Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  ‘Not quite on her own. She was staying with a couple, Mr and Mrs Herman Rogers. She has an extraordinary number of friends.’

  ‘And now that she is one of the Prince of Wales’s set, I imagine she has more than ever.’

  Mary could tell Eleanor was fishing for information. It was tempting to blurt out what she knew, to get another woman’s perspective on the complex situation Wallis had gotten herself into, but loyalty stopped her. Loyalty to Wallis or to Ernest? She wasn’t sure.

  ‘She and Ernest are very close to the Prince,’ she replied. ‘He’s a lonely character and they’ve taken him under their wing. Ernest talks to him endlessly about history and politics and they seem to see eye to eye.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Eleanor replied, her gaze searching Mary’s face. ‘How lovely for them.’

  On her return to London two days later, Mary found Wallis in the drawing room wearing a beautiful Chinese-patterned dress in a blue fabric printed with roses.

  ‘Is that new? It’s divine!’ Mary approached for a closer look and saw that it was in fact a tunic worn over a slender ankle-length skirt.

  ‘Do you like it? It’s from Mainbocher’s fall collection. A thank-you from the Prince for helping with his entertaining.’

  ‘That’s very kind of him.’ Mary tried to catch her eye, to give her a knowing look, but Wallis turned to reposition an ornament on the mantelpiece.

  ‘How was your stay with English Eleanor?’ Wallis imitated her accent.

  Mary spoke with enthusiasm. ‘It was fun. There’s no ceremony, no dressing for dinner, no silver service. Their dogs run amok through the house and her artist husband wears paint-spattered clothing. I like them both.’

  ‘Only a few more days till you sail. How will I manage without you?’ Wallis asked, sounding plaintive.

  ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t take on so much,’ Mary advised, choosing her words with care. ‘It’s easy to over-commit yourself then find you have obligations you can’t fulfil.’

  Wallis gave her a sharp look. ‘Darling Mary, who knows me better than I know myself: how would you advise that I divest myself of obligations without hurting a certain person’s feelings?’

  ‘You need to draw a clear line and not step over it.’

  ‘That’s just the problem, though: where exactly to draw the line.’

  ‘Perhaps you need to draw it behind you and take a step back,’ Mary suggested, wondering yet again what Wallis had been doing in the Prince’s bedroom.

  Wallis frowned, then glanced at the clock. ‘Don’t you want to change? It’s almost six.’

  ‘I suppose I had better, so you don’t completely outshine me in that stunning outfit.’ She kissed Wallis on the cheek. ‘I do understand,’ she whispered, with a sympathetic look.

  On the way to her bedroom, Mary heard the doorbell ring and hovered to see if it was an early guest. Instead, she watched the maid take delivery of yet another huge bunch of blush-pink roses. Wallis came to the drawing-room door, plucked the card from the bouquet, read it, then folded it in half and stuck it in her pocket.

  She’s up to something, Mary thought. But surely not with Ribbentrop.

  Chapter 44

  Brighton, 11 November 1997

  THE VAN DER HEYDEN CLOTHES ARRIVED AT LAST and Rachel was beside herself with excitement as she unpacked them. They had been professionally cleaned for the auction so didn’t have that musty antique smell she was addicted to, but she marvelled at the top-quality seamstressing: the hidden darts and secret pockets, the hand-stitching and ingenious details. Best of all was the Molyneux crystal beaded dress, but she tucked that away to be secreted in her wardrobe at home.

  In a spark of inspiration she called the local paper and asked if they might be interested in running a feature about the collection. They sent a journalist round, and when he saw the quality of the gowns he immediately agreed to write a piece if Rachel would model some of them while standing on the pavement outside the shop. As free advertising, it couldn’t have been better.

  Rachel knew a fair bit about the era and was able to talk knowledgeably to the journalist. ‘American society in the 1920s consisted of families who had made millions in business: the Rockefellers from oil, the du Ponts from gunpowder, the Vanderbilts from shipping and railroads, and the Van der Heydens from diamonds. Their daughters enjoyed unprecedented freedom in what was known as the Jazz Age. While it would have been considered shocking for their grandmothers to show so much as a hint of their ankles, these girls showed knees and a whole lot more when dancing the Charleston in their flapper dresses.’

