudge each other when you appear on screen and feel superior to this woman of no morals who will sleep with someone else’s husband. You will be mobbed at the premiere. And your future career as an actress will be assured.”