Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  ‘OK. I’ll call to let your dad know you’re out.’

  ‘You told Dad about it?’ He frowned.

  ‘Yes, and he’s been sitting by the phone all day ready to fork out bail if need be. What’s more, he didn’t once say you were an idiot for hanging onto the heart.’

  ‘Really?’ Alex looked surprised but pleased. ‘Perhaps I should ring him then.’

  Rachel listened as he spoke to his dad. The tone was matter-of-fact rather than emotional, but he said thank you more than once. That was good.

  She saw him looking at the large cardboard parcel. ‘What’s that?’ he mouthed.

  ‘A painting,’ she said when he came off the phone. ‘And we have to figure out a way to get it home, so I’m glad you’re here to help.’

  ‘Do you mind if we stay tonight and go back in the morning?’ he asked. ‘I could do with a breather.’

  ‘OK,’ Rachel agreed. ‘I’ll book the tickets.’

  While Alex hummed to himself in the shower, she got the receptionist to give her the numbers of British Airways, Air France and Eurostar, and rang each of them in turn. The flights first thing in the morning were all booked up, presumably by businesspeople with early meetings. Eurostar had seats on their nine o’clock train, but it didn’t get into London till 12.30 p.m. and she remembered the trouble she’d had crossing the city the day before. There was a flight that arrived in Gatwick about the same time, so Rachel booked two seats on it.

  ‘Shall I keep the beard or lose it?’ Alex called from the bathroom.

  ‘Keep it for tonight.’ It would be interesting to make love with him looking a bit rough. ‘Lose it for the wedding, though.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  It was late evening when they staggered out, arm in arm, to the bistro Rachel had found the night before. They ordered a bottle of Bordeaux and big bowls of boeuf bourguignon, and over the meal, Rachel described her meeting with John Sturkey and what he had told her about Diana and Dodi’s visit.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Alex nodded, wolfing down his food. ‘Makes sense now.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, ‘because I told him you would pay the fee you agreed.’

  He laughed good-naturedly. ‘Do I have to pay you for conducting the interview?’

  ‘I’ll let you buy me dinner,’ she conceded.

  In answer to her questions, he described his shock on being detained at the airport then driven off in a police van.

  ‘It was very civilised,’ he said. ‘Three meals a day, a room of my own, clean sheets on the bed. It was a police holding cell rather than prison, so I was on my own the entire time except when they were questioning me. The worst bit was the first day, when I couldn’t phone you.’

  Suddenly he looked sad and vulnerable, and she knew he was remembering the cross words they’d exchanged last time they’d spoken.

  ‘What did you do to pass the time?’ He was such an active person, she couldn’t imagine him trapped in an enclosed space without his phone or computer.

  He gave a little laugh. ‘You’ll be glad to hear I’ve written my speech for the wedding.’

  ‘Good. So it wasn’t a complete waste of time.’

  He took her chin gently in his hand and squeezed her lips into a moue. ‘I did a lot of thinking as well. About what a shit I’ve been recently. About the fact that I don’t know why you put up with me. I’m sorry, Rachel. I don’t deserve you.’

  She looked into his eyes, and realised how hard it was for him to open up like this. On the surface he was confident, articulate, self-possessed; he didn’t usually let anyone see his vulnerability – not even her.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he continued, as if worried she did not believe him. ‘I cried like a baby when I heard you had come to Paris to help me. I’d thought you might send the heart by FedEx or something; I never imagined you would actually come over. Monsieur Belmont told me about your gallant attempts to lie for me as well. You are amazing.’

  Rachel clutched his wrist. ‘I’ve been awful too. You were right about me having an obnoxious, snotty attitude to the whole Diana thing.’

