Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  ‘Thanks for listening,’ Susie said as she got into the driver’s seat. ‘You’re the first person I’ve told about all this.’ She gave a loud sniff, put her keys in the ignition and threw her handbag onto the passenger seat. ‘And you’re right: I can see it’s irrational to blame myself for Diana dying. It’s just that I miss her so terribly.’

  She pulled her door shut, and as she drove off, Rachel could see that she was crying again.

  Chapter 46

  New York, April 1935

  IN THE SPRING OF 1935, AS FRESH NEW LEAVES unfurled on the trees in Washington Square, Mary and Jacques’ separation became real: they divided their possessions and moved out of their lovely home into rented apartments nearby. She had expected to be ostracised by many of their social circle when the marital breakdown was announced, but most friends proved supportive. They still invited her to gatherings, often pairing her with single men of their acquaintance, which she found awkward and embarrassing. She and Jacques had not filed for divorce and remained on friendly terms; around once a week she invited him for dinner, worried that he was not eating properly.

  She loved the bohemian atmosphere of the Village, where artists and writers frequented former speakeasies and every block seemed to have a jazz club or a tiny theatre. Her new apartment was on the fourth floor of a brownstone on Bleecker Street, a few streets back from Washington Square, where she could sit on her fire escape and watch the world go by. The area was always busy until late.

  She wrote regularly to Wallis and tried to read between the lines of her replies to find out how she was balancing her complicated relationships with the two men in her life. It was always the Prince she wrote about, Mary noticed; Ernest seldom got a mention. It seemed he was acting as chaperone so that Wallis could spend weekends at Fort Belvedere without the British press becoming curious about her. No one outside the Prince’s crowd would read anything into it when the list of guests in the Court Circular included ‘Mr and Mrs Simpson’. Not a breath of insinuation appeared in the British papers, although the US ones often ran stories about ‘the Prince of Wales and his American friend Mrs Simpson’.

  Mary was overjoyed when Ernest wrote to say he would be spending two months in New York on business that summer and hoped to see her. She replied that she was entirely at his disposal and asked if Wallis would be accompanying him. She already knew the answer before it arrived: Wallis would be spending the summer with the Prince. He had invited her to stay at a villa in Cannes, but the party included no Aunt Bessie to lend respectability and Mary knew there was bound to be talk. It was as if Wallis had ceased to care about her reputation, or that of her husband.

  Ernest arrived in New York on a scorching day in late July 1935, and Mary went to meet him at the pier. He walked down the gangway looking tanned from the crossing, and more relaxed than she had seen him in a while, almost as if he were arriving for a holiday.

  ‘You catch us in a heatwave,’ Mary greeted him from beneath a white parasol. ‘Blue skies and long sunny days. What a shame you must go to the office.’

  ‘I’ll try to finish early,’ he replied. ‘It’s always pleasant to stroll by the waterfront on a summer evening, watching the ferries chug past.’

  ‘Will you see Dorothea and your girls? They must be quite grown up now.’

  He opened the door of a taxicab and took her arm as she stepped up. ‘Audrey is thirteen, and I will certainly see her as often as I can, but Cynthia is a grown woman of twenty-one and I seldom hear from her.’

  Mary remembered that Cynthia was not his daughter, but the child of Dorothea’s first marriage.

  ‘I hope you will call on me whenever you have a free evening,’ she said. ‘I consider it my responsibility to ensure you do not get lonely. Would you like to start by coming for dinner this evening?’

  ‘Indeed.’ He smiled. ‘I can think of nothing I would enjoy more.’

  Mary got her cook to prepare American dishes that she knew Ernest liked: Creole shrimp, Maryland fried chicken, corn bread and grits served with greens. She invited two other couples, and the talk was of new buildings in the city. Ernest looked forward to exploring the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building, which he had only seen from the outside, and Mary said she would like to visit them too. ‘I love the curves of the art deco style; they make sharp corners seem old-fashioned.’

