by Alison Love
At least I look the part, thought Olivia when Avril had gone, throwing herself onto the sofa once more. She was wearing dark yellow evening pajamas with a tobacco-colored cashmere wrap, an engagement present from Bernard, and her hair had been very expensively cut, which made the sharp lines of her face look distinguished rather than gawky. All of Bernard’s friends admired her: the poets, the journalists, even the earnest young socialists with their pipes and their corduroy trousers, who did not generally notice women. I told you, Olivia, her husband had said triumphantly: you’re an original. And it’s I who discovered you. We should both be very proud of ourselves.
—
Olivia had married Bernard in January, two months after their first meeting. The wedding took place in a registry office. The only guest was Uncle Dickie, who bought them lunch afterward at the Ivy. Olivia had considered inviting her aunt from Croydon, but she knew that it would be from the worst of all motives, and she thought such pettiness might put a curse on her own good fortune. Once upon a time Olivia had wished her sister dead; she was nervous about curses.
For their honeymoon Bernard took Olivia on a winter cruise to the Caribbean. She had not believed it was possible to be so happy. They drank champagne cocktails among the potted palms, they watched flickering Hollywood films in the ship’s cinema, they danced the tango and the foxtrot in the green and ivory ballroom. They also spent a great deal of time in their mahogany-paneled cabin; specifically, in their large double bed with its cool Egyptian cotton sheets and its Vi-Spring mattress. More than once they arrived late and flushed for dinner, and the other passengers would look at them with a spellbound mixture of indulgence and envy.
—
Avril brought in her tray of supper and laid it on the table. “I’ll close the curtains, madam,” she said, bustling toward the tall window that overlooked the square. It was twilight; a fingernail of moon was turning from chalk to silver.
“No,” said Olivia, “leave them, thank you. And that will be all, Avril, if you wish to go to bed.”
Avril raised her eyebrows. Olivia could hear what she was thinking. It is not for you to dismiss me, what if the master needs me when he comes home? She did not say anything, though, but bobbed in acknowledgment and left the room.
Olivia ate a mouthful of cold chicken, piquant with thyme. Of course, their life was different now that they were back in London. She could not expect her honeymoon to last forever, Bernard had work to do. Every morning after breakfast he would shut himself in his study, hammering away on his Remington Noiseless typewriter. He was writing a novel, he confessed to Olivia, a novel about the very nature of society, set in the future; soon he would let her read it. Then, after lunch, there were meetings of one or other of his committees. The refugee associations were especially busy, preparing for a flood of arrivals from Austria. In the evenings they would dine out or go to the theater, and sometimes they went to parties, but often, as tonight, Bernard had commitments that did not include Olivia. Have an evening at home, darling, he had said as he dressed, struggling before the mirror with his collar studs. It’s only drinks with a couple of journalists, and then a Labour Party meeting. Not much fun for you. I’m sorry I’m so hectic at the moment. It will quieten down, I promise.
Well, thought Olivia peaceably, drinking Scotch and soda, I am glad that he cares about such things. I would not change him, even if I could. She picked up her book once more. She had reached the place where Anna gives in to her lover, Vronsky: a scene she had been anticipating with a shivery, half-erotic thrill. When she came to it, though, it filled her with unease. Anna’s surrender was raddled with guilt; there was no joy or defiance in it. Olivia fingered the pages of the book. They were thin as cigarette papers, edged in gold. She remembered how, on her honeymoon cruise, one of their fellow passengers had asked her to dance. He was a flashy businessman of about forty, and there was a glint in his eye that Olivia recognized. She glanced at Bernard, hoping he would forbid it, but of course he did not.
“It will be a pleasure. I love watching you dance, my sweet, and I can’t do it when you’re in my arms.”
The dance was a tango, and once she was on the floor Olivia could not help showing off, twisting her slim satin hip, spinning upon her heel. She knew that all eyes were upon her. Bernard’s gaze was crooked, as though he could not look at her for fear of being dazzled.
When the tango was over the businessman’s wife, who had fair curls and a pretty, sulky mouth, commented rather pointedly on her skill.