  ‘I know where you were coming from,’ he said. ‘The media reaction has been totally over the top. I interviewed a psychologist about the public mourning that followed the crash and he told me they’re already calling it “Diana Syndrome”. He said people have been arguing about it. Some think it was a positive change in the British national character that allowed those with repressed grief to bring it out into the open; others believe it was a kind of mass hysteria, like the Salem witch trials. I just can’t believe that we, of all people, fell out over it.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘You have to understand that us folk who work in TV are sensitive creative types, but we’re also gamblers. There’s a fair amount of money involved so the stakes are high and it makes for a stressful working environment. But next time I get obsessed with a programme to this extent, you have my full permission to shove me under a cold shower.’

  He was clearly anxious for her to understand so that there would be no remaining issues between them. Rachel thought she had never loved him more.

  Chapter 63

  Paris, 18 December 1997

  NEXT MORNING THEY WOKE EARLY AND RACHEL leaned over to kiss Alex, saying, ‘Happy wedding day, darling.’ They ate a room-service breakfast of croissants and cherry jam while getting ready to leave.

  ‘Do we have time to stop at the Alma Tunnel on the way?’ Rachel asked. She had an urge to go back there for the first time since the early hours of 31 August.

  ‘Plenty of time,’ he said. ‘It’s only an hour on the RER to the airport.’

  It was awkward because Alex was carrying the painting, while she had both of their travel bags and her handbag. They got off the Métro at Alma-Marceau station and walked to the road above the underpass, where there was still a mass of floral tributes and notes in various languages – French, English, Italian, Japanese and many more – along with poems and drawings left in Diana’s memory. Alex propped the painting against a wall and Rachel put the bags down beside it.

  ‘Do you think her death was murder?’ she asked as she read the messages. ‘What’s your conclusion?’

  ‘I just don’t know.’ He pulled up the collar of his 1940s leather flying jacket, a gift Rachel had given him from the shop. ‘There are still a lot of unanswered questions.’

  Rachel glanced at him, and something about his tone made her suspect he knew more than he was going to tell her.

  ‘That’s where I’ll have to leave it in the programme. Perhaps other facts will emerge over time.’

  Rachel peered over the parapet at the cars whizzing past into the tunnel below. Suddenly she had a flashback to the explosions of cameras around the wrecked Mercedes, and she shivered. ‘If she had died in a landmine accident, it would at least have had some meaning.’

  Alex put his arm around her. ‘Life is random. It’s the connections we make that have meaning.’

  They stood for a moment longer, then he glanced at his watch. ‘Come on. We’ve got a wedding to attend.’

  As soon as they walked into the departures terminal at Charles de Gaulle airport, Rachel knew they were in trouble. Over the tannoy, there was an announcement that mentioned ‘Gatwick’ then the words ‘retardé’ and ‘brouillard’. A moment later, it was repeated in English: their flight was delayed due to fog.

  Rachel could have kicked herself. The flights on Tuesday had been affected by fog. Why had she not considered it might be an issue today? Her heart began to beat faster.

  Alex hurried to the airline help desk, with Rachel following close behind. He spoke in French, telling the woman behind the counter that they had to get to England because they were getting married at five that afternoon.

  The woman checked her monitor and called her supervisor across. All the London airports were closed at the present time; the nearest one still open was East Midlands.

  ‘That’s Nottingham. How quickl
y could we get from Nottingham to Brighton?’ Rachel asked, feeling a clutch of panic.

  ‘It’s possible in four hours if the trains are in our favour . . .’ Alex looked dubious. ‘Or we could grab a taxi, but I think that would take longer.’

  ‘Train is our best chance.’

  They got seats on the East Midlands plane and boarded, then sat on the runway, the minutes ticking away. There was an announcement about waiting for clearance for take-off. Alex and Rachel kept recalculating.

  ‘If we get to Nottingham by one, there’s still a chance,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t have time to get changed but we could dash straight to the registry office as we are.’ He texted Kenny saying that if they didn’t make it, he should direct guests straight to the restaurant.

  Rachel looked down. Her grey wool dress was smart enough but not a patch on the Molyneux; she’d cleaned her boots as best she could and brushed down her coat, but they still looked grubby. Her palms were sweaty. She thought of all the money her parents had spent on the wedding car, the flowers, the invitations, the photographer . . .

