He offered this as a piece of logic, and she reviewed the prospect of explaining why not seeing anyone had no connection at all with how she felt about him. Or she could make it simple and tell the truth outright – that Roddy was perhaps the last man on earth she would willingly offer herself to. But those words were not to be uttered, not if she wanted to maintain a spirit of civility between them. From the set of his jaw she could tell he was still turning it over in his mind, the resentment just starting to brew, and she realised then what she had to say.
‘You know how much it costs – and you’ve got my number.’
Roddy, absorbing this cool reminder, stared hard at her. She had given him a way out. He gave a mirthless little laugh. ‘I shoulda known. You can take the girl out of Soho, but you can’t take Soho out the girl.’
She would have liked to slap his face for that remark, but she only nodded, as though he had just hit the nail on the head. ‘Thanks for dinner,’ she said in her business voice. She was no sooner out of the car than Roddy started the engine, revved it and tore off down the dark street.
Jimmy had been having talks with his accountant, Mr Wootton, who told him that he needed to start making ‘significant economies’. Jimmy hated these talks, because he didn’t understand anything about money other than how to spend it. His idea of saving was to order the non-vintage champagne and to tip the waiter one shilling instead of two. Of particular concern to Mr Wootton was his client’s astonishing expenditure on taxis, sometimes three or four in a day. He was curious to know how the short distances covered by the taxi could possibly justify such enormous fares. ‘Mostly I just keep ’em waiting,’ said Jimmy. The accountant raised his eyebrows to a professional minimum and returned to the list of expenses.
‘The man Wootton said that my earnings were – what was his phrase? – “not commensurate with my outgoings”. Ha!’ Jimmy was recounting his latest crisis meeting to Tom as they sat in his study one morning.
Tom looked up from the typewriter at which he’d been clattering out his employer’s latest column. ‘It mightn’t be such a bad idea to tighten your belt, you know. I mean, if the Chronicle does dispense with you –’
‘What?! Who said anything about that?’
‘You did, a couple of weeks ago. Barry Rusk tipped you the wink, remember?’
‘No. All Barry said was I should mind my behaviour in the light of Lord Swaim’s moral crackdown. There was no talk of dispense . . .’ He gave the Daily Mail he’d been scouring an irritated snap and feigned absorption in it.
‘Oh, I see,’ murmured Tom, hands hovering on the typewriter. He kept quiet while Jimmy brooded behind the paper. After a few moments Jimmy spoke again.
‘I do take Wootton’s point on the taxis, however. The expense is ruinous, and a change is required.’
Tom looked up. ‘You’re going to take the Underground?’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Jimmy, frowning. ‘That sulphurous labyrinth of noise and filth? No thank you.’
‘Some of us have no choice, Jim. It’s the way you get about.’
Jimmy ignored this. ‘The solution is quite simple. There will be no more need for taxis if I buy a car instead.’
Tom stifled a laugh when he realised Jimmy wasn’t joking. ‘What?’
‘You’ve no idea how cheap they are! The classified pages of this morning’s Mail has hundreds of ’em for sale. A modest outlay will secure a perfectly decent second-hand motor.’
‘For crying out loud. Wootton has advised you to start making economies, so your next move is to go out and buy a car. How is that helping? And how can you possibly afford it?’
‘Well, I’ve got a bit of money squirrelled away – for an emergency, you know.’
‘I dare say the Inland Revenue would be interested to hear that. Look, be sensible. A car is an expensive thing to run – there’s a lot of maintenance involved, taxes, petrol. Keep the money for a real emergency.’
‘Here,’ Jimmy continued, reading down the column. ‘An Austin 7, nearly new – ninety pounds! You see? If I borrowed a little extra I could purchase something stylish.’
Tom looked at him, aghast. It was as though Jimmy’s extravagance was a provocation, a way of setting himself apart. No sooner had he got himself clear of one bunch of creditors than he immediately acquired another. The Revenue people didn’t worry him, it seemed, though if they ever got wind of his buying a car he certainly would set himself apart – in prison. Then something very obvious occurred to him.
‘Sorry to poop the party, Jim, but you can’t drive.’
