Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  She had brought a calculator and went along each row doing the same sums, working out which garments might fall within her budget. Coats, skirt suits, hats and shoes, costume jewellery, even some early swimsuits and matching beach robes were in the collection. It was phenomenal.

  When Richard emerged an hour later, he laughed at the sight of her price list, covered in pencil jottings. ‘Why not take it all?’ he suggested.

  ‘I’d love to. This is paradise on earth for me. I wish I could be reincarnated as a Van der Heyden and have this as my personal wardrobe.’

  ‘There’s one thing you won’t have seen yet,’ he said. ‘The pièce de résistance.’

  Intrigued, she followed him to a separate rail where a full-length zip-up bag was hanging. He unzipped it and lifted out a dress that made her gasp: it was ivory crêpe georgette decorated with crystal beads, with a tight sash round the hips and a back that scooped to waist level.

  ‘It’s a 1928 Molyneux original that was worn by the actress Gertrude Lawrence. Isn’t it divine?’ He turned it around so she could see both sides.

  Hundreds of tiny crystals had been painstakingly hand-sewn all over the silky fabric. Rachel took the dress and held it in front of her. Instinctively she knew it would fit.

  ‘Why did you show me this?’ she sighed. ‘It’s the ultimate wedding dress but I know without looking at your price list that I could never afford it.’

  ‘Give it a try,’ he urged. ‘You can change behind that curtain.’

  She couldn’t resist. When she slipped the dress over her head, the weight of the fabric made it hang perfectly.

  ‘It looks as if it was made specially for you in Molyneux’s atelier,’ Richard said as he directed her to a full-length mirror.

  She admired the snug fit around the hips, the cut of the neckline resting below her collarbones, and the deep swoop at the back, displaying her shoulder blades and spine.

  ‘That was cruel,’ she said, turning away with a wan smile. ‘You’ve spoiled me for any other dress.’ Whatever else she tried on now, it would never live up to this.

  ‘Sorry.’ He grinned. ‘I’d better buy you a cocktail to apologise.’

  They went to a speakeasy bar on Bleecker Street, a cramped one-room place with brick walls that was entered along a passageway and up a back staircase. Richard ordered her a sidecar, a Prohibition-era cocktail made with Cointreau, cognac and lemon juice, and she sipped it appreciatively. First of all they discussed the lots she was planning to bid for, and Richard offered to reduce her shipping costs by including her purchases in a shipment he was sending to London. Next they chatted about mutual friends, and finally the conversation returned to Diana, and the media obsession with her on both sides of the Atlantic.

  ‘I liked her,’ he said. ‘She had a lot of charm, but who would have thought she would be deified in death? You don’t dare criticise because people get very heated.’

  ‘Alex thinks the crash might have been caused deliberately by some secret-service operation,’ she told him. ‘He’s making a programme about it.’

  ‘I’ve heard the rumours.’ Richard looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose it’s possible. Wouldn’t that be awful?’

  They ate dim sum in a Chinese restaurant across the street from his loft apartment, and Rachel was so exhausted by the time they got back that she fell onto the camp bed and was asleep within seconds.

  At the auction next morning, Rachel was uncharacteristically nervous. She had decided to bid on twenty-four separate lots and had a budget of up to ten thousand dollars to spend from the overdraft her bank manager had arranged. Richard gave her a paddle to raise when she wanted to bid. She had never mastered the tiny twitches and raised pinkies some folk used to attract the auctioneer’s attention.

  It started well when she bought an extensive lot of costume jewellery, including several strings of black, pink and cream pearls, for a hundred dollars. She was amazed to get the Chanel dance dress and the black Vionnet for their guide prices, and she picked up several lots of daywear, coats and jackets. All in all, she won fourteen of the lots she had decided to bid on, for prices that were well below her self-imposed limits.

  The Molyneux dress was up last and she decided to wait and watch, even though bidding started at eight hundred dollars, ruling her out straight away. Someone at the back of the room – bidder number 54 – secured it for $2,500 and she sighed. She had to scrub the memory of it from her brain before she started hunting for her own wedding dress.

