Enemy From the Past

by Lilian Peake

  Patrick nodded and returned to studying the sheet of paper in front of him. Nedra said, ‘Hi,’ to Rosalind and turned her sweetest smile on to Gerry. Her scarlet earrings matched the colour of her lips and Gerry’s face matched them both.

  Even he, Rosalind thought, is succumbing to that charm. What is it that girl’s got that I … Warmth, a small voice whispered, and welcome. But they’re only skin deep, said another voice, they come from surface charm. They’re her stock in trade. She was a model, remember.

  Buying a suit for Gerry was not an easy matter. He went at first for slightly ostentatious patterns, but Rosalind, with the shop assistant’s help, eased him away to the less showy designs. By the time the suit which had pleased everyone had been wrapped and paid for, it was past the time when they should have been at their desks.

  They took a cab which Rosalind insisted on paying for, then ran laughing up the first of the two flights of stairs. Trying to reach the top before Gerry, Rosalind did not notice the broad, solid figure waiting, hands in pockets, for her arrival. Her body hit the hard wall of her husband’s chest and she stood in front of him breathless and winded, hearing Gerry coming to a stop behind her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said to Slade, ‘I didn’t see you, although you’re big enough.’ She gave him a quick grin.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I know. Sorry again,’ She smiled disarmingly.

  Slade was unmoved. ‘I’ve been trying to contact you.’

  As Gerry moved to go past, he muttered, ‘I know I’m late, too. I’ll make it up.’

  Slade answered, ‘That’s all right.’ Gerry, mouthing ‘Thank you’ to Rosalind, made a quick getaway.

  Rosalind, sobering with annoyance, snapped, ‘You can be pleasant to Gerry, but not to me. I’m just your wife!’ She swept past him and made for the second flight of stairs.

  Slade followed, and she had a strange feeling of being plunged back eight years when the younger Slade had attached himself to her like a second shadow. The sensation of present merging with past so tormented her she wanted to turn, see the illusion of that Slade behind her and say, I’m older now and I love you as well as you love me. Let me into your life and I’ll never leave you. Reality broke in and told her, ‘What’s the use? He’s older, too, and he hasn’t any love to give.’

  Pushing open her door, she snapped, ‘If you go back to your office and call me now, I’ll be here to answer, won’t I?’

  ‘Don’t try and be funny.’

  She swung round. ‘Stop talking to me like—’ She saw the hardening of his jaw and demanded, shuffling papers, ‘What did you want me for?.’

  ‘To tell you that Patrick and I might be home later than usual. We have a new client coming to see us who may be a hard nut to crack. We know the company the client represents has the money, but unless we make out a good case for ourselves and the programmers we have in mind to send on the project, we’ll lose it.’

  ‘End of message?’

  ‘Over and out,’ he said, and turned on his heel.

  That evening when the key turned in the lock, Rosalind’s heart began to pound.

  ‘He said they might be late,’ she said, ‘but here they are.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Emma, ‘go and meet your bridegroom. Open your arms and let his tired big self walk into them.’

  Rosalind hurried into the entrance hall to discover that it was Patrick arriving alone. Rosalind took breaths to steady herself and Emma, who had appeared from the kitchen, asked, ‘Where’s this girl’s husband?’

  Patrick looked a little uncomfortable and closed the front door with great care.

  ‘He’s not playing the “late at the office” routine already?’ Emma demanded, unbelieving.

  ‘Emma, I told you,’ said Rosalind, ‘Slade told me there was this difficult client he had to see.’ She looked sharply at Patrick. ‘He said you’d be there, too, so why are you here?’

  Patrick still would not meet his sister’s eyes. ‘Slade’s taken the woman out for a meal,’ he said.

  ‘Woman? He never mentioned …’

  ‘Jealous?’ her brother asked. ‘No need to be.’ He hung up his jacket on the back of the kitchen door. ‘She’s in her late forties, I’d say.’ He rolled up his shirt sleeves. ‘She won’t pay the fees Slade’s asking for one of our programmers. It’s Steve Millings. The client says his experience doesn’t match up to what will be required of him.’ He washed his hands at the sink, looking absentmindedly round for a hand towel. Emma, accustomed to hospital doctors’ vagueness in such matters, promptly gave him one. ‘Well?’ Rosalind asked. If she sounded belligerent, she couldn’t help it. She was so disappointed.