Jimmy’s look turned sly. ‘No, I can’t. But you can.’
This was, unhappily, the case. Before being invalided out of the army Tom had learned to drive – in a field ambulance, of all things – though he’d scarcely been behind a steering wheel in the years since. He had never have been able to afford a car on his salary, and even if he had it was not something he much coveted. He wasn’t even sure he could remember how to drive. And then there was the danger of his condition: would an epileptic be allowed to fill in as a part-time chauffeur? Imagine having a fit while you were tootling along . . . That could be a handy way of excusing himself. But it would also mean revealing his illness to Jimmy, and he wasn’t prepared to do that. The best thing for it would be to change the subject and hope Jimmy would have second thoughts.
‘You haven’t forgotten who’s coming to lunch?’
Jimmy lifted his gaze from the newspaper. ‘Of course not. I’ve been mulling over what to cook.’
‘Well, whatever it is,’ Tom said, ‘I think it would be nice to greet our guest in appropriate attire.’
Jimmy, used to lolling in pyjamas and dressing gown late into the morning, clicked his tongue in reproof. ‘You’re just worried I’m going to embarrass you.’
Tom felt unsettled by the precision of this remark: he was worried. Jimmy’s inclination to tease and provoke was well known, and he could hurt people sometimes without even meaning to. He was the sort of man whose sensitivity to his own feelings didn’t encompass the same courtesy to others’. Women, unless they were flamboyant, actorish types, generally bored him, and Tom feared that Madeleine might not have quite the sparkle the host demanded of his guests. And why had Jimmy invited her anyway? Tom would have been content to keep his friendship with Madeleine private; instead he was being obliged to play piggy in the middle between two mismatched strangers.
To take the edge off his anxiety he put on his coat and nipped out to the shop to buy some wine. On returning he found Jimmy already dressed and in the kitchen, a copy of Lady Syonsby’s Cook Book propped on the counter. He had poured himself a glass of sherry and was merrily humming away. Jimmy cooked in the same way he wrote, at speed and with gusto. He was always on alert, testing strengths and flavours, quite capable of abandoning his first or even second attempt at a dish and starting again. The difference was that, with writing, his aborted efforts involved only crossings-out and an occasional balled-up sheet launched in the direction of the waste-paper basket. With cooking, his modus operandi entailed using nearly every pan, pot and bowl in the kitchen, which in its multiplying clutter began to resemble a school science experiment. There was never any question, of course, about who would do the washing-up, and Tom resigned himself to long interludes of scrubbing and stacking while Jimmy entertained in the dining room.
‘If you want to make yourself useful you can start chopping that parsley,’ said Jimmy, busy whisking a white sauce. ‘For the starter I’m making one of my specials – egg croquettes à la Erskine. I hope your young friend has a good appetite.’
Tom’s immediate priority was to drink a large glass of the Chablis. He wondered about that appetite: she was awfully thin, his ‘young friend’, now he came to think of it. He had actually never seen her eat anything. He experienced a flash of panic as he imagined them sitting down together, the oddness of it, as if he were introducing a girl to his parents. What on earth would she make of Jimmy? From the lit
tle he knew of her she was all of the things Jimmy wasn’t – quiet, modest, unassertive, somewhat remote and inscrutable. Oh God. He had just opened the wine and was about to dispose of the cork when he decided to take a Gamble With Fate. If I can land this cork in the bin, he thought, lunch will be a success. Tom had a decent eye (he was good at darts) and lined up his throw with a practised squint. But should he try a darter’s jerk from the shoulder, or was an underarm lob the safer option? Holding his breath, on the count of three he propelled the cork from his fingers in a long arc. It looped promisingly towards its target, bounced insolently on the rim of the bin – and dropped on the floor.
He turned to find Jimmy staring at the space between him and the unchopped parsley on the board. With a little huh he took up the knife and muttered, ‘Typical. Need a job done prop’ly, do it yourself.’
Too stunned to argue, Tom filled a glass and quaffed it down in gulps.