  When she and Ernest had a moment to themselves, the conversation turned to Wallis, and Mary asked if her life was as frenetic as it had been six months earlier when she was in London.

  ‘If anything, more so,’ Ernest replied, his face giving nothing away. ‘Peter Pan makes quite extraordinary demands and rarely allows her time on her own. I bow automatically when I come through my own front door, assuming he will be there, as he almost invariably is.’

  ‘I do worry about the British press getting hold of the story and turning you both into figures of mockery. Is Wallis not concerned about that?’

  Ernest shrugged. ‘We barely have time to discuss it. I can’t remember the last time I spent an evening with my wife. Sometimes I can see that she finds the Prince’s attentions onerous, but you and I know that she enjoys the prestige of her position, so it’s a subtle balancing act. She does get very tired of having to be constantly “switched on”.’

  Mary wanted to ask him how he felt, but Ernest’s manner did not invite personal questions. He must remember that she had tried to talk him out of pursuing Wallis all those years ago, so she would probably be the last person in whom he would confide.

  The friendship they had enjoyed in London quickly resumed. Ernest had time on his hands, and so did Mary. She fell into the habit of calling at his Battery Park office in the late afternoon so they could stroll along the esplanade with views out to the bay. In the evenings, they dined together, went to friends’ parties or to concerts, and at weekends they chose a district to visit, either to explore the city’s ever-changing architecture or to browse in an art gallery. Ernest was rather traditional in his artistic tastes, keen on Turner, Rembrandt and Gainsborough, while Mary adored the modern American art at the Whitney Museum round the corner from her apartment.

  ‘I don’t know what they are supposed to be,’ Ernest complained of abstract paintings.

  ‘Think rather of how they make you feel,’ Mary urged. ‘Oh, I do like finding a subject on which I know more than you. What a rarity!’

  She often slipped her arm through his as they walked, and knew they must appear as a married couple. She liked the feeling. Ernest never pulled away, but seemed content to stroll companionably, their stream of conversation never running dry.

  One summer evening, after they had finished dinner at her apartment, they sat on chairs pulled out to the fire escape, drinking Scotch and soda from highball glasses and trying to catch a breath of breeze. The maid was inside, clearing the dining room. The street below was bathed in the yellow glow of street lamps, and the chatter of passers-by rose through the air mixed with the sound of horns floating out of a club two doors down.

  Ernest had removed his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves, and as she spoke, Mary touched his bare arm. She was on her third Scotch and the heat plus the unaccustomed quantity of alcohol loosened her tongue.

  ‘Did you see the story in the New York Times today about Wallis and the Prince in a Cannes nightclub?’ she asked, knowing he must have. He always read the Times.

  ‘Apparently they danced a rumba,’ he said, his tone flat.

  Mary took a gulp of her drink, running the next words through her mind before saying them aloud. ‘If you want to save your marriage, I believe you are going to have to fight for her.’

  ‘How does one fight the heir to the throne of one’s country?’ he asked. There was a silence, then he said quietly: ‘Besides, I’m not entirely sure I do want to fight for her.’

  Mary got goose bumps on her arms, despite the heat. ‘Really?’ she whispered. ‘But you adore Wallis.’

  ‘Our marriage has not been entir
ely harmonious of late. We live quite separate existences. If the Prince wants to marry her, I have decided I shall not stand in his way.’

  Mary felt her heart beat faster. ‘It won’t come to that, will it? Wallis told me the Prince will have to marry someone who can provide him with an heir.’

  ‘It’s six months since you saw them together.’ He turned to face Mary. ‘In that time, Peter Pan has become more obsessive than ever. He follows her constantly, happy only when he has her full attention. I don’t think he will let her go, even if she wanted him to. It’s a rum state of affairs.’ He put his drink down and suddenly took her hand in his. ‘You and I have so much in common, Mary,’ he said, his voice full of emotion. ‘Sometimes I rather think I married the wrong girl.’

