Two Loves

by Siân James

  ‘She had an abortion, you know. Did you know?’

  Molly seemed to shrink into herself. ‘No. He told me nothing. Not after I’d…’ She failed to go on. ‘Not after…’ Her mouth trembled.

  Rosamund didn’t prompt her, didn’t really want to hear any more. Pretending to be unaware of Molly’s distress, she took her hand and patted it. ‘Now try to stop worrying,’ she said. ‘Ignore the poems. Regard them as a little aberration. They’re not important.’

  ‘I tried to commit suicide,’ Molly said, ‘and he wouldn’t discuss anything with me after that. It wasn’t that I really wanted to die, but wanted to punish him.’ Her voice became harsh again. ‘I cut my wrists.’

  She unbuttoned her chiffon cuffs and showed Rosamund the jagged scars, yellowish like gristle. Rosamund felt faint. ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘You’re getting tired. I’ll come to see you again if I decide to write the book.’

  Molly thrust out her small hand at Rosamund who was almost afraid to hold it, let alone shake it. ‘Bring your son with you when you come next,’ she said.

  Lorna Drew followed her along the wide oak-panelled hall to the front door. Rosamund turned, waiting for her to speak.

  ‘I suppose she showed you the scars on her wrist,’ she said in honeyed tones. ‘Oh yes, she’d want that in your book.’

  The sun, streaming in through the coloured glass panels of the door, cast purple and vermilion patterns on her face and hands and cotton dress. “Wronged wife’s suicide bid.” She’d never let anyone forget that.’

  Rosamund tried to speak, but couldn’t. If she were at all serious about writing a book, she’d need to question Lorna Drew, but all she wanted was to get away from her.

  ‘It’s terrible to have to live with someone day after day,’ Lorna said, as though to excuse her outburst. ‘To do what you’re asked, what you’re told, day after day. With no chance of escape.’

  ‘She’s lucky to have you,’ Rosamund said.

  ‘Is she? We’re cousins, but there’s little love between us. We’re too different. And she knows, at least I think she knows, that I too was one of Anthony’s small, unimportant indiscretions. You can mention that in your book if you’d like to, Mrs Gilchrist.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Drew.’

  Rosmund walked down the curved drive and along the quiet residential road feeling as though she were in a foreign country surrounded by enemies.

  Chapter Seven

  As Rosamund was in the tube, rushing along a passage to one of the escalators, she saw a man she’d known at art school sitting there playing a violin, a cap at his side. Her stomach tightened. She was already late, but she had to make contact with him: he was the man she’d been so in love with, the one she’d broken her heart over in the first year. And now, there he was, down on his luck and looking ill and unkempt. He didn’t see her staring at him; he had his eyes tightly closed as though intolerably moved by the music. She went on gazing at him.

  Then she took a deep breath. ‘Daniel,’ she said. ‘Hello, Daniel.’ She could feel her heart thumping about in her chest.

  He opened his eyes and recognised her at once. She was delighted to find that he looked altogether healthier and less desperate with his eyes open. ‘Ah, the fair Rosamunda,’ he said, with exactly the same affectation as she remembered. He got to his feet, picking up the cap and transferring the coins to his pocket in one practised movement. ‘Come for a drink, Rosamund,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I can’t, Daniel. I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m having supper with my father and I daren’t irritate him by being late again. Can we meet another time? Tomorrow perhaps?’

  ‘Please don’t rush off. Just five minutes. Right?’

  She’d forgotten how dark and deep his eyes were. He held her close to him as they went up the escalator, so close that she could feel his ribs and the warmth of his body through his denim shirt. She’d been overawed by him in the past, too nervous to respond to him. Now he seemed gentle and vulnerable.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked her.

  ‘In the country – Gloucestershire. I’m only up for a few days. What about you? How are you doing?’

  ‘Hardly surviving – as you can see. But oh Rosamund, it’s lovely to see you again.’

  He’d been so successful at art school – the star of his year. She remembered his huge dark canvases and his enviable self-assurance. During the first weeks of her first year – his third – he’d made a great play for her, following her about, his hand on his heart, ‘Ah, the fair Rosamunda,’ and quoting poetry, Byron and Keats.