  The journalist held up his hand, asking her to slow down while he scribbled in shorthand. ‘Do you mean sexual freedom?’

  Typical journalist, Rachel thought. ‘Absolutely! A decade earlier an unmarried woman couldn’t be in the company of a man who was not a family member without a chaperone present, but in the 1920s they were out riding in men’s cars, drinking bootleg liquor in speakeasies, spending a fortune on racy clothes and dancing up a storm. The Great Gatsby was the autobiography of the era.’ Rachel loved Gatsby; she had read it dozens of times and could recite whole sections by heart.

  ‘Do you know anything about the Van der Heyden girls in particular? Any scandals?’

  Rachel smiled. ‘Mona was said to have had an affair with a black musician who played at the Cotton Club. And Doris’s husband sued her for divorce in 1927 at a time when divorce was still considered scandalous. It seems she was sleeping with his business partner.’

  The day the article appeared, Rachel sold the Chanel dancing dress and the Vionnet crêpe gown, as well as several strands of the coloured pearls. Takings were the best they had been for months, and she emailed Richard that evening to thank him.

  When he replied, he had other news: The measurements you sent were Wallis Simpson’s and Mainbocher think the dress must be hers, but if you want to get the best price, you’ll need to find out how your supplier came to have it in his or her possession. Is there a story?

  Rachel rang Susie and told her the news, asking: ‘Do you have any idea how it came to be in the wooden chest in your west wing?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it and I would rather you just sold it in Forgotten Dreams,’ Susie replied immediately. ‘I don’t want the publicity an auction might entail.’

  Rachel was mystified. ‘But we could be talking thousands if it was Wallis’s, and maybe a hundred if I sell it in the shop.’

  ‘I’ve made up my mind. Sorry.’

  It seemed peculiar, since Susie was always saying how short of money she was.

  ‘I’ve sold a few other items,’ Rachel told her. ‘Do you want me to put a cheque in the post?’

  ‘I’d prefer cash,’ Susie replied. ‘Let’s keep the bank manager’s grubby paws off it. I’ll come to the shop when I’m next in Brighton.’

  By late November, the North Laines were glittering with Christmas decorations, every shop displaying gift ideas in its windows: crystal healing sessions, electric guitars, hand-crafted garden sculptures, a set of essential oils in a hemp basket. Rachel created her own display of period gifts, from fine kid gloves in the palest cream to the art deco flapper-girl lamp and the Van der Heyden pearls. She decorated a miniature Christmas tree with festoons of the pearls and bought some old-fashioned wrapping paper and tissue flowers to offer a gift-wrap service. At last the shop was beginning to look as enticing as it had before the break-in.

  There was less than a month to go before the wedding, and although her mum had taken care of most details, Rachel had to collect the marriage licence, buy plain rose-gold wedding bands for the pair of them and choose the accessories to go with her Molyneux dress. She decided on simple crystal-and-pearl earrings, a pair of pearl T-bar shoes with dainty heels, a crystal and ivory-feathered fascinator and a chiffon wrap to throw round her shoulders. When she tried on the whole outfit in front of the bedroom mirror, she felt a thrill of anticipation, but it was almost immediately tempered by the memory of Alex
’s lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Shall I order white tie for you?’ she had asked him. ‘It’s an evening wedding so that would be best.’

  ‘Whatever you think,’ he’d replied.

  ‘Just over three weeks to go,’ she’d said, hoping for some romantic comment, just a scrap of reassurance.

  ‘Scary,’ he said, then there was a pause in which he clearly realised she was expecting more. ‘Scary but good, of course.’

  She had decided not to confront him about his distant behaviour. Creating a drama when he was so stressed about his TV programme would only drive him further away, but all the same it was hard.

  During week nights when he was in Paris, she looked through the slides Wendy had lent her and decided there were too many good shots to select just one. Instead she had sixty printed up and bought a leather-bound album for them. She spent many hours arranging the pictures in roughly chronological order, juxtaposing funny and touching ones to make a narrative of his childhood up to the age of twelve, when the photos stopped abruptly, presumably after his mother’s death.