  She signed all the necessary forms and arranged a money transfer, and Richard assured her the goods would be delivered to her shop in mid November, in plenty of time for the Christmas trade.

  ‘You’ll find a little something extra in there,’ he said. ‘But it’s just a loan. You can give it back in the New Year.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  He showed her his bidding paddle with the number 54 on it. ‘I won the Molyneux and you shall wear it to your wedding. Now you really have to invite me.’

  She flung her arms round him, almost bursting into tears. ‘That is the best wedding present you could ever have given me. I can’t tell you how much it means.’

  On the subway to the airport, Rachel couldn’t stop smiling as she imagined herself in the Molyneux on her wedding day. The trip had been a great success all round and she couldn’t wait for her purchases to arrive in Brighton. She took out her Filofax and began sketching ideas for a spectacular Van der Heyden shop window display to let the locals know about her glamorous new acquisitions.

  Chapter 22

  New York, July 1927

  IT WAS A MUGGY EVENING WITHOUT A BREATH OF breeze. Mary wore a loose white cotton dress with apricot embroidery and sat fanning herself by the open window. Ernest had telephoned earlier to say he would drop by and she waved when she saw him turn the corner. Despite the oppressive heat, he was wearing a suit and tie with a bowler hat on his head, and she giggled at the quintessential Englishness.

  ‘Aren’t you positively baking?’ she called as he climbed the front steps, tipping his hat at her.

  ‘Like a hog roast,’ he grinned as the maid opened the door for him.

  ‘Ernest, good man, what’s your tipple?’ Jacques greeted him. ‘Mary’s having a mint julep and I’m on the vin rouge.’ His words were slurred and Mary could tell he was drunk already, although it was only just after six. She sighed.

  ‘Mint julep sounds delicious.’ Ernest laid down his hat and asked Mary’s permission to remove his jacket, then rolled up his shirt sleeves, taking a chair close to hers.

  She asked after Dorothea, and he said that unfortunately her health continued to be poor, then added: ‘On that front, I have some news for you.’

  Mary scrutinised him; he seemed uncharacteristically sombre and was avoiding her eye. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense,’ she prodded, as Jacques handed him the drink.

  He took a sip. ‘I think you know that I have always felt torn between my British and American sides. My father has recently been in touch to ask if I will go back to London to run the office there, so he can begin to step down from the business. My sister Maud is also based in London and keen for me to be nearby. So I have said I will sail within the next few weeks, just as soon as arrangements can be made.’

  ‘You can’t go!’ Jacques exclaimed. ‘Where will we find someone else for our bridge tournaments? Seriously, mon ami, we’ll miss you terribly.’

  Mary had a lump in her throat. She missed him already. ‘How does Dorothea feel about the move?’ she asked.

  He gave a little cough. ‘In fact, Dorothea and I have . . . I’m afraid we’ve decided to divorce.’

  There was a shocked silence. Mary’s mind was whirling. Wallis was in France, on the same side of the Atlantic as London. ‘You’re not going because of . . .’ she started, then stopped, remembering that she had never told Jacques of the affair.

  ‘Our marriage has been unhappy for some time, and recent strains have proved insurmo
untable. It’s best for all concerned.’ He stared at his lap as he spoke, clearly embarrassed.

  ‘Wallis is in Europe just now. Perhaps you’ll bump into her,’ Mary said tartly.

  At the mere mention of the name, she saw his eyes go sappy and it enraged her. The first thought in her head was: What about me? Ernest had been her confidant since the day she had told him about her miscarriages, and until the Wallis debacle she had felt she could talk to him about anything. They had their shared love of books, and he was a good influence on Jacques, restraining his drinking by example. He was her safety net, her shoulder to lean on, and he couldn’t go to London. She wouldn’t allow it.

  Then another thought came into her head, one she had never put into words before: If he is leaving his wife, it should be for me.

