Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  ‘No idea,’ he said, then changed the subject. ‘I’ve spent the day watching the footage we’ve got so far and the narrative is all over the place. There are loads of questions about the crash we haven’t been able to answer.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Where is the white car and who was driving it? Why did Henri Paul have such abnormally high levels of carbon monoxide in his blood? Why was there a delay of two hours and ten minutes between the accident and Diana arriving at hospital? Why was her body embalmed and who gave permission for it?’

  Rachel hadn’t heard about the carbon monoxide – or had she? She wondered if Alex had told her and she hadn’t been listening properly. She did know about the embalming: the conspiracy theorists reckoned it was done to prevent news of Diana’s pregnancy leaking out, but Rachel didn’t buy that. What difference did it make whether Diana was pregnant or not? No baby would have survived the crash. Besides, the friend she was with in Greece two weeks earlier had told the press she couldn’t possibly have been expecting because she’d had her period there.

  Rachel had calculated that it was five weeks since she herself had last had a period. She wondered whether to tell Alex she was late. In the old days it would have been nice to share the excitement, but now she wasn’t sure how he would react. If he was a classic commitment-phobe, as Nicola suggested, it could make him panic even more. She would wait for a moment when he seemed receptive because she desperately wanted him to greet the news with enthusiasm rather than alarm.

  ‘We don’t even know what Diana and Dodi were doing in Paris,’ Alex continued, and she realised she hadn’t been listening to what he’d been saying. ‘There was no compelling reason for them to go there and they must have known the paparazzi would be out in force. Why didn’t they head straight back to London and the security of Kensington Palace?’

  ‘Paris is the city of romance!’ Rachel offered. ‘Dodi wanted to propose to her there, just as you did with me.’

  ‘I’m sure there was some other reason . . .’ Alex mused, with one eye on the television screen.

  ‘Do you ever dream about Diana?’ Rachel asked. ‘I keep having dreams in which I’m trying to pull her out of the wrecked car.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t remember my dreams, if I have any. Which I doubt. My head is too full of things I have to remember. I make to-do lists in my sleep.’

  Rachel went to the kitchen to start dinner, thinking how sad it was that he didn’t remember his dreams. It seemed symbolic somehow.

  The weekend passed without a major argument, just a tetchy moment when she questioned him about some friends who hadn’t RSVP’d to the wedding invitation.

  ‘Either call and ask or strike them from the list,’ he snapped.

  Rachel tried to be conciliatory. ‘I know you’re busy, but I’m pretty fraught myself, and we can’t ask Mum to ring your friends for you. It’ll be a waste of money if we assume they’re coming and they don’t turn up.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why it’s costing twenty-five quid a head,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m sure I could have negotiated a better deal.’

  ‘Sorry, darling, would you rather change it to the Wimpy? We could probably get burger and chips for a pound.’

  He took a deep breath and blew it out. ‘OK, I’ll call and find out what the stragglers are up to.’

  There was no affection, no loving kindness, just a vast ocean of space between them. She noticed he still hadn’t asked anything about her life: how the shop was doing, when her stock from New York was arriving, how she was feeling about the wedding. Nothing.

  They curled up on the sofa on Saturday evening and watched an Indiana Jones movie. It was not the film she would have chosen but it was unchallenging and she relished the physical closeness. She hoped it might lead to sex later, only to be disappointed when he fell asleep before the closing credits and could not be roused.

  They had Sunday dinner with her family – a stodgy roast she could only pick at – then first thing on Monday morning Alex rushed for a train to London, giving her a perfunctory kiss and calling, ‘See you Friday,’ on his way out of the door.

  She stared after him for several minutes. They were due to get married in eight weeks and he felt like a flatmate rather than a lover – and not a very considerate flatmate at that.

  On her way to the shop on Monday morning, Rachel stopped at a chemist and bought a pregnancy test. As soon as she had switched off the alarm and hung up her coat, she went to the toilet and peed on the plastic stick, her heart beating hard. Oh please, she begged, crossing her fingers as she laid it on the sink. The instructions said to wait three minutes, but just at that moment she heard the bell ring as an early customer entered.