  She’d always been very nervous of him, though, always suspecting some underlying mockery in his gallantry. ‘This is what you’re working on, is it?’ he’d once said when he’d come across her in front of a small, precise painting of an urban allotment. ‘White railings and cabbages,’ he’d said. ‘How very interesting.’ So that she’d immediately wanted to set it on fire.

  One night in the run-up to Christmas, they’d met at a party. And he’d insisted that they were a couple. ‘You’re my girl,’ he’d kept whispering in her ear, so that she’d almost believed it. She’d smoked pot for the first time in an effort to feel more relaxed with him, but had only become more confused and fiightened as he’d become more and more demanding. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to have sex with him, she did, but was afraid it would mean too much to her and too little to him. She’d always been a careful, calculating person. ‘A most unattractive trait,’ she told herself fifteen years later. ‘You wanted him but didn’t think you could hold on to him, so you were afraid to take that first step.’

  After several rebuffs, he’d eventually cooled towards her. And afterwards during her entire college life, she’d avoided the extravagantly flamboyant men, keeping with the quieter, less demanding types who were satisfied with hours of talk and small favours.

  On the last day of the summer term though, the end of Daniel’s time at college, she’d become brave or desperate enough to go to his flat to try to make contact with him again.

  ‘He’s already left, dearie,’ one of his flat-mates had said, when she’d asked for him. ‘Won’t I do instead? Anything he can do, I can do better.’

  She’d looked at him blankly. ‘Could you give him a message?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Could you let him know that Rosamund was asking for him?’

  She wondered if he’d ever received that message. He certainly hadn’t responded. She remembered how sad, how bereft she’d felt, knowing that she’d lost the last chance of putting things right between them; that she wouldn’t see him again. It was something she’d buried away and almost managed to forget.

  ‘It must be fifteen years,’ she told him as they walked across the road together. ‘Or is it more? Anyway, it’s lovely to see you again.’

  They went to the nearest pub, huge and empty, and Daniel got them a beer each and then they sat close together and examined each other like two people finding the other still alive after an earthquake or a storm at sea.

  ‘Are you with someone?’ Daniel asked her, the back of his hand against her cheek.

  Her throat tightened. ‘Not now. No, I’m on my own. I had an affair with someone for almost three years, but it’s over. What about you?’

  ‘On my own. Was with someone for eight years, but she went back to America last Christmas.’

  ‘Good. I hope she stays there.’

  They smiled at each other as though something was being decided. He stroked the back of her neck. ‘You’re lovely,’ he said. ‘Oh, I was so in love with you. Thought about you for years.’

  ‘I thought about you, too. Oh hell, I’m very late, Daniel. I really must go now. But it doesn’t matter, does it? I’ve got nothing else planned. I hope we can meet again. Can we? Tomorrow?’

  He seemed to be hesitating.

  ‘Listen, you said things were going badly with you. Well, you could come home with me if you’d like to.’ She could feel herself blushin
g. ‘I mean, you could be my lodger, share my studio for a while … I mean, you said you were finding it hard to survive.’

  ‘I’d like to. Are you quite sure about it?’

  ‘Quite sure. If it would suit you.’

  They clutched each other’s hands. For a minute, perhaps two, they sat in silence, hardly breathing.

  ‘I’m a complete failure,’ Daniel said then. ‘My flat’s been repossessed, no one’s interested in my work, and now I can’t even afford a studio. To be honest, I can’t even afford paints at the moment.’

  ‘I’ve got a good studio and a nice house – very isolated, but you might like it, at least for a while. Just until you get on your feet again. When could you come? I’ve got a nine-year-old son, but I think you’d like him too.’

  ‘When are you going back?’

  ‘On Friday.’

  ‘I’ll come with you then, on Friday, if that’s all right. Just for a trial period. I’ve got nothing to pack, nothing to do.’ He looked hesitant again. ‘Will your son like me?’

  ‘I’m sure he will. He likes all the people I like.’

  ‘I’m a complete failure, but I can play cricket.’