  It surprised her as soon as she formed the thought because it was patently obvious. In her fantasy life, Ernest was her ideal husband, someone who was both friend and lover. He would ask her opinion in a way that Jacques never did; there would be no subjects she was not allowed to raise, no restless nights spent listening to his drunken snoring. She had sometimes imagined his face when she and Jacques made love, always with a twinge of guilt afterwards. But it had never seemed possible that they could be together because he was with Dorothea – and now Wallis had turned his head and he was chasing off to Europe on her trail. Of course, she would treat him with contempt, as she did all her admirers. She would take his heart in her hands, drop it on the floor and grind it beneath her heel.

  ‘I always thought you were more of a gentleman than that,’ she said sharply. ‘I guess I was wrong.’

  ‘Mary!’ Jacques rebuked. ‘It’s none of our business what goes on in Ernest’s marriage.’

  ‘I’m just surprised that he should be so easily taken in,’ she continued, aware that Jacques would have no idea what she was talking about. ‘You men can be so gullible.’

  ‘Hey, what have I done?’ Jacques exclaimed, while Ernest looked as though he wished he were anywhere but there.

  ‘I’m disappointed in you. You have plummeted in my estimation,’ she told Ernest, and he mumbled a few indistinct words that sounded like an apology.

  ‘Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?’ Jacques asked.

  Mary stood up. ‘I’ll let Ernest tell you. I have a headache and am going to retire. Goodbye, Mr Simpson.’

  He rose to his feet but she did not stop to give him her hand as she fled the room. She was so angry she felt she might cry. Why did Wallis always get what she wanted? It simply wasn’t fair.

  The week after Ernest sailed, Mary received a letter from Wallis on the Côte d’Azur. She and Aunt Bessie had befriended a young Philadelphia lawyer who at first had seemed sedate but turned out to be the most exceptional dancer. When he got on the dance floor, others drew back to admire his Charleston and his Black Bottom. She also mentioned a very amusing Irishman, who entertained them at dinner. It was clear she was not pining for Ernest. Mary ripped the letter into tiny pieces and dropped it in an ashtray.

  On 25 October, the front page of the New York Times ran the story that Wallis’s Uncle Sol had died. Mary read his obituary with curiosity. She had known he was director of a railroad company but not that he was responsible for the extension of the Seaboard Air Line Railroad to southern Florida. She had ridden on that very line when she visited Wallis in Pensacola. Various worthy businessmen wrote of his great contribution to the country’s transport infrastructure and of his fortune, estimated to be around five million dollars. Of course, it meant that Wallis would be coming home from France. She must have high hopes of an inheritance, since Sol had never married and had no children of his own.

  By the time Wallis returned, Uncle Sol was already lying in the family vault and his will had been read to family members. Wallis was met at the station by her mother Alice, who explained the terms, and she was soon on the telephone to share them with Mary.

  ‘Can you believe it? He’s left the bulk of his fortune to a home for impoverished ladies of gentle birth. I will receive a minuscule trust fund – and even that will cease in the event of my remarriage.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Mary sympathised. ‘Why not look after his own flesh and blood?’

  Wallis sighed. ‘Because he never forgave me for leaving Win, against his express orders. Looking on the bright side, at least I don’t have to sit through another of his tedious moral lectures. He had no respect for me, or for any women. In his book we were frail creatures without principles or common sense.’

  Mary’s recollection was that Wallis only ever visited Uncle Sol to wheedle and cajole money for one thing or another: a new dress, a trip to Europe, a divorce. Perhaps he got fed up with it.

  ‘I’ll appeal, of course,’ Wallis finished. ‘He’s not getting away with it.’

  ‘Are you coming back to live in America now?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Not for long. I’m going to Warrenton to finalise my divorce in early December, then I wondered if I might impose on your hospitality over Christmas? I sail for Europe early in the New Year.’

  Mary paused. Wallis clearly had no idea how cross she was with her. It would have been easy to make some excuse, to say that Jacques’ family were staying, but she couldn’t resist the allure of her old friend. She heard herself saying the words: ‘Yes, of course you can stay.’

