by Ruth Rendell
She went downstairs. Alex, who had finished the ironing and was sitting at the table reading the paper, said, ‘You look lovely.’
‘Shall we go, then?’
‘I want to stop off on the way home and buy things for dinner tonight. We’re going to have a special dinner.’
He was very romantic. He would probably go down on one knee. She remembered something. Two days before she went to America she had mislaid one of her rings. It had turned up the next day and she had no idea why she couldn’t find it before. Now she understood. Alex had ‘borrowed’ it to buy an engagement ring the same size.
On the way back from lunch it started to rain. A fine drizzle at first, then a downpour. Polly stayed in the car while Alex went into shops buying smoked salmon, a duck, salad and fruit. He bought champagne too and a bottle of dessert wine. He would drink very little. It was mostly for her.
She thought about sending Lant’s clothes back next day. Register the package perhaps? He would go to work, surely. She could take them back just as she had taken the money. Alex began the drive home. The traffic, usually light on a Sunday, was heavy because it was raining.
‘Why do you always get traffic jams when it’s wet?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘No one knows. It’s one of the mysteries of life.’
If she had taken Auntie Pauline’s book back and told her what she’d done, her life wouldn’t have changed. Everything would have been much the same. If she’d told Abby Robinson that she was the one who had stolen her watch and had offered to pay for it, what would Abby have done? Nothing much, probably. Screamed and hit her perhaps. But Abby would have calmed down and taken the money. On the other hand, if she’d not taken Tom’s Walkman and thrown it under a truck, life might have been utterly changed. They’d have stayed together. They might have married. She’d never have met Alex. So did that mean what she did was sometimes a good thing? Lying and stealing had brought her to Alex …
They were turning the corner into their street now. He had lived in this house for four years before they met. He had laid the carpets and bought the furniture as if he was making it ready for her. It would be her home for years now. Perhaps they would live there always, bring up their children there. Alex turned in at the gate and she looked up. Parked outside the house was a car the same colour as Lant’s, the same bright peacock blue. You didn’t see that shade very often.
She looked again. What she saw made her feel sick. It was Lant’s car and Lant was sitting in the driving seat.
8
Alex got out, took the shopping out of the boot, came round and opened the door on the passenger side for her. He always did that. She had to get out, though she would have liked the earth to open and close over her head. Alex said, ‘Let’s get inside before it starts raining again.’
She followed him, not looking behind her. He unlocked the front door. A hand on her shoulder made her spin round. Trevor Lant stood there on the path. Today he was wearing a bright red jacket. He looked her straight in the eye, the way she looked at people when she lied, but he didn’t speak to her. He said to Alex, ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘What did you say?’
‘I asked who the hell you are.’
‘I might ask you the same question. This is my house.’
‘And the woman with you is my girlfriend.’
Again Lant put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Thanks for bringing the money back, darling. That’s all I came for. You’ve still got some of my clothes but you can bring them back when you come over tonight.’
Polly tried to speak but she couldn’t. She was shaking all over. She knew she had changed colour, but she couldn’t tell if she had gone red or white. Lant said, ‘Who is this chap, anyway? Your ex, I suppose.’
‘Go,’ Alex said in a voice she had never heard before. ‘Go or I’ll call the police.’
Lant shrugged. ‘I’d say I don’t admire your taste in men, Polly, only you’ve got me now.’ He turned away, laughing. ‘You’ve got your dragon now. I’ll see you later.’
As the rain began again, he went back down the path, let himself out of the gate and got into his car. Everything in the street was grey but for his red jacket and his bright blue car. Alex went into the house and she stumbled in after him.
Her voice, which had gone and left her dumb, came back, a poor little thin voice. ‘I can explain.’
‘What is there to explain?’ He sounded very tired.
He went into the kitchen and began taking all the things he had bought out of the bags and putting them in the fridge. Her voice gaining strength, she said, ‘I really can explain, Alex. It’s not what you think.’