  Seeing him as a child, with his cheeky grin and outgoing nature clearly already in place, made her feel a pang of love. If they ever had a child, she hoped he or she would turn out just like that little boy – but without the hard edges of the man.

  Chapter 45

  Brighton, 2 December 1997

  SUSIE CALLED BY THE SHOP ONE EVENING JUST AS Rachel was closing up. ‘I wondered if you had that cash for me?’ she asked.

  Rachel looked in the till and there wasn’t quite enough. ‘Walk down the road to the bank with me and I’ll withdraw the rest,’ she suggested. ‘Have you been Christmas shopping?’

  ‘Just a spot of business,’ Susie said, looking round. ‘I like your shop. It’s like a brothel in a 1920s film starring Greta Garbo.’

  Rachel smiled. ‘Oh dear, those films always have tragic endings.’

  It was a relief when the cash machine disgorged the money she needed to pay Susie, something it would not have done before the newspaper feature on the Van der Heyden clothes boosted trade.

  ‘Do you fancy a drink?’ Susie asked. ‘I could do with one.’

  Her car was parked near the beach, so she suggested they went to a seafront bar, one of the ones that were packed with customers on summer evenings, when they spilled out, glasses in hand, onto the stony beach. Now the awning flapped noisily in the wind and there was only one barman on duty serving a handful of customers. The front wall was glass, with a view to the sea, but at six o’clock it was already so dark Rachel couldn’t pick out the West Pier.

  She was wearing a dark green Jacquard evening coat that she loved, but it wasn’t quite warm enough for the icy weather. She kept it huddled around her as they ordered gin and tonics and a dish of olives, and chose a corner table next to a radiator.

  ‘The thing about the Mainbocher,’ Susie began, as if continuing their previous conversation, ‘is that it’s not mine to sell. I’m not sure why it was in the house.’

  ‘Wallis isn’t around to say that it wasn’t a gift. It’s in your possession so I’m sure we could get around that,’ Rachel countered.

  Susie continued as if she hadn’t heard. ‘Besides, you must be very busy with your wedding coming up. Just a couple of weeks to go, isn’t it?’

  Rachel persevered. ‘I have a friend who arranges auctions. I’d give it to him so it would be no trouble. Do you have any idea if one of your ancestors knew Wallis? Or mixed in her social circle?’

  ‘I think my grandmother was at school with her in Baltimore, but she didn’t like her much – said she found her stand-offish.’

  Rachel was intrigued. ‘That’s interesting. Did she tell you anything else? Did she socialise with Wallis in the 1930s when she was in London?’

  ‘No, I’m sure she didn’t. I would have heard about it.’ Susie seemed keen to change the subject. ‘What are you wearing for the big day?’ she asked.

  Rachel described the Molyneux dress that Richard had loaned her, and how excited she was to wear it.

  ‘Are you engaged?’ she asked, noticing a large diamond solitaire glinting on the ring finger of Susie’s left hand.

  She looked down. ‘No, this is a family ring. My love life is unbelievably complicated. I’ve always been the independent type, and for the last five years I’ve been seeing a man just like me who lives in Cornwall. Trouble is, I find I want more than a weekend lover, but he won’t move and I won’t leave my estate, so we are stuck in an impasse.’

  ‘That’s hard,’ Rachel sympathised. ‘I’ve been in a relationship like that.’

  ‘It gets worse,’ Susie continued. ‘I hired a private detective to tail him – I’ve been meeting the detective this afternoon – and he told me my boyfriend has another lover during the week.’

  Rachel snorted in disbelief. ‘You did what?’

  Susie grinned self-deprecatingly. ‘It’s crazy, because it was hideously expensive when I’m supposed to be saving money. But at least I know how the land lies.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’ Rachel knew she would never hire a detective to check up on Alex, no matter what.

  ‘That’s just it: nothing probably. So it was a complete waste of money.’ She drained her glass and signalled to the barman to bring them two more drinks, although Rachel was only halfway down her first.

  ‘Why not talk to him about it?’

  ‘God, no! I’m far too proud to let him find out I had him tailed.’ She laughed. ‘It’s my little extravagance and now I’ll have to tighten the purse strings again.’