  As he put his hand on her thigh, it was as much as she could do not to moan in response. She felt full of hope and very happy.

  * * *

  She had no worries about leaving him because they were meeting again at twelve the next day outside the National Gallery – he said that people up from the country always met outside the National Gallery.

  He put her on the tube train and they kissed through the window. ‘I’m a complete failure,’ he said, ‘but I love you, Rosamunda.’

  * * *

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late again,’ Rosamund told Dora as she walked into the kitchen. ‘I met an old friend and stayed to have a drink with him.’

  ‘Why didn’t you bring him along?’

  ‘I didn’t think of it. Anyway, I’m seeing him again tomorrow. Is there anything I can do? I’m so glad you’re not waiting for me.’

  ‘Your father was late as well, so we’ve only just got started. You can help with the salad. How was Molly?’

  ‘Not as frightening as I’d imagined. Oh, I thought I was totally on Erica’s side and against Molly, but now I want to adopt both of them. They’re two pathetic old dears who’ve had rather tragic lives.’

  ‘Open an old people’s home,’ her father said. ‘It’s certainly a paying game. Jeremy Trevis’s wife drives a Porsche these days. Old people don’t eat anything, that’s the beauty of it. Turn up the heating and have a few large tellys about the place and they sleep all day and have scrambled eggs instead of dinner.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ Dora said. ‘He’s annoyed because I’ve asked him to cook the chops … You see, I think Joss should be getting a share of Anthony’s estate. He was a rich man, wasn’t he, quite apart from his writing, and you only had the schoolhouse and a small annuity, so surely his son should inherit half of whatever Molly leaves?’

  ‘That was never mentioned,’ Rosamund said. ‘No, whatever Molly leaves will go to her son and her grandchildren.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem fair to me, does it to you, Paul?’

  ‘What is fair?’ Paul asked, turning the chops rather fussily. ‘Nothing is fair. I certainly won’t have anything to leave him or anyone else. That doesn’t seem fair either.’

  ‘I think you should take Joss to visit her. Old ladies adore children. And she’d probably think he was the image of Anthony.’

  ‘He’s not Anthony’s son,’ Rosamund said.

  Her father shook his head as though concussed. He’d recently had a small part in Casualty, and Rosamund had seen him doing something very similar then. ‘Not Anthony’s son?’ he said, enunciating each word very clearly.

  ‘Well, I never said he was. People concluded he was when we got married, but I never said so.’

  ‘Did Anthony know?’ Dora asked, brisk again.

  ‘Oh, yes. Anthony and I didn’t … you know. We didn’t…’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘No. Well, we slept together sometimes, but we didn’t have sex. Not exactly.’

  ‘No penetration,’ Dora suggested.

  ‘He was impotent,’ Paul said. ‘Well, aren’t we all, we men of a certain age.’

  ‘Not all,’ Dora said in a sweet voice. ‘Tell me, does your mother know?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve never told her, but I sometimes think she suspects it.’

  ‘And I suppose we mustn’t ask who the father was,’ Dora said.

  ‘No. He was married and not at all interested in me. And to be honest, I was even less interested in him. It was all rather sordid. Not much more than a one-night stand.’

  ‘Who was he?’ Paul asked, ignoring the way Dora was looking at him. ‘I can bloody ask, I’m her bloody father. The bastard! How old were you? Eighteen?’

  ‘Twenty-four. Oh, I don’t think you’d noticed me much since I was about eighteen, so it’s an understandable mistake. Anyway, I shouldn’t have told you. I was actually talking to Dora who has always been interested in me and in Joss.’

  ‘So has your father, love. He has a very busy life, but he’s most interested in you both.’

  ‘These chops are done,’ her father said. ‘I do hope the potatoes are ready, Dora.’

  * * *

  ‘Can you understand any of it?’ Paul asked his wife as they were getting ready for bed.

  ‘Certainly. Marriage is a matter of barter, exactly as in primitive tribes when the woman with most cattle got the man with the biggest prick. You’re handsome and urbane, I’m no beauty, but I’m ten years younger and quite terrifically smart, so we were both satisfied. Don’t you understand? Now Anthony was seventy-four and dying, Rosamund was twenty-four and pregnant. So she did quite well for herself, a lovely house and a small income. Of course if he’d lived to be ninety-four, she’d have had a tough deal. Unless she’d really loved him, which she didn’t.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Paul said, putting out the light.