He left what he was doing and looked at her. It was a stranger’s face, one she thought she had never seen before.
‘Let me tell you what I think,’ he said. ‘I know who that man was. I recognized him, though I don’t know his name. He was the man at Heathrow with the orange bag. I think you met on the flight. Or maybe you knew each other before and arranged to meet at the airport. Anyway, you spent your time in New York with him. You saw him on Friday night, on Saturday morning and last night. I don’t know where the money comes into this or the clothes but it doesn’t matter. You can go off with him now. You won’t have to tell me any more lies.’
‘Alex, it wasn’t like that. I took his bag at Heathrow. On the way back. And I had to get it back to him …’
Her voice failed and grew hoarse. Of course he wouldn’t believe her. No one would believe her. She would have to tell him the whole thing, from the start of it when she was eight.
‘My aunt hit me in the garden, so I stole her book and cut up the pages and …’
‘Spare me this, Polly,’ he said. ‘I don’t know where your aunt comes into this or your stealing that man’s bag. It’s all lies, isn’t it? I know you tell lies. I’ve always known it but I thought you’d begun to change. I was wrong, that’s all.’
‘Alex, don’t. Don’t talk like this. That man is nothing to me. I barely know him. It’s true I went to New York with him and came back with him. I’ve been to his house too but it’s not the way you think …’
‘Was that his T-shirt I ironed?’
‘Yes, it was but I can explain …’
He didn’t wait to hear what she had to say. She heard him talking to someone on the phone in the next room but not what he was saying. Then he went upstairs. Somehow she had to make him see. If she were to phone Lant, tell him about her and Alex, how she loved Alex, tell him they were going to be married, surely then … But that wouldn’t work. Lant had come here on purpose to make Alex think he and Polly were having an affair. That was his revenge. He had seen, and now she could see, that everything she had done after stealing his case, made it look as if they were lovers. Her trips to his house, the lies she told, his clothes that she still had, the truth she had to tell, that he and she had gone to New York together and come back on the same flight. Could he somehow have followed her when she put the money through his door and had seen Alex waiting for her on the step?
Upstairs, Alex was in their bedroom, putting things into a case. She thought of how many times she had seen this scene in a film. The person who was leaving packing a case. The one who was left watching him do it. She felt cold in the warm room and as sick as she had when she first opened Lant’s case.
‘I’m going to my sister’s,’ Alex said. ‘I just phoned her.’
‘Alex, are you saying you’re leaving me?’
‘You’ve left me, haven’t you?’
‘Of course I haven’t. I told you, this is all a stupid mistake.’
‘You haven’t had money from this man? You haven’t got some of his clothes? You don’t know where he lives?’
‘Yes to all that, but I can explain …’
‘I know,’ he said, ‘that what you’re going to say will be a lie. So don’t say it. At least don’t make a fool of yourself now. Not when we’re parting.’ He closed the case.
Polly to
ok hold of him by the arm. She held on to him with both hands as if she could keep him with her by force. ‘Don’t say that, please don’t. I can explain if you’ll let me.’
‘Let me go, Polly. We’re better apart. We’ve been happy in this house but I don’t want to live here any more. You’ll be with him wherever it is he lives. I shall probably sell this place, but it’s too early to say …’
She was crying. She hung on to him and tried to stop him going. Gently, he pulled himself away, prised her hands off him. She fell on the bed and sobbed. Alex went down the stairs and she heard the front door close.
9
How could he do this to me? she asked herself as she lay there. How could he? I explained. I explained as much as he’d let me. He wouldn’t listen. At any rate, Trevor Lant had a reason for doing what he did. He wanted revenge on me because I took his money. Giving it back wasn’t enough for him. He wanted revenge and I can understand that. I know all about revenge. But Alex …
He had been totally unreasonable. She had told him she could explain and she had tried to but he wouldn’t listen. He had believed Lant but not her. Just because she sometimes told lies. Everyone told lies – except him. She hadn’t asked him to have such high standards for her. Who was he to judge her? Who was he to break up her whole world in ten minutes?