  It was a man who wanted something for his wife’s birthday but didn’t know what. Rachel questioned him about her age, her tastes, her size and colouring, and recommended a 1930s silk slip trimmed with lace, which could be worn as a nightdress or even a party dress for the daring. She would be pleased to receive it herself, she assured him. Next he couldn’t decide between dove grey and buttermilk, and Rachel steered him towards the latter. He paid cash, obviously relieved to have found a speedy solution to the gift problem. She wrapped the slip in multiple sheets of fine tissue and decorated the parcel with silk ribbons so he could simply hand it over.

  As soon as he left, she rushed back to check her test: there was no pink line in the window, not even a faint one. Did that mean she wasn’t pregnant, or that it had faded because she’d left it too long? There was another test in the kit but she decided to wait till she got home that evening, when she wouldn’t be interrupted.

  Later that afternoon a regular customer, a woman in her forties, popped in and produced a carrier bag, which she laid on the counter.

  ‘I wondered if you might be interested in a Schiaparelli jacket? It was love at first sight when I bought it about ten years ago, but I have to face the fact that my size-eight years are over.’

  It was bold pink silk, with blue circus horses dancing all over, and four buttons in the shape of acrobats bending backwards. Rachel recognised it straight away. ‘That’s from her 1938 “Circus” collection. I absolutely love it.’

  Nipped at the waist, it had a peplum and bracelet sleeves. She looked at the label and could tell it was genuine. No one could have imitated that print or those extraordinary buttons.

  She began to check inside and out for imperfections that would decrease the value. Just at that moment she felt a sharp cramp in her womb and a warmth between her legs. She shifted her weight slightly and another cramp came. Her eyes filled with tears and she screwed them shut and turned away, knowing instantly what it meant.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the customer asked.

  ‘Yes, fine.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m happy to display your jacket in the shop, at a price we agree, then I’ll give you fifty per cent of whatever it sells for.’

  ‘I was hoping you would buy it from me today, for cash,’ the woman said, not meeting her eye. She clearly needed the money.

  Rachel was torn. The jacket was a historic piece, exactly the kind of item she loved to stock. ‘How much did you have in mind?’

  ‘I thought about five hundred pounds? I checked on the Internet and one sold in America for almost a thousand dollars last year.’

  Rachel was sure she was right, but she simply couldn’t raise that kind of cash. It broke her heart to miss the chance, but paying bills had to be her priority. ‘Sorry, I can’t help you,’ she said.

  As soon as the customer left, Rachel turned the sign on the door to Closed and rushed into the bathroom. No need for another pregnancy test. She sat on the toilet, leant her head in her hands and stayed still for a long time.

  Chapter 42

  Fort Belvedere, 6 December 1934

  MARY WROTE TO ELEANOR THE MORNING AFTER their encounter, thanking her for the tea and for allowing them to thaw their bones in front of her fire. I would very much like to see you again before my return to the
States. Is it possible to catch a train to your part of the world? It would be nice to cultivate a friendship of her own in England, since all the friends she’d made to date were primarily Wallis’s.

  The reply came by return. Eleanor said she was welcome any time and that there was a train from Victoria station to Pulborough. If she asked the stationmaster to telephone when she arrived, her husband would come and collect her.

  Wallis was bemused when Mary mentioned she was planning to visit Eleanor. ‘I didn’t realise you were close. Well, it can’t be this weekend because David has invited you to Fort Belvedere. I’m glad you’re getting to visit him in his lair. It’s the only place he can be himself.’

  On Friday evening, Ernest, Mary and Wallis drove to the Fort, which was near the village of Sunningdale, just west of London. As they pulled up the drive, Mary exclaimed, ‘Oh my! It’s a proper castle.’ There were crenellated walls and a turret with a flag flying from the top.

  ‘It’s not actually a castle,’ Ernest corrected her. ‘It’s a Gothic Revival country house built in the 1820s. The architect was Jeffry Wyatville, who was also responsible for the redesign of Windsor Castle.’