“I used to be a professional,” Olivia said, calmly accepting the cocktail that Bernard gave her.
The businessman’s face broke into a smile. His forehead was beaded with perspiration. “So you’re a woman of the world, eh? I thought so.”
Olivia drank. She had the feeling that she was skating on thin ice. In a facetious Marlene Dietrich accent she said: “Oh, yes, my friend. It took more than one man to change my name to Shanghai Lily.”
The businessman’s wife gave a squeak of shock. Olivia felt Bernard seize her wrist. “Come, Olivia. I’ve just remembered, I told them to take some champagne to our cabin.”
As he pulled her through the door she thought that he must be furious, but the moment they got into the cabin she realized it was not rage at all. Oh, no; it was a different passion entirely. Bernard could not wait for her to take off her green silk dress, to unfasten the warm pearls about her neck, could not wait for her to undo the buckles of her high-heeled shoes.
Afterward, though, as they lay in a slippery tangle on the cabin floor, he said: “I wouldn’t talk too much about your past if I were you. Not with people like that, anyway. Strangers.”
“I’m not ashamed of the way I used to live, Bernard,” said Olivia.
“Of course not, my darling.” Bernard kissed her neck, just above the collarbone. “It’s one of the many things that has made you the remarkable woman you are. But it’s over and done with. You’re my wife now, remember.”
In bed, when Bernard had fallen asleep, Olivia lay awake in the beautiful darkness. The ship’s engines hummed like a persistent drum roll as the ship plied its way south toward Barbados, where, the following day, they would be driven at a stately pace through field after field of white-plumed sugarcane. Olivia thought of the commercial traveler from Cardiff, she thought of the abortionist’s flat, she thought of the horror she had glimpsed in the Italian singer’s eyes. Bernard might claim to understand, he might describe her old life as interesting and colorful, but she had never told him about any of those things. Would he forgive her, would he still love her, if he knew?
—
That fear returned to Olivia now as she sat on the sofa, blankly gazing at Anna Karenina. To quell it she crossed to the gramophone. One delight of living with Bernard was the sheer quantity of things he owned: books, pictures, records, clothes. Since her pinched genteel childhood Olivia had always had to choose, knowing that if you had this you could not have that, until your pleasure was corroded by doubt. Luxuriantly she fingered the black shellac discs in Bernard’s collection: Caruso singing Italian arias, Dinu Lipatti playing Chopin, the Hot Club de France. How can you die, she thought, when there are such solid exquisite things in the world? She put on some Django Reinhardt, dizzy and invigorating. Sliding off her shoes she began to dance about the room, the treacle-colored floorboards smooth beneath her toes.
The music was so loud that at first she did not hear the doorbell. Remembering that she had sent Avril to bed she ran down the stairs and pulled open the front door. On the porch stood Bernard. He was leaning upon the arm of Antonio Trombetta. She recognized the singer at once, and a shock ran through her, sudden as electricity. Then she saw that Bernard’s face was white and sweating, as if he were about to faint. Behind her Avril, wrapped in a flannel dressing gown, let out a squeal of dismay.
“Bernard!” said Olivia. “What’s happened?”
“He had an accident.” Antonio’s eyes were fixed upon her face. He remembers me too, t
hought Olivia. “In the restaurant where I work—”
“Don’t caterwaul, Avril,” said Olivia, unfairly since after that first squeal Avril had been silent. “Well, thank you for your trouble. He is safely home now.” She reached out to draw her husband indoors, away from the interloper.
Bernard took a careful breath. “Take the taxi, if you wish, my friend.” His arm flailed in the direction of the cab, which was still waiting in the square. Antonio hesitated, and Olivia guessed that Bernard had not yet paid the fare.
“You had better step indoors,” she said. “Bernard, give me your wallet.”
Olivia paid the cab driver, who looked askance at her naked feet. Antonio, his hand still cupped about Bernard’s elbow, hovered in the black and white tiled hallway.
“The master’s having an asthma attack, madam.” Avril tightened the cord of her dressing gown in a businesslike way. “He needs a bowl of steaming water, to help him breathe.”