  * * *

  Rosamund woke very early next morning and left the flat at eight-thirty when Dora went to work.

  She spent the morning having her hair done in a very expensive salon, so that it looked as curly and tousled as a child’s hair washed in rainwater, and buying a dress and sandals. The dress was of a gauzy material, primrose yellow with a deep burgundy hem, and the sandals were bright green. She dropped off her cream suit at a charity shop and bought some multicoloured glass beads while she was there. She arrived at the National Gallery half an hour early and sat on the steps to wait.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘I’ve had a swine of a day,’ Rosamund told Ingrid when she arrived at her flat that evening. ‘I ran into a friend in the Underground last night, we arranged to meet today and he didn’t turn up. He just didn’t turn up.’

  ‘What a shit,’ Ingrid said. ‘Bloody men. Let’s have a drink. I’ll phone for some Chinese as soon as Ben arrives. Get that down you and you’ll feel better. How was your father?’

  ‘My father? I don’t want to talk about my father. I want to talk about this friend I met. Daniel. I knew him in my first year at art school. He used to fancy me.’

  ‘Crisps? I think I’ve got some somewhere.’

  ‘He said he was in love with me, but he didn’t turn up. What can have happened to him? Oh Ingrid, he used to have such beautiful clothes and now he’s really shabby and down-at-heel. And he didn’t turn up. And I waited for him for almost five hours.’

  ‘Five hours! Just someone you happened to run into. Oh Rosamund, get with it. The world is full of men who enjoy making women suffer – and he’s obviously one of them.’

  Rosamund gave her a long, hurt look. ‘I used to be so intimidated by him, but he’s gentler now, much less sure of himself.’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t turn it into a tragedy. You met someone, but he turned out to be a wrong ’un. Just forget him.’

  ‘I st
ayed there for hours, trusting him, having complete faith in him.’

  ‘Rosamund, you’re an idiot, but please don’t cry. Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘I meant to visit Erica again tomorrow, but now I’m far too upset. I feel desperate, Ingrid. As though everything I’ve ever wanted has slipped away from me. He was so loving, so wholehearted. I can’t accept that he was only having a game with me.’

  ‘Well, perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he intended to meet you, but after sleeping on it, realised that he was taking on more than he could cope with. You’re a very intense person, Rosamund. People just aren’t used to that these days.’

  ‘I was only intense because he was. I’ve always been timid. I’ve never made the first move towards anyone. But we were so close and happy last night. It was as if all the dreams I’d had in college had come true. I had such a feeling of well-being; he was free – I mean, he wasn’t married or anything – and there seemed nothing to keep us apart. Oh Ingrid, what can I do now? How can I find him again? He’s not in any of the directories. I phoned every art gallery, but no one had his address. One or two people thought they might have heard of him, but no one had his address or telephone number.’

  ‘Has he got your address?’

  ‘No. You see, we were meant to be meeting again today. He was going to come home with me on Friday. He said he wanted to come to live with me – I mean, to share my studio. How could he have changed his mind overnight?’

  ‘But how could you expect him to leave London, the life he knows, all his friends, to follow you to the country where he knows no one? After one chance meeting? Anyway, what would your son think if you suddenly brought a man home with you? Surely you’d have to consider the effect on Joss?’

  ‘No, he’d be my lodger, that’s all. I’ve often spoken of having someone to share my studio, Joss knows that.’

  ‘Come on, if you were thinking of him only as a lodger, you wouldn’t be this upset.’

  ‘No, of course I wouldn’t. I couldn’t help hoping it would develop into something more. That Joss would warm to him, he’s very well-adjusted, he’d like Daniel, I know he would. And, yes, I also hoped Daniel would want to stay. Oh Ingrid, he said he loved me. I know you think I’m exaggerating, trying to make a chance encounter seem a miracle, but that’s what it seemed to me. I couldn’t sleep last night for the wonder of it.’