Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  The King talked them through the whole thing, explaining the riders’ strategies, describing the degree of difficulty of each fence, and giving a short biography of the winning jockey, Fulke Walwyn.

  ‘An amateur, you know. Ex-army man from the 9th Lancers. Look at that finish! He took it by twelve lengths. I wish I’d had money on him. Odds of 10/1.’

  ‘Darling, you hardly need the money.’ Wallis patted his arm.

  Mary glanced at Ernest but he did not flinch.

  After the screening, the King asked if they would like to see some art. ‘We’ve got Rembrandt, Rubens, Van Dyck, Gainsborough . . .’ He turned to Mary. ‘What is your taste in art, Mrs Raffray?’

  She gave Ernest a quick grin. ‘I’m partial to modern American art, but I do love portraiture as well. Those Rembrandt portraits where you feel as though the subject could step out of the painting and engage you in conversation – they are sublime.’

  The King came to walk alongside her and Wallis stood on his other side, leaving Ernest trailing. ‘In that case, I must show you Rembrandt’s portrait of his mother. I’m sure you’ll like it.’

  Wallis objected: ‘David, perhaps we should leave Ernest and Mary to wander on their own, rather than give them the formal tour. I can guarantee they are trustworthy.’

  Mary felt her cheeks redden. If only she knew.

  Wallis smiled at her. ‘You weren’t thinking of slipping off with a Rembrandt under one arm, were you?’

  ‘It crossed my mind,’ Mary quipped, ‘but then I noticed those guards with rifles at the front door.’

  ‘We’ll be fine on our own,’ Ernest interrupted. ‘Don’t let us detain you.’

  Mary was relieved once they were alone. The foursome was too peculiar for words: Wallis with her forced gaiety, Ernest silent and glowering, the King seemingly oblivious to any heightened atmosphere, and herself racked with guilt.

  It felt as if they were two separate couples already, since Wallis spoke to the King with the intimacy of a wife. If Wallis and Ernest divorced and Wallis married the King, might Mary marry Ernest? Could they all be friends in future?

  Why had they been invited this weekend? Was it a test to see whether the relationships could slide gently into a new configuration that suited all concerned?

  Mary comforted herself with this thought during the remainder of the visit. Mary and Ernest; Wallis and David. Perhaps that was the way it was meant to be.

  Chapter 51

  London, April 1936

  BACK AT BRYANSTON COURT, THEY SLIPPED INTO a pattern of Wallis and Mary spending the days together – shopping, having luncheon, getting their hair done, meeting friends. Mary decided to have the King’s bolt of cloth made into a tunic and skirt, similar to Wallis’s Mainbocher outfit, as the loose shape would be flattering on her less-than-svelte figure.

  ‘I hope Mr Bocher doesn’t find out we are copying one of his designs, or I will be on the outs,’ Wallis remarked, but she was happy to lend her original to the dressmaker while they cut the pattern.

  At some point each evening Wallis slipped off to see the King, decked out in one of the magnificent necklaces or bracelets or brooches he had given her, leaving Mary to dine with Ernest. It suited Mary perfectly, because she enjoyed the company of both on their own, but found it awkward when they were in the same room.

  Mary’s fortieth birthday came around on 20 April, and it was arranged that Wallis would take her for luncheon at the Ritz, while Ernest would provide the evening entertainment. As the waiter led them to their table, Mary noticed that several diners turned to look at Wallis, and she waved in greeting to one group. She was clearly well known in London. Once they were seated, she ordered two glasses of champagne.

  ‘Such a perfect afternoon drink,’ she said. ‘You never get too high on champagne. Here’s to you, Mary. I hope you have a wonderful decade.’

  Mary was carrying a gift Wallis had given her earlier: a brown kid-leather handbag with a V-shaped tortoiseshell clasp. It made her feel sophisticated, and she kept stroking it as they chatted, enjoying the scent of new leather.

  ‘How is Ernest?’ Wallis asked. ‘Do you think he is terribly upset about the Situation?’ That had become their new shorthand.