  ‘Well,’ said Patrick, handing the towel to Emma instead of replacing it on the rail, ‘Slade’s hoping the good food and wine will soften the client up. And—’ He made for the stairs.

  ‘And what?’ Rosalind called.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Oh, I nearly forgot. Slade says he should be home around ten.’

  After the evening meal, Emma sat beside Patrick on the couch. They sorted through records and played one or two, mostly classical pieces. The idea drifted into Rosalind’s mind of how Emma and Patrick got on so well. But Patrick was an easy person to understand. Unlike that enigma of a man I’ve married, she mused.

  Married? It’s as though I was single again, like it was before Slade came on the scene. Except, she thought, remembering the passion of their wedding night, for one thing …

  To Rosalind, the evening dragged. Her companions, however, were so immersed in their discussion about a certain violinist, and about the virtues and vices of the popularisation of hallowed works of musical genius, that the hours to bedtime must for them have flown.

  Emma stretched and yawned. Patrick smiled to himself and it occurred to Rosalind, with a shock, that she hadn’t seen her brother so contented since he had been married to Jeanie.

  ‘A-quick milk drink,’ said Emma, rising, ‘then I’m for bed. My goodness,’ she glanced at the clock, ‘eleven-fifteen, Rosa, and no husband? Patrick, your sister must be eaten up with worry. Yes, look at her, all white and pinched. She’s hardly spoken all evening. Where is Slade?’

  ‘I told you—with a client, a very difficult one. He—’

  Patrick pulled at the loosened neckline of his shirt, ‘he took a member of staff with him.’ Rosalind, whose heart had been sinking, began to feel happier until her brother added, ‘Our new customer liaison officer, Nedra Farmer.’

  Rosalind replied immediately, ‘Beautiful, strawberry-blonde hair, sophisticated. In fact,’ bitterly, ‘the answer to every man’s dream.’

  ‘For some, maybe,’ Patrick shrugged. ‘For myself, I like them—’ he glanced at Emma, ‘well, different.’

  As he dived up the stairs, Emma smiled brightly. She patted Rosalind’s shoulder. ‘Don’t look so miserable, Rosa. Slade will get back as soon as he can. You go up, have a shower and warm the bed for him.’

  Rosalind nodded and climbed the stairs. Keep Slade’s bed warm? Her lips displayed a maddening desire to tremble. This she stopped by telling herself fiercely. Sleep in Slade’s bed when he doesn’t want me there? When he made it more than clear that even after our marriage we would be free to go our own separate ways? Not to mention spending the third night of what should have been our honeymoon with the woman he had personally selected as a member of staff, discarding all the others without interview.

  She prepared for bed, hoping that Emma, in coming to bed herself, would not notice that Slade’s room was empty. Determined to sleep, to close her ears to the noise of a key in the lock—or the absence of it—Rosalind switched off the light and waited for sleep to come.

  Half an hour later she was still waiting. It will come, she told herself. I won’t worry or care about when or if he comes back before morning … When the creaking of the front door told her he had returned, she broke all her self-imposed rules. First she relaxed, rejoicing from the tension of waiting. Then an idea gripped her
. Switching on the light, she saw that the time was almost two o’clock.

  Swinging out of bed, she pulled on her robe, opened the door and waited until Slade had reached the top stair. If I smile, she thought, if I mentally open my arms to him…

  Surprised but cool, he saw her. Her hopes plunged. Slade asked, What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you asleep like the others?’

  She shook her head, wondering how to reply. ‘I—was worrying.’

  ‘About me? Don’t waste your time. I’m big enough and old enough to take care of myself.’

  Cynicism, she thought, even in the early hours! ‘How— how did it go?’

  ‘How did what go?’

  ‘The lady client—did she give Compro the project?’

  ‘Yes, after we had applied a considerable amount of pressure.’

  ‘ “We”, meaning you and Miss Farmer?’

  ‘Nedra and I, yes. Didn’t Patrick tell you I’d be home late?’

  Rosalind nodded, her head feeling heavy and useless, like a fading flower. ‘Was it—’ Why was tiredness making her so hazy in the head? ‘Was it worth the effort?’

  ‘Money-wise? It was. We were asking quite a sum for the services of our programmers.’

