Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

‘I’ve got everything you need arriving from New York in November,’ she promised. ‘Dresses, shoes, velvet evening coats, jewellery. It’s on its way as we speak.’

  The girl wrinkled her nose. ‘Do you have any photos? I’m supposed to take photos so the art director can choose.’

  Rachel kicked herself. If only she’d photographed her purchases; there hadn’t been time. ‘No, but tell your art director it’s from the Van der Heyden estate sale in New York. It would be perfect for your drama. These are originals that haven’t been seen on TV before.’

  She scribbled a note on the back of her business card and handed it over, feeling anxious as the girl stuffed it casually into an untidy satchel.

  ‘Shall I give the art director a ring myself?’ Rachel offered. ‘I can email a list of what I’ve got if that would help.’

  ‘I think they want to see pictures so they can co-ordinate. They don’t want every character wearing the same colour, you know?’

  Rachel swallowed her irritation. She had worked for a film company back in the eighties and knew exactly how it worked. She decided she would ring and try to get through to the art director after the weekend.

  It was a Saturday and she was hoping to spend time with Alex later. They’d barely seen each other over the last month, as he got back late on Friday nights and spent his Saturdays and Sundays poring over scripts, doing research on the home computer or talking endlessly on the telephone. That evening she planned to cook dinner for a change, to open a bottle of wine and have a proper conversation with him, then later, with any luck, some sex. There hadn’t been nearly enough lately; they were both working long hours so when they did manage to spend an evening together the mood was more fatigued than flirtatious.

  As she walked into the flat, she could hear Alex on the phone and he sounded irritable. ‘It’s not good enough,’ he snapped. ‘Do I have to do everything myself?’

  She kicked off her high heels and went through to the kitchen to open a beer for him. As she placed it on the coffee table, he acknowledged it with a quick smile and carried on talking. ‘It’s got to be ready by Wednesday at the latest.’

  She poured herself a vodka and tonic in her special glass with hand-painted edelweiss on the sides. It had been in the shop but there was only one, and most people liked their glasses to be a set, so she’d brought it home.

  Next, she began chopping the ingredients for her sausage casserole, a cheat’s version of French cassoulet. It was one of Alex’s favourites. There were piles of neatly diced celery, carrot and onions in front of her and the sausages were browning in the pan when he came through, swigging his beer.

  ‘Your mum just emailed that the Bonne Auberge can only take sixty guests. That’s not going to work, honey. I’ve got dozens of people who will take it as a personal slight if they’re not invited.’

  She frowned. ‘Alex, we discussed using the Bonne Auberge and you agreed. How many did you think it would take?’

  ‘I thought they would squeeze in at least a hundred . . .’

  ‘Only if they removed the tables and we ate off our laps.’

  He sat down and started nibbling a piece of carrot. ‘Maybe we can find another restaurant that will do a buffet. I’ve been to loads of buffet weddings.’

  Rachel felt annoyed. ‘It’s too late to say this now. The booking is made. Besides, I don’t think we can ask my parents to stump up for more than sixty dinners.’

  Alex was intransigent. ‘We can pay the difference ourselves. How much is it?’

  ‘Twenty-five quid a head for the set meal. And speak for yourself: I don’t have any spare cash right now.’ She tipped the onions into the pan and stirred them in the sizzling sausage fat.

  ‘That’s extortion. Did your mum not try to bargain with them? I hope they’ve given us reasonable prices for the booze.’

  Rachel chopped some chicken thighs and tossed the pieces into her pan. ‘Alex, stop bringing your TV producer head to this. It’s not your gig. We asked Mum to organise the wedding and you can’t waltz in later and criticise what she’s done, especially not when she is paying.’

  ‘You keep banging on about who’s paying. I wish they weren’t bloody paying so we could have the wedding we actually want.’

  Rachel tossed her knife into the sink with a clatter. ‘Could you try to be a little less ungrateful? You were the one who pushed for a Christmas wedding and you’ve got everyone bending over backwards to arrange it for you. My dad’s hired a car to take us to the registry office, Mum’s booked the photographer and the flowers, Wendy’s making the cake . . .’