  Mary wrinkled her nose. ‘You know Ernest: he doesn’t discuss his feelings.’

  ‘Has he not said anything to you? Nothing at all?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I guess he is leaving you to make up your mind. If you want to be with the King of England, he probably feels he can’t stop you.’

  Wallis spoke wistfully. ‘I wish he had put his foot down two years ago. Some men would have, but Ernest positively reveres the monarchy.’

  ‘And you don’t revere your king?’ Mary grinned wickedly.

  Wallis snorted while taking a sip of her champagne, and raised a napkin to her face, laughing and choking at the same time. ‘Look what you made me do!’ she giggled. ‘The bubbles went up my nose.’

  As they walked out of the hotel two hours later, there was a sound like gunfire, and bright lights flashed. Mary grabbed Wallis’s arm, afraid they were being shot at by some maniac.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Wallis told her. ‘They’re photographers. Look straight ahead and keep walking.’

  They got into a taxicab, the cameras still flashing and making loud cracking sounds.

  ‘Does that often happen?’ Mary asked, flustered. ‘How did they know you were there?’

  ‘One of the other diners must have telephoned them. It’s tedious that the papers are starting to report on my movements. “The King’s friend Mrs Simpson had luncheon at the Ritz” – that’s what it will say. Who cares?’

  ‘I always knew you would be famous for something, Wallie, but I don’t think either of us would have guessed this.’

  That evening Ernest told Mary to dress formally because he had a surprise in store. They took a taxicab across town to Covent Garden and he led her into the grand foyer of the Royal Opera House.

  ‘I hope you will enjoy the opera.’ He smiled. ‘It is a passion of mine.’

  He had reserved a box, and as they went up the grand staircase they passed Wallis’s friend Emerald Cunard, who looked from one to the other with surprise.

  ‘Wallis is busy this evening,’ Mary explained, ‘and Ernest offered to treat me since it is my birthday. I’m rather a heathen when it comes to opera, so I hope he will explain everything as we go along.’

  ‘How lovely! Do enjoy yourselves,’ Emerald gushed. Her eyes glittered above her sharp nose and port-wine lipstick.

  After they moved on, Ernest whispered to Mary behind his programme: ‘I’m not usually one for gossip, but I hear Mrs Cunard is in love with the Opera House’s director, Sir Thomas Beecham. The situation is quite hopeless as he will not leave his wife.’

  ‘Ernest!’ she mock-rebuked. ‘I shall have to revise my entire opinion of you.’

  They fell silent as soon as the orchestra struck up, lost from the first moment in the magnificent music of Puccini’s La Bohème.

  Next morning, Mary sat in her tea gown to pen notes to both Ernest and Wallis, thanking them for making her birthday so special. To Wallis she wrote that she would always treasure the handbag, which was quite the most stylish she had ever owned. How clever of you to choose one that will match virtually any outfit, and with a classic style that will never date.

  To Ernest she wrote:

  My darling, I was so full of emotion last night that I felt I would explode all over the hallowed carpets of the Opera House. Sadness for the doomed love of Rodolfo and Mimi. Elation at the sublime glory of the music. Contentment to be by your side, our arms touching. Frustration that I cannot put my arms around you and kiss you freely. Anxiety at the precariousness of our situation. Worry that at any moment Wallis will guess how much I love you and long for you to be mine. But despite all this, I can think of no better way to celebrate my birthday. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for making it such a memorable occasion. Yours always, Mary.<
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  She addressed one envelope to Ernest at his office and the other to Wallis at Fort Belvedere, where she was spending the next two days. Then she stopped and looked at the two envelopes for a moment, as an idea came into her head. She couldn’t, could she? Her stomach clenched tight as a fist, and she could hear the blood coursing round her brain. It was the impulse of a moment. Wicked. Wrong.

  And yet perhaps it would work. Perhaps it would resolve the terrible impasse in which the four of them found themselves.