  For the first day or so of the visit, Mary did not ask Wallis about Ernest. She couldn’t bear to torture herself. But before long her curiosity got the better of her.

  ‘Did you know that Ernest is in London and is divorcing Dorothea?’ she asked, watching for the reaction.

  ‘He’s such a dear,’ Wallis replied, tipping her head to one side with a distant smile. ‘He keeps asking me to marry him and I really can’t make up my mind. I’m very fond of him, and he is kind, which would be a marked contrast to the last husband. But I’m not sure he is temperamentally my type.’

  ‘I’m not sure that anyone is,’ Mary replied, unable to keep the acid from her tone.

  Chapter 23

  New York, August 1928

  MARY WAS HEARTSICK BUT NOT SURPRISED WHEN Wallis wrote to say that she and Ernest had married. The ceremony took place on 21 July in a grim London registry office that Wallis described as more appropriate for a trial than the culmination of a romance. She wrote of their honeymoon driving through France and Spain, in which Ernest took the role of tour guide, with his impeccable French and his detailed knowledge of the architecture and customs: like a Baedeker, a Guide Michelin and an encyclopaedia all wrapped up in a retiring and modest manner.

  Reading between the lines, Mary could tell that Wallis was already bored. She had sought security, but the constraints of a safe marriage were for her like a straitjacket. Ernest’s sister Maud is trying to launch me in London society but I find the English are easily shocked by my conversation; their women do not follow politics and current affairs and seem to feel it is not a woman’s place. As you can imagine, I disagree strongly.

  She wrote that she had little to occupy her from nine, when Ernest left for work, until his return at six, and complained that he would rather spend the evenings reading books than attending parties. At weekends he wanted to drive around the countryside looking for dreary old churches or castles. The weather was gloomy and grey, the people largely unfriendly, and Wallis sounded restless.

  Good! Mary thought. It serves you right.

  She wrote to both, congratulating them on their marriage and wishing them every happiness, in a letter that was a study in diplomacy.

  Her own life in Manhattan was increasingly lonely, and she had to admit that despite being cross with the two of them, she missed them dearly. She pined for her wide-ranging conversations with Ernest and the comfort of his friendship. She yearned for the zing of Wallis’s visits, when she swept into Washington Square in a whirlwind of gossip and humour. They had been her two best friends, and she resented them doing anything without her. It was like being back at school
when Mary felt jealous if she saw Wallis strolling in the grounds with another girl. Back then, she would invariably be invited to join in, but now Wallis and Ernest had struck out on their own and left her behind. It wasn’t fair.

  Although she still loved Jacques, he was no longer the dashing, romantic pilot she had married. He brooded for hours on end, but would never tell her what troubled him, and their marriage was increasingly strained by his drinking. Several evenings a week he went out to guzzle red wine with his French and Italian friends, and came home in the early hours reeking of booze and garlic. He had stopped talking to her about anything of importance and never brought her gifts or paid her compliments. It was as if she was his housekeeper rather than his wife. Mary grew to prefer the evenings he went out, when she could entertain her female friends or sit reading on her own. Wine made him belligerent and they had stupid rows over trivial matters, while the true source of their unhappiness was unexplored.

  In April 1929, Mary turned thirty-three and her grief at remaining childless intensified. If only she could have a baby, she believed it would give her life focus and make everything else tolerable. Her sister Anne had two children, Buckie had one, and Mary adored them, always happy to read stories as they sat on her lap or answer their innocent questions. She had no remaining sexual desire for Jacques but forced herself to go through the motions, then she counted the days of her cycle on a calendar and cried every month when her bleed began yet again. Margaret Sanger opened a birth control clinic to help women prevent pregnancy and Mary felt like turning up at her office and begging advice on how to promote it.

  In June, Wallis wrote with the sad news that her mother Alice had developed a cancerous tumour behind her eye that had caused her to lose her sight on that side. Mary grimaced; it sounded horrid. The letter continued that Wallis and Ernest had made a whistle-stop trip to visit her in Washington, the first time he and Alice had met.