  They gazed at each other for a long moment, and Mary thought she might faint. When Ernest leant over to kiss her on the lips, she did not draw away.

  This is wrong, she thought. I must stop this. But his kisses were exquisite, irresistible.

  The maid interrupted them by coming towards the window to say, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but is it all right if I turn in?’ She slept in a small room on a lower floor.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Mary replied, her cheeks burning. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  They waited until they heard the front door close, then Ernest suggested, ‘Shall we go inside to sit in front of your fan? It must be cooler than out here.’

  It was an excuse, of course. As soon as they were side by side on the drawing-room sofa, he began to kiss her again, and she responded with all the months and years of unspent passion that had built up inside her. She realised she had never stopped loving Ernest. She had made a good fist of being his friend, but deep down he had always been the husband of her dreams.

  Their kissing inevitably led to lovemaking: first an undignified scramble on the sofa, then Ernest carried the fan to the bedroom and made love to her on her bed as the air blew over their bare skin. He was only the second man Mary had ever made love with, and she was astonished by the difference between him and Jacques. Ernest showered her with kisses on her neck, her arms, her breasts, stroked his hand up her spine over and over, combed his fingers through her hair. She felt self-conscious about the roundness of her belly and the plumpness of her thighs, but he buried his head in them and breathed her scent, sighing deeply. When he was inside her, she felt whole and complete as a woman. There were no thoughts; only sensations.

  Afterwards, as he slept with his head on her breast, she was exhilarated. She touched his hair, felt the texture, smelling the light perfume of his hair oil. It felt right, as though this was how it was always meant to be.

  Ernest hurried off at five in the morning, before her maid returned, and Mary lay awake, reliving the night and trying to justify her actions. Wallis did not seem to want Ernest any more; she had set her sights on the Prince and had neglected her husband for too long. Ernest deserved to be happy and not the object of others’ pity as they whispered about him being a cuckold. And she, Mary, deserved some happiness too. She had loved Ernest long before Wallis met him. By rights he should have been her husband all along.

  But even as she listed these self-justifications, deep down she knew that making love with her best friend’s husband was wrong. What if Ernest felt the need to purge his soul in confession? Wallis would never forgive her. Mary was the person she trusted more than any other. They were sisters who had chosen each other, and this was the worst possible betrayal.

  The following evening, she arrived at Ernest’s office at the hour he finished work, fully intending to tell him that their lapse of the previous evening must never be repeated, but he spoke first.

  ‘Last night was glorious,’ he told her, squeezing her arm against him. ‘You made me a very happy man. But I fear the consequences if Wallis were to hear of it.’

  ‘Me too,’ Mary breathed in relief.

  ‘And yet all day I could not help myself thinking about you, and hoping with all my heart that you will let me make love to you again.’

  Mary felt her insides turn to liquid and she blushed fiercely.

  ‘Would you agree to us enjoying our summer together, knowing that in the fall I must return to London, to my wife? I know it is a lot to ask.’ He stopped to look Mary square in the eye.

  ‘Yes. I agree,’ she said. She simply couldn’t help herself.

  ‘Who knows if I will still have a wife by this autumn in anything but name,’ he said, stroking her face gently. ‘It appears to me that what happens next will be in the lap of the gods.’

  Chapter 47

  New York, October 1935

  MARY COULDN’T STOP CRYING AS THE TUGS PULLED Ernest’s ship away from the pier and out into the fast-flowing East River. She stood and watched as it disappeared towards the ocean, already missing him with a great ache in her soul. They had agreed she could write care of his London office, and as soon as she got home she began a letter, telling him how empty her life was without him and how much she hoped they could be together soon. She reread it, then tore it up and wrote another, a chatty letter about the new Hemingway book she had just started, Green Hills of Africa, which was about the author’s travels on that continent.

  I do wish I could travel more, she confided. I’ve never even been to the West Coast of America, and the only European cities I know are London and Paris. One day I should love to visit Rome and Venice.