Madeleine had never seen so many paintings and drawings in a single room. She knew that Tom’s employer (‘call me Jimmy’) was a theatre critic, but to look at his walls you would have supposed him to be an art collector. From the outside his residence looked like any other mansion block in Bloomsbury, soot-scarred, cloudy-windowed, a little shabby. Inside, though, all was vivid and luxurious. Cream-coloured carpets, dark blue walls, plush sofas, an extravagant gramophone cocking its ear trumpet, every surface strewn with knick-knacks. On the mantelpiece stood a silver-lustre jug with peonies, flanked on either side by framed photographs of the master of the house: Jimmy as a boy, Jimmy in uniform, Jimmy shaking hands with an important somebody, Jimmy on horseback, and here was one of Jimmy and Tom at a dinner together, laughing to the camera.
Tom had looked white-faced with worry on answering the door, but he seemed to relax once he realised that Jimmy was in a good mood. The latter had emerged from the steaming kitchen wearing an apron and an expectant smile. He took Madeleine’s hand and raised it, in gentlemanly fashion, to his lips.
‘Welcome, Miss Farewell!’ he said, candidly appraising her. ‘What a lovely coat that is – I remember Sarah wearing one just like it. Tom, would you kindly fetch our guest a drink?’
Jimmy chunnered on for a while, casually answering her curiosity about the provenance of this or that painting, before disappearing back to the kitchen. Tom had brought in a tray of tall glasses in which he had mixed gin and pep. They clinked glasses. ‘Here’s how,’ he said. Madeleine looked searchingly at him and said, in a low voice, ‘I’m sorry to have kept phoning – were you very ill?’
Tom waved her apology away. ‘Just a mild attack of – you know. I’m fine now.’
He too had kept his voice discreet, and she understood his illness was still a matter of secrecy. She saw from his clothes that he had made an effort to look smart, and it touched her. She took a sip of the gin – goodness, he’d mixed it strong – and pointed to the photograph of him and Jimmy on the mantelpiece.
‘You both look so happy there,’ she said with a little lift of her eyes.
Tom, who hadn’t really looked at it in ages, smiled back. ‘It’s from years ago, a Critics’ Circle dinner. I think Jimmy had just won something – that’s why he’s looking happy.’
‘You must have been very proud, with him being your . . .’ She realised she was fishing, but Tom evidently didn’t see the bait.
‘I suppose I was . . . Those were the days! He won a few awards back then.’ He glanced cautiously towards the kitchen doorway as he spoke.
Madeleine’s expression was puzzled of a sudden. ‘Who’s Sarah, by the way?’
‘Oh, he meant Sarah Bernhardt. She was Jimmy’s idol.’ He looked at her for signs of recognition, and found none. ‘French actress, last century – died about ten years ago?’ She gave a helpless shake of her head. That was possibly something else Jimmy oughtn’t to hear about.
‘How’s your friend, the doctor – Peter?’
‘Pretty well, I think. He was very taken with you that night we met at the theatre.’
Madeleine looked wistful for a moment. ‘How lovely it must be to have such old friends.’
‘Well, it’s he and Jim who are the old friends, really, I came in –’
‘Who are you calling “old?”’ said Jimmy, back on the threshold.
Tom raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘I didn’t mean “old” like that. I meant long-standing – Madeleine was just saying how nice it is having old friends.’
Jimmy grunted, warily appeased. He hated people thinking he was old – not yet sixty, for heaven’s sake! ‘Well then. Luncheon is served. Tom, would you show Miss Farewell –’
‘Oh, it’s Madeleine, please.’
‘– would you show Madeleine to the dining room?’
Madeleine had not tried egg croquettes à la Erskine, or indeed à la anybody, before. They were delicious, and Jimmy nodded complacently when she said so. He had learned to cook in France during the war, he explained, and once he had rooms with a kitchen of his own he became more adventurous. The first cookery book he bought was Boulestin’s Simple French Cooking for English Homes. It still had pride of place on a bulging shelf with the other broken-spined, well-thumbed, food-flecked volumes he had stored there since.
‘He reads recipe books in bed, you know,’ said Tom.