  Wallis had removed her headscarf and was smoothing her hair into place. ‘David’s father gave it to him five years ago and he’s been remodelling it ever since. He’s added a swimming pool and tennis courts, a steam room and loads of bathrooms, so almost every guest room has its own bathroom. He’s very keen on that.’

  The Prince came out onto the steps to greet them and a host of servants arrived to collect their bags. ‘Welcome to my abode,’ he said. Mary bobbed a curtsey, noticing that Wallis didn’t bother. ‘Let me show you to your rooms.’

  ‘David, the staff can do that,’ Wallis told him. ‘Why don’t you go and mix the drinks?’

  ‘You’re the cocktail expert,’ the Prince argued. ‘I would enjoy showing Mary and Ernest upstairs.’

  Wallis gave in, and as they walked through the hall and up the grand staircase, the Prince pointed out his redecoration schemes, identified ancestors in portraits, invited them to stop and admire the view from a window at the curve of the stairs. He’s proud of this place, Mary realised. That’s why he wanted to show us.

  Her room was large and light-filled, with bay windows and a book-lined wall. Ernest was next door and Wallis had two rooms at the end of the corridor, not far from the Prince’s own bedroom. It all felt peculiar to Mary, and she kept glancing at each of the participants in the ménage à trois. Ernest was poker-faced, Wallis had switched into her ‘entertainer’ mode, being very gay and funny, while the Prince was like an eager child who desperately wanted them to like his house and enjoy his hospitality.

  Mary dressed for dinner then came down to the drawing room. Ernest was in white tie, but the other men were less formally attired, while the Prince wore his kilt.

  ‘We’re very relaxed here,’ he told her when he saw her looking around the room. ‘There are no rules.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Wallis chipped in. ‘I can think of a few. No food fights in the dining room because it’s just been repainted; no repeating of tedious anecdotes we’ve all heard before . . .’

  ‘And no sleeping with anyone to whom you are actually married,’ another guest chipped in, to general merriment.

  Mary was introduced to the rest of the party: Lord and Lady Brownlow, the Buists, Guy Trundle and his wife Melosine, Sybil Colefax, Jack Aird, all of them well-known members of society. She talked to Sybil Colefax about her interior design business, and enjoyed hearing about the work she had done at the Fort, but at the same time she kept half an eye on Wallis as she served cocktails, for all the world as if it were her own drawing room.

  ‘I rearranged the furniture in here,’ Wallis told her. ‘Now the chairs are grouped to take advantage of the view, and there’s more space to mingle.’

  ‘You have a good eye,’ the Prince complimented her, then added: ‘The left one.’

  It was a feeble joke, but Wallis laughed out loud, and the Prince beamed with pleasure.

  Over dinner, Wallis sat by the Prince’s side and kept her attention fixed on him. Even with others watching she chided him to wipe soup from his lip, and to put his cutlery down between mouthfuls of veal. She’s like his mother, not his lover, Mary thought. He could have any woman he wanted; why choose Wallis? She wasn’t beautiful or rich, but perhaps he realised he would need someone of strong character to back him once he was on the throne.

  After dinner, they danced to records played on the Prince’s gramophone, and Mary watched, thinking how well Wallis and the Prince moved together. She was miming playfully to ‘It Ain’t No Fault of Mine’, and the Prince quipped, ‘Knowing you, Wallis, I expect it probably was.’

  Ernest asked Mary to dance to ‘My Baby Just Cares for Me’, and she glided into his arms. Any stranger witnessing the scene would assume they were two married couples, she thought: Mary and Ernest, Wallis and David.

  ‘We’ve had a wonderful idea,’ the Prince announced. ‘Let’s all go skiing in February in Kitzbühel. Will you join us, Mrs Raffray?’

  ‘I’m afraid a Paris taxi driver put paid to the possibility of me ever skiing,’ Mary replied. ‘Besides, I must get back to the States by Christmas.’ She had promised to join her sister Anne and family. Although she was enjoying her time in London, she was keen not to outstay her welcome and give Wallis any reason to think of her as the house pest again.

  ‘How about you, Ernest?’ The Prince turned to him.