  It was the best part of half an hour later when the plane finally nosed into the air above Paris.

  ‘Apologies for the delay,’ the captain announced over the intercom. ‘Our new arrival time at East Midlands will be one thirty.’

  ‘Sod it. We’re not getting married today.’ Alex shrugged, then called over the air hostess. ‘Could we have a bottle of champagne, please?’

  Once Rachel accepted that they couldn’t make it and the wedding wasn’t happening, she felt the tension ease, like warm syrup trickling through her veins. It wasn’t the end of the world; the sky hadn’t fallen in.

  ‘Here’s to not getting married!’ they toasted each other, to the bemusement of passengers in the seats round about.

  Chapter 64

  London, spring 1939

  IT WOULD HAVE BEEN A TIME OF PERFECT contentment for Mary as she felt the child grow in her belly had it not been for her anxiety about the steady trickle of alarming news from the Continent. Hitler’s army had annexed Austria the previous year, and had taken part of Czechoslovakia not long after. Almost every day it seemed there was more evidence of his greed for territory, and amongst their friends, all were convinced that war was coming.

  Mary tried to ignore the news, worried that her anxiety might affect their baby, but sometimes she couldn’t stop herself.

  ‘Do you think Hitler will attack London?’ she asked Ernest. ‘Will we be safe here?’

  ‘I’ll stock up on sandbags and anti-aircraft guns,’ he joked, but Mary could not raise a chuckle. How would she protect her child against bombardment from the air?

  ‘Should we move to New York?’ she asked. ‘You could run the business from there, as you did before.’

  ‘I am a reservist,’ Ernest told her, ‘since I served in the last war. Besides, shipping will be crucial for keeping the country supplied with raw materials, so I must stay and do my duty. We will find a place where you and Junior are out of harm’s way.’

  On 2 September, when he heard that Hitler’s troops had invaded Poland, Ernest decided they must leave town immediately in case German bombers made a pre-emptive strike on London. They loaded the car and drove to the home of some friends who lived near Ipswich, and that was where they were at 11.15 the following morning when Prime Minister Chamberlain made his chilling radio broadcast confirming that Britain and Germany were at war.

  Mary burst into tears, and Ernest put his arms around her. ‘We are the lucky ones,’ he said. ‘At least we don’t have a son being sent off to fight.’

  He had already arranged everything for the birth of their child. Mary was booked into a Surrey nursing home on 17 October. Ernest would stay in the hotel next door and commute to work in London each day. They had hired builders to construct an air-raid shelter under their house and planned to return once it was ready.

  But just three weeks after the start of the war, on 26 September, Mary woke in the early hours with a cramping sensation in her belly. She reached around the bump and felt wetness between her legs.

  ‘Ernest!’ she screamed.

  He switched on the light and realised that her waters had broken, soaking the mattress. Panic rose in her throat, making it impossible for her to speak, but Ernest took charge. A local doctor came and advised that he should get her to the nursing home as soon as possible. Ernest rang ahead so Mr Gilliat was pre-warned, and they set off into the night.

  All the street lights were switched off in case of German bombers, so the roads were pitch black. Signs had been painted over so they would not help enemy invaders, but fortunately Ernest knew the way. Mary lay on the back seat, propped up on cushions with a towel wedged between her legs, praying that the baby would not come before they got to the nursing home.

  Ernest spoke calmly and quietly – ‘Be strong, darling; not much further to go’ – and something about his authoritative tone made her trust him. She and the baby would be fine; he would make sure of it.

  When they arrived, Mary was taken straight to surgery and the baby was delivered soon afterwards: a healthy boy weighing five pounds eleven ounces, who looked the spitting image of his father, with tufts of golden-blonde hair, a round face and calm eyes. Mary couldn’t stop sobbing as she kissed his tiny fingers and toes.

  As soon as Ernest was allowed into the room, she said, ‘Come and meet your son.’