  As soon as Ernest arrived in England, he mailed her a letter several pages long that he had written on the ship. He wrote with great charm, describing the quirks of the other passengers, the food served in first class, the dolphins that followed them one day, cavorting in the ship’s wake as if showing off to entertain the passengers. There was no word of love, no hopes for the future, but he closed by saying: My warmest thanks for making the summer so joyous. You are always in my thoughts.

  Mary hugged herself. The sentiments were lovely but she yearned to hear his voice. If only she could pick up the telephone and ring him. For now, letters would have to suffice.

  Wallis wrote from London with amusing stories of life in the Prince’s circle. The Duchess of York, wife to David’s brother Bertie, had walked into the room while Wallis was doing an impression of her, and as a result had refused ever to meet her again.

  David and I call her ‘Cookie’, she wrote, because she has the common air – and the plumpness – of a member of the kitchen staff who samples too many of her own wares. She told Mary that the Prince continued to buy her jewellery, including some ‘pretty nice stones’, but that when she begged him to give her an evening’s peace from time to time, asking him to consider her position with Ernest, he turned a deaf ear. It puts me under the most enormous strain, she wrote. Ernest is an angel but he does get cross that he must do without a wife. We’ve had fearful rows about it. But David is a child, who never thinks of the consequences of his actions.

  Such sentiments pricked Mary’s conscience. She had betrayed this friend who trusted her implicitly. If only Wallis was in love with the Prince, Mary could feel there was some justification for her betrayal, some possibility of a happy outcome – but it was clear she was not. She liked the fact that he was rich as mud, she loved the expensive clothes and jewels he paid for and the generous allowance he now gave her, she liked the fact that everyone in London wanted to be her friend – but she was paying a very high price for it all.

  Just after the New Year of 1936, Ernest returned to New York for a two-week visit, and straight away he and Mary were lovers again. He spent every evening with her, slept every night in her house, woke up with her every morning. They were running the risk that her maid and cook might gossip to friends and word would get out. Mary gave them bonuses with their wages in the hope that it would encourage them to hold their tongues – but, she thought in a devil-may-care moment, hang the consequences if not. His visit was so brief that she couldn’t bear to miss out on a second of it. She loved the easy intimacy of listening to him hum while shaving, of chatting
about the newspaper headlines over breakfast, of remembering that he liked devilled kidneys and asking the cook to prepare them for him.

  ‘Come to London in the spring,’ he suggested on his departure. ‘Wallis would love to see you.’

  They looked at each other, and Mary felt stricken. Here in New York she could pretend Ernest was hers, but in London there would be no such luxury. She would not be able to kiss him when she wished, or straighten his tie or brush lint from his jacket, because that would be Wallis’s role. Would she be capable of dissembling? Would Wallis sense the charged atmosphere between them? She was very sharp about other people’s affairs.

  Just three days after Ernest left New York, Mary was wakened by her maid bringing a tray of tea with the morning paper. As soon as the drapes were opened, she saw the front-page headline: King George V had died. That meant the Prince of Wales must now become king.

  Mary was gripped with anxiety. Surely Wallis would not be able to continue her current relationship with the King of England? He would be forced to find someone younger, someone who could sit beside him as queen. And if Wallis were no longer occupied with the Prince, she would no doubt turn her attention to her long-neglected husband. It was an unmitigated disaster.

  Mary rose, pulled on her tea gown and hurried to her writing desk to compose separate letters to Wallis and Ernest. She asked Wallis to offer her condolences to the Prince, and wondered when he would ascend to the throne. She was largely ignorant of royal protocol. Would it mean they had less time together? Was Wallis sad about this? To Ernest she wrote asking, What now? Where does this leave us?

  She gave her maid the letters, asking her to mail them immediately, then she paced her apartment trying to imagine the ramifications. No matter how she looked at it, no good could come of the situation.