  Someone walked into the bar and a blast of icy air hit them. Rachel rubbed her arms. The barman brought their drinks and Susie gulped hers thirstily.

  ‘So why not let me sell the Mainbocher at auction and get some of the money back?’ Rachel persevered.

  Susie gave a deep sigh. ‘I’ve got my reasons.’ She sounded a little tipsy. ‘But I can’t possibly tell you when you have a TV producer boyfriend who makes documentaries about . . . about stuff like this.’

  ‘I promise I won’t breathe a word of it to Alex if you don’t want me to.’ Rachel was mystified. ‘You can trust me, Susie.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t want anyone looking into my family’s association with Wallis Simpson.’ She gazed towards the blacked-out beach and seemed to be considering her words.

  ‘So there is an association?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘It’s not what you think. She was no friend of the family. In fact she stole something from us. Diana was trying to get it back for me when she . . . when she died.’ Susie’s voice tailed off, her face a mask of misery.

  ‘Wallis stole something? What was it?’ Rachel was spellbound.

  ‘Nothing especially valuable to anyone else: just a painting by my grandfather.’

  ‘But why did she steal it?’

  ‘That’s a long story.’ Susie shook her head. ‘The point is that I asked Diana to go to the Villa Windsor and try to persuade them to give it to me. Until I phoned, she had been planning to fly straight to London so she could see her boys the next day.’ Her face appealed for understanding. ‘But it was my grandma’s hundredth birthday and it would have been the best present ever if I could have got her painting back. Duch, bless her, would do a favour for anyone, so she agreed they would spend the night at Dodi’s flat in Paris and bring the painting to London with her in the morning. Without me, they would both still be alive.’

  Her eyes filled with tears that started to spill down her cheeks. Rachel put an arm round her. ‘That doesn’t make it your fault,’ she said. ‘It was the fault of a drunk driver.’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps not, but that’s how the media would see it. I keep imagining the world’s press arriving on my doorstep. Can you imagine the headlines? “She’s to blame” they would say alongside my picture. The coverage of Diana’s death has been so hysterical, I’m sure that’s what would happen.’ Susie wiped her tears with the back of her hand, smearing
watery mascara across her cheekbone.

  ‘First of all,’ Rachel said, ‘there’s no reason for it to come out in the press. Secondly, if by some fluke it did, they would write about Diana making a selfless gesture to help a friend. That’s more the tone of the coverage. As far as the media are concerned, she’s a saint.’

  Susie pulled a paper napkin from a dispenser and blew her nose into it. ‘It’s too unpredictable. I can’t take the risk. They might even turn up at Grandma’s nursing home. The paparazzi can be scum.’

  Rachel was puzzling over Susie’s revelation. ‘Are you sure the painting was the only reason Diana went to Paris? I heard that Dodi picked up a ring from a jeweller’s near the Ritz that day, which his father thinks he was going to give her as an engagement ring. And I believe she might have been given some kind of bracelet while she was at the Villa Windsor.’ She described the platinum heart with a J on one side and XVII on the other, telling Susie that Diana wasn’t wearing it in pictures before going to the Villa Windsor, only after. It was still nestled in the zip pocket of her purse because she hadn’t decided what else to do with it, but she didn’t show Susie in case she asked awkward questions about how Rachel came to have it.

  ‘Who do you think gave it to her?’ Susie asked, dabbing at her eyes.

  Rachel shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We can’t find out any more about it. But you mustn’t blame yourself. That’s a horrible burden to bear.’ She glanced at Susie’s empty glass. ‘Can I get you another drink?’

  Susie shook her head. ‘No, I’d better not. I’m driving. I’ll help you with yours though.’ Rachel hadn’t even started her second drink so Susie poured half of it into her own glass and took a slurp.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK to drive?’

  ‘On two G and Ts? Course I am. I can tell you’re a townie; everyone drink-drives in the country.’

  As they walked up to Susie’s Land Rover, which was parked in one of the bays along the seafront, Rachel wondered if she should try to talk her out of driving, but sensed she wouldn’t pay any attention.