  He cupped his hand around the downy head, and for the first time in all the years she had known him, Mary saw the glint of tears in his eyes.

  ‘Hello, little man,’ he said, his voice tender. ‘Welcome to the world.’

  Mary and Ernest called their baby Ernest Henry Child Simpson, but he was soon known to all as Whistlebinkie, an endearment coined by Mary because he was so unbelievably small and cute.

  They hired a nanny, but Mary preferred to keep him close during the day, rocking him in his bassinet and feeding him from the bottle Nanny made up. She loved the way he gazed at her with his boss eyes and the experimental noises he made as he discovered his vocal cords.

  ‘Have you noticed how puzzled he looks when he hiccups?’ she asked Ernest. ‘It makes me laugh every time.’

  On 11 January, Whistlebinkie was christened at the Guards Chapel, wearing a long embroidered christening gown that was a Simpson family heirloom. The font was decorated with spring flowers and the baby waved his arms as if conducting an orchestra and beamed at the parson as he was sprinkled with holy water. Back home in Holland Park, Mary and Ernest entertained dozens of guests with glasses of champagne in their newly decorated drawing room, which had apricot walls, a chartreuse-green carpet and huge gold-framed mirrors.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Mary asked Georgia Sitwell. ‘I fear we may accidentally have hired a colour-blind designer.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Georgia reassured her. ‘Very . . . warm.’

  Four months into the war, without any sign of German aerial bombardment, Londoners were beginning to wonder if the danger had been exaggerated, and many of those who had left town ventured back. Life went on more or less as normal apart from the rationing of petrol, bacon, butter and sugar.

  There was one benefit to the war as far as Mary was concerned, which was that Wallis’s letters did not arrive so often. The blue envelopes with their loopy handwriting always put her in a foul mood, even before she read the contents.

  In January 1940, Wallis wrote to Ernest: We should both love to live in England again but the royal family will not see us. They refuse to allocate a suitable house for our use, so we have no choice but to remain in France for the duration.

  ‘Thank goodness!’ Mary breathed. She did not want that woman in the same country as her and her family.

  Wallis wrote that she had volunteered for the French Red Cross and was busy delivering plasma, bandages and cigarettes to hospitals in eastern France, while Peter Pan was working for the British Military Mission. She felt aggrieved that the British had not found her a role that
would use her talents and contacts, but her offer had been turned down. She added that she missed Ernest and was sad about the way things had turned out. Some day, I dream that you and I will grow old together once all this nonsense is out of the way.

  Mary ripped that letter in half and threw it in the fire. ‘This nonsense’ presumably meant their marriages to other people. She felt more secure in her position now that she had given Ernest a son and heir, but in her less confident moments she wondered if he secretly hankered after Wallis. If not, why maintain a correspondence with her?

  Most of the time she was too busy to worry. Ernest was an attentive husband and there was certainly no doubting his devotion to Whistlebinkie. Every evening when he got home from the office, he would lean over the bassinet and kiss those soft curls that smelled of soap, milk and that delicious baby fragrance, before turning to Mary and asking, ‘How was your day, dear? Shall I pour you a little tipple?’

  When spring arrived in London, announced by the dazzling yellow flowers of a forsythia bush in their garden, Mary was feeling under the weather. She had not managed to lose her baby weight, and if she walked any distance she felt giddy and sick. She was tired most of the time, often needing a catnap in the afternoon, and her breasts were sore although the milk had long since dried up.

  ‘I think you should see a doctor,’ Ernest suggested. ‘Perhaps he will prescribe a tonic.’

  Their doctor did a full examination, taking Mary’s blood pressure and drawing some blood for tests, looking in her eyes and mouth, taking her pulse and asking lots of questions.

  ‘Perhaps I should check your breasts, since you say they hurt,’ he mumbled, seeming embarrassed.

  Mary stripped off her blouse and lay back on the surgery’s daybed. The doctor unfastened her bra and began to knead her breasts. She winced when it hurt in a couple of places and he nodded as if that confirmed something.