That morning he had been going to ask her to marry him. He would have bought the ring. She got up from the bed and looked out of the window. He had taken the car. It was his car, but how did he think she was to get around? It was cruel what he had done and she hated him for it.
An idea came to her and she moved across to ‘his’ chest of drawers. Well, all the furniture was his, but this was the chest he kept his own things in. She opened one drawer after another. His clothes were in them, socks, ties, sweaters, all but the bottom drawer which he had emptied when he packed. She tried the bedside cabinet on his side. A book, an old wallet, a watch he never wore. He hadn’t taken any of his suits and only one jacket. She went through the pockets of his raincoat, his leather jacket. All the pockets were empty except for one in his overcoat. There was a jeweller’s box in there, a little square box of red velvet.
She lifted its lid. The ring was inside. It was made of gold with a single large square-cut diamond. He knew her size so it would fit. It did and she slipped it on. The light caught the diamond and made a rainbow on the wall. She would never have the right to wear it now. He would come back for the rest of his clothes when he knew she’d be at work, take the ring away and give it to some other woman. Wherever he went to live he would need his furniture, so he would take that too. All the love she had had for him turned to hate.
She would have liked to have a big van come round. The men in it would take out all his tables and chairs and glass and china and put it in the van. They would take it somewhere, it didn’t matter where, and she would smash it all up. There was no van and no men. She was on her own but she could still do it.
She went downstairs and into the living room. With one movement of her arm, she swept all the ornaments off a shelf. Glass broke and china and the leg came off a wooden horse. He had broken up her world and she would break up his. It would be the biggest destruction she had ever done. She picked up the CD player and hurled it against the wall, pulled the CDs out of their sleeves and bent them in two. The TV screen was tough but it broke the second time she kicked it. The glass in the pictures cracked when she stamped on them. She pulled his books from the shelves and tore off their covers.
At first it seemed there wasn’t much she could do to his furniture, but she fetched a sharp carving knife from the kitchen and slashed at the chair covers, scored grooves in the wood, stabbed at cushions and let their stuffing out. The curtains hung in ribbons when she had used the kitchen scissors on them. After that she ran about the house, the knife in her hand, slashing at everything she came upon. She pulled open the drawer of the drinks cabinet, poured vodka down her throat, smashed the necks of red wine bottles against the fridge and the oven, poured the wine over the pale carpet.
She drank from the broken bottles too, cutting her mouth. The drink got to her at last, making her wild at first, then stupid, dizzy, flat on the floor among the mess. She lay there, unconscious, her arms stretched out and the diamond on her finger winking in the dying light.
The Long Corridor of Time
On the evening of their first day, when they had hung their pictures and unpacked their wedding presents – tasks they hadn’t cared to entrust to her mother or to the moving men – they went for a walk in the square. They walked along the pavement in the September twilight, admiring the pale gleaming façades of the terraces which, now divided into flats, had once been the London residences of the very rich. Then, when they had completed their little tour and had examined all four sides of the square, Marion took his hand and led him toward the wilderness of trees and shrubs which formed its centre.
It was a gloomy place where only the tall trees – a plane, a walnut and a catalpa – seemed to flourish. A few attenuated rosebushes struggled for life in the shadowy corners, their wan flowers blighted with mildew. Marion put her hand on the gate in the iron railings.
‘It’s locked,’ she said.
‘Of course it is, darling. It’s a private garden for the tenants only. The head porter gave me our key just now.’
‘Do let’s go in and explore it.’
‘If you like, but there doesn’t seem much to explore.’
She hesitated, holding the key he had handed her, looking through the railings at the small patchy lawn, the stone tablet and the wooden, seat. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow will do. I am rather tired.’
He was touched, knowing how anxious she always was to please him. ‘It’s hardly the sort of garden you’ve been used to, is it?’