  ‘Oh Christ, why did you ask Wendy? She’ll come up with something tacky. I bet it will have grinning shop-bought bride and groom figures on top.’ He finished his beer and brushed past her on his way to the fridge for another. Her vodka and tonic was finished but it didn’t occur to him to ask if she wanted a refill.

  ‘If you don’t want Wendy to do it, tell her and find another cake.’ Rachel’s voice rose. ‘I’ve had it to the back teeth with you sniping at everyone while contributing nothing but criticism.’

  ‘I’m marrying you – isn’t that enough?’ He looked at her quickly, as if realising he might have gone too far.

  Rachel blanched. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were doing me a huge favour. You were the one who wanted to get married.’

  ‘Come on, that’s not what I meant.’ He sighed ostentatiously, with just a hint of implication that she might be overreacting, as he reached out to give her back a friendly rub.

  Rachel didn’t reply but crashed a casserole dish onto the hob and began pouring in the contents of the frying pan, followed by chopped tomatoes, red wine, a bay leaf and a sprinkling of thyme. The flageolet beans would be added later.

  Alex got up. ‘I’ve got a phone call to make,’ he said, and left her stirring the casserole with gritted teeth.

  Over dinner that evening, Alex talked about the problems he was having with filming, seeming oblivious to the fact that she was still cross with him.

  ‘We know there was a minor collision with a white car when the Mercedes entered the tunnel, because there are white paint scratches on the wing that weren’t there before, and they found shards of glass from a side light on the road, but no one has come forward to own up. And get this: none of the CCTV cameras in the tunnel or on the route they took from the Ritz have captured anything. The police are saying they were all inoperative.’

  ‘You’re lucky. That means they don’t have any footage of you making off with Diana’s platinum heart.’

  He frowned. ‘You’re missing the point. I could believe it about one or two cameras, but all of them? That’s definitely fishy.’

  The two vodka and tonics she’d drunk were not helping Rachel’s mood. She separated her dinner into little mounds with a fork – sausages, chicken, beans, veg – feeling argumentative. ‘It could be coincidence. Not all the cameras in London are switched on all the time, and we’re supposed to be the surveillance capital of the world.’

  ‘Too much of a coincidence, if you ask me. I was hoping for a chunk of CCTV footage to show in the programme, but I guess, in the best traditions of broadcasting, we’ll have to fake it with our own camera and a hired Mercedes.’

  ‘With a Diana lookalike in the back seat, no doubt?’

  He ignored her. ‘I’ve got to do something. I’ve got interviews with three of the paparazzi, and the doctor and his friend who were in the tunnel, but at the moment I don’t have any footage that wasn’t in the BBC Panorama programme screened two weeks after the crash. What’s more, I hear there is another crew working on a crash documentary. I don’t suppose you could talk to Susie Hargreaves this week about me interviewing her?’

  ‘Alex, you’re kidding.’ She put down her fork. ‘I didn’t think you were serious about that. You can’t expect me to call a business contact and ask her to appear in your programme. It’s too much of a blurring of boundaries.’

  He slammed down his cutlery. ‘Yo
u promised.’

  ‘I didn’t promise . . .’

  ‘You did, and I was counting on it.’ He glared at her. ‘It would be nice if you could act like you care about my work instead of criticising everything I tell you.’

  ‘Yes, ditto,’ Rachel reiterated, her temper rising. ‘You never ask me anything about the shop. I’m struggling to survive after Nicola’s idiocy wiped out my stock, and all I get from you is grief because a few of your friends can’t come to our wedding.’

  Alex shook his head in annoyance. ‘It’s not just a few friends. There are important industry contacts, commissioning editors and the like. It’s a great opportunity to schmooze . . .’

  ‘Oh, so our wedding is just another business opportunity? Well, I hope you enjoy yourself, because the way things are going, it’s unlikely I’ll turn up.’

  Rachel shoved her chair back and swept out of the room, leaving her dinner virtually untouched. It was a one-bedroom flat, albeit a sizeable one, and the bathroom was the only place to find privacy. She locked the door and sat on the edge of the bath, her emotions engulfing her. Was she being unreasonable? She’d hoped for a peaceful, intimate evening and that row had erupted from nowhere. What was happening to them? They never used to argue before they got engaged. If there was ever a tetchy moment, they’d be laughing about it minutes later.