“All right,” said Olivia. “You’d better fetch one, then, Avril. Come, Bernard.”
As they climbed the stairs Antonio tried to tell her what had happened, but it sounded like gibberish, some tale of Italian fascists fighting in a restaurant.
“Why on earth would Bernard get into a quarrel with a Blackshirt?” she was asking when Avril came in with the hot water.
“I’ve put in some Friar’s Balsam.” Avril set down the basin, a beige Mason Cash mixing bowl, and flicked a towel from her shoulder. “That’s what Mrs. Rodway told me to use. It works wonders.”
“Well, it smells nasty enough. Thank you, Avril, I can manage.” Olivia threw the towel over Bernard’s head, settling him above the basin. Then, her hand proprietorially between her husband’s shoulder blades, she glanced at Antonio. “Sit down, since you are here. Would you like a drink? Avril, bring some ice.”
“There is no need…” began Antonio.
His diffidence, as he lingered there beside the grand piano, annoyed Olivia. He must know he is not wanted, why doesn’t he have the wit to leave? “You have done a great service to my husband,” she said. “The least that I can do is to offer you a drink.”
At the frostiness in her voice Bernard’s head reared up. “Antonio is a singer,” he said, pushing the towel aside. “He has one of the most beautiful voices I have ever heard. I am going to find him a teacher, so he can make the most of his talent—”
“Breathe, Bernard.” Olivia slid her hand to the nape of his neck. “Don’t chatter, breathe. God, that water reeks.”
Antonio cleared his throat. “I should go home. My family—my wife—will be expecting me.”
Once again Bernard tried to grope his way from under the towel. “Olivia, darling, write down his address. I will call on you, Antonio, to thank you properly. And I mean it about finding you a teacher—”
He paused, wheezing above the basin. Olivia rose to her feet. She and Antonio Trombetta looked at one another. It was a long, candid look. They both knew that she had no intention of taking down his address.
“Do not be afraid,” murmured Antonio, as he preceded her down the stairs. “I will not say anything. Even if we do meet again—”
Olivia’s lips tightened. “You can say what you like. I have no secrets from my husband. He knows everything about me.”
Filomena realized that sooner or later she would have to tell Stan Harker she was going to be married, and that their friendship would have to end. She kept putting it off, though. First Renata was ill with a head cold and it seemed a shame to spoil such unlooked-for privacy; then the March weather improved, which meant she and Stan could linger and enjoy the walk between Goodge Street and Soho Square. Stan had begun to meet her after work whenever he was off duty. He would stand discreetly at the street corner, the Daily Herald open in his hand, and as soon as he saw that the coast was clear he would slip forward to join her.
It was a mild afternoon, its brightness hinting that spring was just within reach. As they fell comfortably into step Filomena remembered their first encounter at the laundry. Two of the Italian women had been squabbling over a torn shirt, each insisting the other had caused the damage. Filomena had watched Stan going about his business, asking questions, making notes with his stubby pencil, eyeing the quarreling women with a placid air. It was as if he had seen it all before, but instead of making him weary it had made him wise.
Stan lived south of the Thames in Bermondsey, with his parents. His father had been a docker, but he had lost an eye in an accident five years ago, and Stan was the breadwinner now, he told Filomena. Like all their conversations this exchange took place not only in public but on the move. As long as they were walking Filomena felt she was beyond reproach. Once Stan had suggested that they sit and chat beneath the lime trees in Soho Square, and she had squawked with horror. Anyone might see them, coming in and out of St. Patrick’s church. Why, the priest himself might spot her, zealous Padre Barbera, and who knew what chatter he would spread? If her father, if her brothers, heard about it she would be in terrible trouble. Stan had opened his mouth to argue, but then had thought better of it, and was silent.
“And how is your father?” he asked now, as they strode along Newman Street. “Is his cough better?”
Filomena shook her head. “Antonio told him he should see one of the doctors at the Italian hospital, but he will not do it.”
“He does not want to admit that he is ill,” said Stan. “We men are like that. We make believe we are invincible.”