‘The better to dream of food,’ Jimmy admitted, and Madeleine laughed. She was rather enjoying herself, in spite of Jimmy’s scrutinising her as though he had never seen a woman before. She was also intrigued to see how Tom behaved in the company of a man with whom he had professed such a disaffection – from the first time they’d met she had heard him complain of Jimmy as morose, selfish, penny-pinching, absurdly conceited and monstrously rude. He had told her he couldn’t wait to leave his employment. And yet here they were, if not a picture of perfect companionship then at least one of domestic familiarity, like – well, like a loud uncle and his patient nephew. She sensed how prickly Jimmy might be, and it reflected only credit on Tom that he behaved with such forbearance around him. While Jimmy did the cooking, Tom did everything else, the answering of the telephone, the serving, the wine, the clearing, even the fixing of the old man’s napkin about his throat – he was a messy eater. If there had ever been something more between them, and she was not sure that there had, it was over long ago.
Jimmy for his part was delighted by their guest. He had felt disposed to like her from the off – really, how could one resist a girl called ‘Miss Farewell’? He could see what Tom admired in her too, the vague air of unworldliness, the beautiful sad eyes, the little hesitation before she spoke. My God she was skinny, though – she could have played a Dickensian waif with bones like that. Still, she had made short work of the egg croquettes, he noticed, and she’d been putting away the drink without much trouble, either. Only when the main course was served did he detect a doubt.
‘Is something the matter, my dear?’
‘Oh . . . no, I was just wondering . . .’
‘It’s called Sea Pie, basically a steak pudding with the crust on top.’
Madeleine nodded. ‘It’s very good. I’m just not used to eating meat – on a Friday, I mean.’
‘Ah, so you’re a Roman?’ Jimmy’s eyes gleamed with renewed interest: he had an unaccountable respect for the Catholic Church. ‘I bet you haven’t changed since you were at the convent.’
‘The nuns would think I’ve changed,’ she said, and her gaze dropped. ‘And you?’
‘Never at a convent! My parents were Unitarian. We went to chapel on a Sunday – much good it did me.’
Tom said, ‘So d’you still practise?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really. I sometimes call in at a church to light a candle, say a prayer.’
‘Really?’ said Jimmy, leaning forward. ‘For what? I mean, what sort of things do you pray for?’
For my life to be spared, she thought, remembering the man in room 408, and the murder in his eyes. His hands pressing on her windpipe. She had prayed then – and she had bee
n answered. But that incident was never to be spoken of. She didn’t want Tom knowing she had been in a hotel room with a stranger.
Tom, construing her silence as embarrassment, said, ‘It’s personal, Jim. Perhaps Madeleine would rather not talk about it.’
She looked at him gratefully. ‘No, it’s not that. I did pray, quite recently, about something . . .’ She told them about the dream she had had, of the city on fire, of how it came down in great sheeting torrents, and her terror on seeing people’s heads wreathed in flame. It was an apocalypse, she supposed, recalling the word from her religious doctrine classes. She had prayed that it would never happen in their lifetime.
‘How absolutely frightful,’ said Jimmy, with feeling. ‘And what do you suppose it meant? Another war?’
Madeleine shrugged. ‘I was talking to somebody the other night who said there was no chance of a war. There’s too much to lose.’
‘Yes, that’s probably right,’ said Jimmy, trying to reassure himself. She asked Tom what he thought.
‘I wish I could be so optimistic,’ he said, clearing the plates. ‘But there seems an appetite for it. Just look at what the German air force have done in Spain. They could bomb us into oblivion if they wanted to.’
Jimmy shuddered visibly. ‘Thank you, Thomas. Would you kindly go and fetch the apple tart, it’s cooling on the stove.’
While he was out of the room, Jimmy took the opportunity to have another long gaze at Madeleine. She brought to mind girls he had admired in his youth, back in the nineties, when he was still uncertain of his own predilections. It was the paleness of her skin heightened by the dark shadows beneath her eyes, like those poor creatures who slaved all the hours in match factories. And now he had made her blush with his staring.
‘I beg your pardon, my dear, but you have the most remarkable physiognomy.’
It took her a moment to realise that he was talking about her face. ‘Oh . . .’
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