  She tried to think of a way to calm the situation but was overcome by a wave of tiredness and decided they could talk in the morning. She wiped off her make-up, brushed her teeth and went down the hall to bed without glancing into the sitting room, where she could hear Alex was watching television.

  He came in later and she felt the mattress rock. She pretended to be asleep but knew he could tell she wasn’t.

  ‘I’m sorry I snapped,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so bloody wound up at the moment.’

  She moved slightly, just enough so he knew she was listening.

  ‘Can we make up?’ he asked, snuggling in behind her.

  She didn’t reply, but she didn’t pull away when he wrapped his arms around her and kissed the back of her neck before drifting off to sleep.

  Next morning, the television news announced that Trevor Rees-Jones, the bodyguard in the Paris crash, had been released from hospital and flown home to recuperate in England. While spreading marmalade on a slice of toast, Alex dialled the number of one of his researchers, asked where Rees-Jones was staying, and jotted down an address. Rachel was in the next room but she overheard them talking about how an approach might be made to see if he would give them an interview.

  ‘Is he well enough to talk?’ she asked, entering the kitchen as Alex’s call ended. ‘I thought he was badly injured.’

  He nodded, making a note in the book that was never far from his side. ‘Yeah, he had reconstructive surgery on his face. Sounds ghastly.’

  ‘Do you think he remembers what happened?’

  Alex looked grim. ‘Even if he does, I bet he won’t say. If secret services were prepared to kill Diana, they wouldn’t hesitate to bump him off too.’

  Rachel frowned. ‘You seem to have made up your mind it was a conspiracy. In that case, aren’t you worried the spooks might come after you too? They won’t want you broadcasting any of this.’

  ‘What’s your point exactly?’ He looked at her coldly.

  She felt an underlying irritability from the fight of the previous evening. ‘To be honest, I think you should leave the poor bodyguard alone. He must be horribly traumatised. I feel sorry for him.’

  Alex spoke between mouthfuls. ‘If I don’t contact him, the other crew working on the crash story will. He’ll talk to them, they’ll get the scoop, and in comparison my programme will just be a succession of night-time shots of traffic driving into the Alma Tunnel with a voiceover. Is that what you want?’ His tone was scathing and she could feel another fight brewing.

  ‘I can see it’s a tricky judgement call.’ She busied herself cleaning the sink.

  Alex sounded annoyed. She had obviously hit a nerve. ‘I’m doing my best to find a balance and come up with something more interesting than a mash-up of cuttings. It is possible to ask searching questions of the protagonists without being exploitative. It’s what we call journalism.’ He checked his watch and stood up, taking his toast with him. ‘I’m heading up to London.’

  Rachel went over to kiss him and they had a brief hug before he went into the sitting room, clenching the toast between his teeth as he gathered his bags.

  After he’d left, she found a cartoon in her make-up bag of two angry raccoons wearing boxing gloves and the message Let’s be friends again. He must have drawn it after she went to bed. She sighed. There was nothing she wanted more.

  Chapter 26

  London, 29 May 1931

  WHEN MARY’S SHIP DOCKED AT SOUTHAMPTON, SHE was standing on deck with some friends she had made during the crossing, watching as tugs manoeuvred the huge liner into an unfeasibly narrow space. They all cheered at the skill of the feat. When she returned to her cabin, she found a radiogram from Wallis, left by a steward: SORRY CAN’T MEET YOU SOUTHAMPTON STOP CATCH 11 A.M. TRAIN TO WATERLOO STOP WILL BE STANDING ON PLATFORM WAVING STARS AND STRIPES.

  Mary felt a momentary twinge of panic. She had never been to England before. Where would she catch the train? Jacques had always made the arrangements when they travelled, but now, after much soul-searching, she had decided on a separation. His drinking had gone from bad to worse and communication between them had dwindled to nought, as he went out with his friends every night and staggered home in the early hours. She had crossed the Atlantic on her own to clear her head while she contemplated the unthinkable: a divorce, followed by life as a single woman.