She smiled but said nothing.
‘Do you know darling, I feel very guilty. I’ve taken you away from the country, from your country things – your horses, the dogs – everything. And all I’ve given you is this.’
‘You didn’t take me, Geoffrey. I came of my own free will.’
‘Hmm. I wonder how much free will we really have. If you hadn’t met me, you’d be at the university now – you’d have your own friends, young people. I’m twice your age.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said seriously as they walked back to the terrace where their flat was. ‘I’ll be eighteen next week. You were twice my age when we got engaged and I was seventeen and five months. Exactly twice. I worked it out to the day.’
He smiled. The head porter came out, holding the door open for them. ‘Good night, madam. Good night, sir.’
‘Good night,’ said Geoffrey. So she had worked it out to the day. The earnest accuracy of this, a sort of futile playfulness, seemed to him entirely characteristic of the childhood she hadn’t quite left behind. Only five or six years ago perhaps she had been writing with comparable precision, inside exercise books: Marion Craig, The Mill House, Sapley, Sussex, England, Europe, The World, The Universe. And now she was his wife.
‘He called me madam,’ she said as they went up in the elevator. ‘No one ever did that before.’ With his arm round her and her head on his shoulder she said, ‘You’ll never be twice my age again, darling. That isn’t mathematically possible.’
‘I know that, my love. You’ve no idea,’ he said, laughing, ‘what a tremendous comfort that is.’
It wasn’t true, of course, that he had given her nothing but a dusty scrap of London shrubbery to compensate for the loss of The Mill House. He asked himself which of her friends, those schoolgirls who had been her bridesmaids, could expect even in five years’ time a husband who was a partner in a firm of stockbrokers, a five-room flat in nearly the smartest part of London, a car of her own parked in the square next to her husband’s Jaguar and a painting for her drawing-room wall that was almost certainly a Sisley.
And he wouldn’t stand in her way, he thought as he looked in his bedroom glass before leaving for work, scrutini
zing his dark head for those first silver hairs. She could still ride, still have parties for people her own age. And he would give her everything she wanted.
He glanced down at the fair head on the pillow. She was still asleep and on her skin lay the delicate bloom of childhood, a patina that is lighter and more evanescent than dew and is gone by twenty. He kissed her tenderly on the side of her folded lips.
‘It bothers me a bit,’ he said to Philip Sarson who came out as he was unlocking his car. ‘What is Marion going to do with herself all day? We don’t know anyone here but you.’
‘Oh, go shopping, go to the cinema,’ said Philip airily. ‘When I suggested you take the flat I thought how handy the West End would be. Besides, married women soon find their hands full.’
‘If you mean kids, we don’t mean to have any for years yet. She’s so young. God, you do talk like a Victorian sometimes.’
‘Well, it’s my period. I’m steeped in it.’
Geoffrey got into his car. ‘How’s the new book coming?’
‘Gone off to my publisher. Come round tonight and I’ll read you some bits?’
‘No, you come to see us,’ said Geoffrey, trying to sound enthusiastic. A jolly evening for Marion, he thought, a merry end to the day for an eighteen-year-old – coffee and brandy with a tired stockbroker of thirty-five and an historian of forty-five. He would ask her first thing he got back what she thought about it and if there were the least hesitancy in her manner, he would phone Philip and put him off.
‘But I’d like to see him,’ she said. ‘I love hearing about Victorian London. Stop worrying about me.’
‘I expect I shall when we’ve settled in. What did you do today?’
‘I went to Harrods and matched the stuff for the dining-room curtains and I arranged for my driving lessons. Oh, and I explored the garden.’
‘The garden? Oh, that bit of jungle in the middle of the square.’
‘Don’t be so disparaging. It’s a dear little garden. There are some lovely old trees and one of the porters told me they actually get squirrels in there. It’s been such a hot day and it was so quiet and peaceful sitting on the seat in the shade.’