  ‘I’ll be at work,’ Ernest replied.

  ‘Never mind,’ the Prince said, obviously satisfied with this response. ‘I’ll look after Wallis and try to bring her back in one piece. You don’t mind, do you, old chap?’

  Ernest smiled benignly. ‘Of course not.’

  When they went to bed, Mary couldn’t sleep. She went to the bathroom around one in the morning and couldn’t help noticing a slit of light under Wallis’s door. Did she have a visitor? If so, which one?

  She tiptoed down the corridor, listened for a moment and, not hearing any voices, tapped lightly on Wallis’s door. There was no reply. She tapped again, then whispered, ‘Wallie?’ Still no reply. Finally she opened the door, just a crack, and peeked inside. The bed was empty. Wallis was nowhere to be seen.

  Mary closed the door and glanced towards the Prince’s suite. A dim light was burning and she fancied she heard a murmur of voices.

  Not wanting to be caught there, she rushed back to her own room and leapt into bed, heart pounding. Surely Wallis was not going to bed with the Prince? That would be madness. Perhaps she had just visited his room to help him with something. But a married woman should not be in another man’s bedroom at one in the morning for any reason.

  Poor Ernest, she thought. He really does not deserve any of this.

  Chapter 43

  West Sussex, December 1934

  A FEW DAYS AFTER THEIR RETURN TO LONDON, Mary set out to catch a train to Pulborough. It was a tiny station, with just two platforms, one of them shaded by an awning, and a stationmaster sitting in a brick office who was happy to telephone her hosts and offered her a cup of tea while she waited.

  Twenty minutes later, an open-topped motorcar pulled up and a very tall man wearing a long scarf leapt out. ‘Ralph Hargreaves,’ he said. ‘And you must be Mrs Raffray.’

  She shook his hand, saying, ‘How do you do,’ and was taken aback when he stood staring at her.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ He shook himself. ‘It’s just that you are so very beautiful. Gosh, that must sound as though I am trying to seduce you. Please forgive me.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t know if my wife mentioned that I am an artist? I specialise in portraiture, and you have the loveliest face, with those merry eyes and pretty mouth . . . There I go again.’

  Mary laughed. ‘That is quite the nicest greeting I’ve had in a long while. Thank you.’

  She got into the passenger seat and was amused to note t
hat there were smears of paint on the legs of Ralph’s trousers and one sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘Have you ever had your portrait painted?’ he asked, and she said no, she had never known an artist before.

  ‘We must discuss it,’ he insisted, and as he drove, he kept shooting her sidelong glances, as if trying to decide the best angle from which to paint her.

  Eleanor greeted her and they sat in the cosy drawing room, picking up the threads of conversation where they had left off, the dogs sniffing hopefully at their clothing. In another week Eleanor’s two teenage sons would be home from Eton for the Christmas holidays and she was dying to see them; she asked where Mary would spend Christmas, and Mary found herself telling Eleanor about the end of her marriage.

  ‘I still love Jacques. I will always care for him, but I’ve realised that it is impossible to cure someone who has a drink problem.’

  Eleanor agreed, but said, ‘I’m sorry for it, though. He is losing a wonderful wife.’

  Mary laughed. ‘I must come here to be flattered more often. You and your husband are terribly good at it.’

  ‘How is Wallis?’ Eleanor asked, pouring more tea. ‘Is she happy?’

  Mary hesitated. ‘I think so. Why do you ask?’

  Eleanor mused. ‘She always had the air of a person who was searching for something more and would not be satisfied with an ordinary life. But you know her better; perhaps I am mistaken.’

  ‘She is a complicated character,’ Mary agreed.

  ‘Mr Simpson did not seem the type of husband I would have imagined her with . . .’

  Mary twisted her mouth to one side before answering. ‘He’s solid and clever and a good man. Wallis might seem frightfully confident and gregarious but underneath she gets anxious and Ernest anchors her. He’s the security she never had as a young girl.’

  Eleanor was surprised by this. ‘But she strikes me as so independent! I heard she spent a year in China on her own.’