  She put the letter to Ernest into the Fort Belvedere envelope and the letter to Wallis in the other. Then, before she could change her mind, she called the maid and asked her to mail them as quickly as possible.

  Chapter 52

  Brighton, 15 December 1997

  RACHEL TRIED TO RING ALEX WHEN SHE WOKE ON Monday morning but got his answer machine, so she assumed he was on the plane to Paris. It was hard not having spoken to him since their argument on Saturday, not having had a chance to make peace, but she was buoyed by her confessional evening with Nicola. It was good to hear that Alex had been kind to his old friend in her hour of need, but it made it even more upsetting that he had not been kind to her during the same period. Maybe he thought she was strong enough and didn’t need support, but he could have shown more interest in her struggle to keep the shop afloat.

  She hoped he might try to call her, but wasn’t concerned when there was no word because she would see him that evening. She was curious to hear how the interview at Villa Windsor had gone. Was she correct in her theory that Diana had got the platinum heart bracelet there? Would the gardener tell Alex about the painting Diana had gone to fetch for Susie?

  The police called to say that Gazelle Films had acquired many of their costumes from a dealer in the East End of London, who appeared to have acquired them from someone else they were trying to track down. They asked if she would go to their set to look through all the costumes and identify which were hers. She told them she couldn’t close the shop but asked them to email the images; she could identify them that way.

  When she got back that evening, she turned on her computer. It was a rather elderly IBM, with a slow connection speed, and took over an hour to download more than fifty photographs sent from Gazelle Films. When they finally came through, she identified fourteen of the costumes as hers. She emailed her police contact to tell him and said she would be happy to come to some deal that would not halt their filming. Let them make me an offer, she wrote, thinking gleefully that it would no doubt be a good one since she had them over a barrel.

  There was still no sign of Alex. She checked flight times and found out that the last flight from Paris did not land till 11.30 p.m., so it might be well after midnight when he got home. She decided not to wait up.

  She fell asleep quickly, but something woke her at 3 a.m. and she patted the bed beside her. There was no Alex. ‘Are you back?’ she called out to the empty flat, then, getting no answer, she drifted off to sleep again.

  When Alex hadn’t turned up by nine on Tuesday morning, she began to worry. Even if he had missed the last plane the night before, he could have caught the first morning one and should have been back by now. She rang his mobile, but it was switched off and would not even let her leave a message. Her anxiety mounting, she rang his cameraman, Kenny.

  ‘Have you heard from Alex?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a word,’ he replied. ‘I was expecting him to ring and update me, but I haven’t heard since Sunday. I’ll call the rest of the team and ring you back if anyone knows anything.’

  ‘Thanks, Kenny.’ Rachel’s heart was beating faster now. This was out of character. She rang Nicola next.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Alex? He’s gone AWOL in Paris.’ She explained the circumstances.

  ‘I hope he hasn’t been in an accident.’

  Rachel could feel panic starting to take hold and wished Nicola hadn’t suggested that. ‘I doubt it. Maybe he missed the plane and his mobile has run out of charge. Is there any chance you could open the shop while I wait in for him?’

  ‘Course I will,’ Nicola agreed straight away, clearly delighted that Rachel trusted her.

  Next Rachel rang Alex’s father, reasoning that if there had been an accident, the French authorities would have contacted him as next of kin.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him all week,’ he told her. ‘He’s probably got some lead in his crazy conspiracy theory and gone off to investigate without realising everyone will be worried.’

  That reminded Rachel about the visit to Villa Windsor, which had been the reason for his journey. She booted up the computer to check Alex’s email account, and found a message from his French researcher, Pascal, setting up the meeting with the gardener, whose name was John Sturkey.

  She emailed Pascal, asking if he knew where Alex was, then stared at the screen as she waited for a reply. She had a bad feeling about this. It wasn’t like Alex to lose touch for so long. Five interminable minutes later, an email popped up from Pascal saying that Alex had not arrived for the meeting with the gardener the previous day and had not been in touch since Sunday.