  She looked out of the cabin door and a passing steward promised to organise a taxi to the station for her. It all worked seamlessly, with a porter buying her ticket, wheeling her trunk on his trolley and loading it onto the train. She handed him a shilling as a tip, which he seemed pleased with.

  The English countryside was resplendent, the greens so vivid they made her eyes ache. It was thrilling to be there, alone, starting a new adventure. She hadn’t slept well on the ship, with a bout of seasickness and a mattress that was too firm for comfort, so she nodded off for a while, lulled by the rhythmic chuntering, and only wakened when the locomotive braked as it pulled into its destination.

  Waterloo station was a vast iron and glass pavilion, and glancing out, she feared getting lost in the milling crowds, but as soon as she alighted, there was Wallis, wearing a sharp blue suit and a jaunty cloche hat.

  ‘Mary! You made it!’ She hugged her. ‘It’s so good to see you. I have a taxicab waiting. We’re off to lunch with Consuelo and Benny Thaw. She’s one of the Vanderbilt sisters; he’s first secretary at the Embassy.’

  Mary felt dizzy. ‘Couldn’t I go back to yours to change first? I look rather dishevelled.’

  Wallis eyed her up and down, smoothed her lapel. ‘You’re fine, dear. They’re expecting us any moment. I’ll get the driver to take your trunk home.’

  She hurried Mary out of the station to a black Austin taxicab with a luggage rack on the roof. As Mary handed the porter a shilling tip, Wallis hissed, ‘That’s too much,’ but it was too late to retract.

  Mary looked around in wonder as the taxi nudged its way into the London traffic. All the buildings were centuries older than those in New York, with fancy stonework and impressively tall windows. As they drove over a bridge and past the Palace of Westminster, she was awestruck by the intricacy of the sand-coloured stone carvings; her mouth actually fell open. She turned to Wallis to comment, but her friend seemed immune to their splendour.

  ‘We saw the Prince of Wales again last week,’ Wallis confided, clutching Mary’s gloved hand. ‘That’s three times now. He’s quite the character.’

  Wallis had written with great excitement about her first meeting with the Prince the previous January, at a house party given by her friend Thelma Furness. She said she had been surprised
by how natural and informal he was in person. Mary was glad that Wallis appeared to have found an entrée into London society in the two years since they last met. She had been worried the English might be too stuffy to appreciate her sharp sense of humour, but it appeared not.

  ‘You said your friend Thelma is the Prince’s mistress. Doesn’t her husband mind?’

  Wallis laughed. ‘I’m sure he would mind if she was hopping into bed with the butler, but since her lover is heir to the throne, there’s a certain cachet. Perhaps you’ll meet him during your visit. Remember back at school you used to have a crush on him? Well, he’s still unmarried, so you never know your luck.’

  ‘He may be single, but I’m not,’ Mary said gloomily, then turned to gaze out of the window.

  Mary’s brains felt scrambled that first afternoon in London. She was still on American time so it felt like first thing in the morning when wine was served with lunch at the Thaws’. They played bridge all afternoon then went directly to the home of another friend, Ethel Lewis, for what Wallis called a ‘KT’. There was an extraordinary array of liquor on display in a miniature bar in Ethel’s drawing room, and a butler made their cocktails of choice in a shaker before pouring them into martini glasses. Mary chose a Tom Collins because she’d heard of it but had never tried one; she found it to be a refreshing concoction of gin, lemon and club soda.

  By the time they returned to Wallis’s home in Bryanston Court, Mary was almost sleepwalking, and that helped her to get over the awkwardness of seeing Ernest for the first time since his marriage to Wallis. He was waiting for them in the drawing room, dressed for dinner in white tie, and looking very suave. He took Mary’s hand and bowed.

  ‘I’m delighted to welcome you to our London abode. It’s been far too long since we’ve seen each other.’

  ‘Thank you for the invitation. I’ve already seen a lot of the city in one afternoon.’ She smiled. ‘It’s been a whirlwind introduction.’

  While Wallis was out of the room, changing her shoes, Ernest said: ‘I’m terribly sorry to hear about your marital problems. If you and Jackie can’t work it out, there’s no hope for any of us.’