“Besides, the hospital reminds him of my mother. The smell of it, the doctors’ long faces. He will do anything to avoid going there.”
“And the baby? How is the baby?”
“Oh, the baby is thriving. He grows plumper by the day. But my brother Antonio is in disgrace with his wife. The other day he didn’t get home till after midnight. He says there was an accident with a customer at La Rondine, but Danila says he came to bed stinking of grappa, and she has been sulking ever since.”
Stan gave a smile. Filomena had never admitted her dislike for Danila but she knew that he understood it. She felt a stab of sorrow. Did she really have to tell him about Bruno’s return? We are doing nobody any harm, she thought. Why can’t we go on like this, walking together, talking? Why can’t we go on like this forever?
They had reached Oxford Street. A young bootblack sat on the pavement, with his wooden step and his tins of shoe polish. Filomena glanced at the boy’s grubby, resigned face. Soon it would be too late, they would be in Soho, at risk of being seen, they would have to go their separate ways. She took a breath.
“I have had a letter from Bruno, my fidanzato. My fiancé, the man I’m going to marry. He has been injured in Africa, and they are sending him home.” The normality of her own voice encouraged her. “He wants us to be married at once, as soon as he returns to London. And of course I’ll have to leave my job at the laundry.”
Stan stopped dead on the pavement. “Well, then,” he said, “that’s that.”
A sense of fear gripped Filomena. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Stanley’s expression was serene, still faintly smiling. “Don’t look so tragic. I mean, that is the end of this hole and corner business. You will have to talk to your father now.”
“Talk to my father?” said Filomena. “Why?”
“Oh, Filomena,” said Stan. “You know why.”
Filomena gaped. In a single, competent movement Stan lifted her by the arms and shunted her into the nearest doorway. The speed of it made her heart thump.
“What else are we going to do?” Stan had his back to the street, shielding her from sight. “We’ll have to tell your father sooner or later, if we’re going to get engaged.”
“Engaged?” said Filomena.
“What? Did you think this was just tomfoolery? A bit of fun to pass the time? I’m serious about you, Filomena. I want you to meet my family, I want us to be married. But first we have to ask your father’s permission. It wouldn’t be right otherwise.”
“Oh, Stan,” said Filomena, and she who never cried, who prided herself on never crying, burst into tears. Stan put his arms about her.
“Well, I don’t know. What kind of girl cries when her young man proposes? And I thought you were so levelheaded.”
“I am—it is not—” Filomena managed to say. “I am not crying because of that. I am crying because it is impossible.”
“It’s not impossible.” Stan put out his hand and lifted her chin. His face was closer to hers than it had ever been. “All you have to do is tell your father the truth. Tell him that I love you and I want to marry you. I can come with you. We can do it now, if you want.”
“No!” said Filomena.
“No?” said Stan, and without warning he kissed her. It was a short, emphatic kiss, like the last word in an argument.
Filomena’s hand flew to her lips. “How could you, Stan?” she said, pulling away. “How could you?”
She saw Stan’s face fall. He has disgraced me, she thought, I am damaged goods, I can never marry Bruno now. And then, even as she stared at him, she began to laugh, and leaning forward she returned his kiss, touching his hair, tasting his mouth, as though her own disgrace had freed her for life.
—
Since Olivia had not written down Antonio’s address Bernard went back to the restaurant in Soho to look for him. He was irritated by her failure—it was a simple task; Avril would have managed it—but he did not feel he could reprove her. I was worried about you, Bernard, she said, fixing those beautiful serious eyes upon him. It put everything else from my mind. Well, he thought, as he strolled along Old Compton Street, a man should not complain about his wife’s devotion.
At La Rondine Peppino slapped him enthusiastically on the back. “So you did not die, my friend?” he said, with his wolfish smile, uncorking a bottle of Marsala. “Good, I am glad. If you are looking for Antonio you are in luck. He has come by to collect a cherry preserve that our cook makes. His father is not well, and Antonio is hoping that the taste of cherries will remind him of home. I will call him for you.”