  Where had he been for the last twenty-four hours? Rachel ran through all the possibilities in her head: he had been in an accident and was unconscious in hospital somewhere, either in Paris or London; he was on a delayed flight back and would arrive at any moment; he’d been attacked in Paris by one of the paparazzi he was investigating; or maybe her suspicion that he was having an affair had been right all along and she’d just got the wrong woman. Paranoia set in. Maybe he had spent the night with his mistress and was still there, planning how he was going to tell her that the wedding was off.

  He must be in Paris, she decided; if he’d missed his flight on Monday morning, he would have gone to work at the edit suite and Kenny would know. How did you report a missing person in France? She searched the Internet for the website of the British Embassy in Paris and found a number to call for anyone who was concerned about a British national.

  They answered quickly and sounded reassuringly efficient, taking down Alex’s details and promising to get back to her once they had made enquiries. This was something they dealt with every day. There were procedures.

  Rachel felt sick with nerves. She began sweeping the flat’s wooden floors, all the while going over the possible scenarios in her head. Was he injured? Would he be back in time for their wedding?

  Half an hour later, the phone rang and she rushed to it, stubbing her toe on the coffee table.

  ‘Miss Wainwright?’ a voice said. ‘I’m calling with news of Alexander Greene. I’m afraid he was arrested in Paris yesterday morning and is being held in police custody.’

  She nearly dropped the phone. That possibility had never crossed her mind. ‘Arrested? Why?’

  ‘He’s accused of stealing a piece of jewellery from the Alma Tunnel the night Princess Diana died. I’m afraid they are taking rather a dim view.’

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ That stupid heart! Why hadn’t he returned it when they went to the police station the day after the crash? She should have listened to her instincts; she’d known it would cause trouble.

  ‘We’ll make sure he has legal representation and will be in touch when there is any further news.’

  Rachel made her decision in an instant. ‘I’m coming to Paris. Where is he being held?’

  The consular official tried to talk her out of it, saying she wouldn’t be allowed to see him and she should let the legal process run its course.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she said firmly. ‘Please will you give me the address?’

  It was the Criminal Brigade headquarters, she was told, the building on quai des Orfèvres where they had been before. She went to the bedroom to pack an overnight bag, being sure to check that the platinum heart was still zipped in the pocket of her purse.

  Chapter 53

  London, 21 April 1936

  WHAT HAVE I DONE? MARY LAY CURLED ON THE BED at Bryanston Court, her mind racing,
trying to predict the repercussions of her intemperate action. Ernest must never suspect that she had switched the letters deliberately. Wallis was bound to be cross at first, but surely she would realise that the most sensible thing for all four of them was for Ernest and her to divorce? She must see that. There could be no turning back.

  It was tempting to run and hide: perhaps flee to France to visit Aunt Minnie or sail back to the States and let Wallis and Ernest sort out this mess for themselves – but that would be the coward’s route. She had to stay and defend herself if necessary. She had to remind Ernest how much better a wife she would make than Wallis.

  When he came home that evening, nothing was mentioned so it was clear the letter had not reached him in the afternoon post. Ernest had developed a taste for crime novels of late, and over dinner he recommended that Mary read the Hercule Poirot novels of Agatha Christie.

  ‘I have a formula for uncovering the murderer in the early chapters,’ he said. ‘It is usually a family member, whichever one is instantly ruled out of the enquiry because he or she has a rock-solid alibi.’

  Mary was dubious. ‘I don’t like to read about violence and bloodshed. I’m too squeamish.’

  ‘There’s no violence,’ he laughed. ‘The stories are brainteasers. They possess no literary value but I find them relaxing.’

  ‘Perhaps you can recommend one in that case, and I’ll see if I can guess the murderer.’

  The following morning, Mary was too anxious to eat breakfast. She felt sick whenever she thought of Wallis at Fort Belvedere opening her letter to Ernest and scanning the contents. Would she race straight back to Bryanston Court to confront her? Or wait until she had planned to return anyway?