  ‘And—and—’ Was it fatigue making her shiver? ‘And socially?’

  He seemed puzzled.

  Rosalind pressed on. ‘Where Nedra was concerned. Did you—’ she moistened her lips. ‘Did the evening’s outing help you to get to know her better?’

  ‘Ah, Miss Farmer.’ His smile was broad but brief. ‘Much, much better.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Is that all you want to know? May I go now? Or,’ he looked her up and down, seeing, where the robe had fallen open, that under it she was wearing the white nightgown he had bought, ‘are you inviting me in?’

  The mockery in his voice and eyes turned her cheeks scarlet, a fact which seemed to amuse him even more. ‘Goodnight, Rosalind,’ he said, going into his bedroom.

  As the three of them arrived at the office next morning, Slade put out a hand detaining his wife. Patrick walked on, going into his room.

  ‘I want to lunch with you,’ Slade said. ‘No, not at the King’s Head. We’ll go somewhere a bit more expensive.’

  ‘Slade,’ Rosalind’s eyes lit up, ‘how nice! What time?’

  ‘Twelve-fifteen prompt. Okay?’ A smile flickered across his mouth.

  Rosalind nodded, then stood on tiptoe, kissing him fleetingly on the lips.

  ‘Break it up,’ said Duncan Varley, who was passing.

  ‘I’m just thanking my husband in advance for inviting me to lunch,’ Rosalind explained, laughing.

  Duncan consulted his watch for the date. ‘Married, let me see, three days, and pleased because you’re going to have a meal out together? Any other couple would have gone off for a couple of weeks’ honeymoon.’

  It was a reminder of the true nature of their marriage, and it took away Rosalind’s smile. Slade’s finger under her chin lifted her face. ‘Something wrong?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just that—well, it will be something to look forward to.’ Slade went into his office and called, ‘Remember to be ready on time.’

  The restaurant was up a curving flight of stairs, exclusive and, judging by the prices, as expensive as Slade had promised. The waiters spoke in heavily-accented English and were quick and sure in their movements.

  Rosalind felt pampered. The smile she gave Slade across the table was elated, expressing her inner happiness. He smiled back and when she twirled her glass by its stem, he took the glass from her and put his hand over hers. Was it to still its restless movements, or was the action motivated by some deeper feeling? She did not know, nor did she want to. All she really knew was that, for the first time since their wedding, she felt they belonged together.

  With her eyes she tried to tell him, with her smile and her appreciation of her surroundings she attempted to convey how happy his nearness was making her. They talked of work in general terms. Slade told her they must not delay too long before they looked around for a house, since they couldn’t stay with Patrick for ever. ‘You’re thinking about Patrick and Emma?’ Rosalind asked.

  Slade frowned but said, ‘Perhaps. I don’t know. No, not only about them.’

  His words puzzled her, but she said brightly, ‘Of course we must find a house of our own soon. After all, we’ve got to have somewhere to put all those wedding presents!’

  They laughed, and the waiter brought the coffee. It was while Rosalind was spooning the brown sugar crystals into her cup that Slade said, ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed the meal?’

  The spoon hovered. His tone was so much that of a host to a business guest that her skin prickled. ‘Very much, thank you. Why?’

  ‘I want to tell you something. To discuss your position as personnel officer.’

  The brown crystals spilled out, some of them falling into the coffee, some of them hitting the saucer. Her eyes were on the sugar bowl as she buried the spoon deeply in its contents. ‘What about it?’

  He rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands near his chin. ‘You remember the conversation we had a couple of days ago, at home?’

  ‘When we discussed the duties of a personnel officer and I told you about the questions I asked applicants?’ He nodded. ‘And I told you—’ her voice slowed as a thought struck her, bringing anger to her eyes, ‘I told you I’d received no formal training in personnel management? So that’s it! I’m not good enough for Compro any more. How—how could you hold against me something I said in the course of a purely private conversation? You tricked me, didn’t you, by your casual attitude into telling you——’

  ‘There was no trickery, Rosalind. You told me something I could easily have checked on, either by asking Patrick, or by looking up your personal file. It’s not only mat. It’s your whole attitude.’ Rosalind gulped a mournful of coffee. It was hot, but not as hot as her cheeks. ‘You take every opportunity of arguing with me,’ Slade went on. ‘I find myself having to justify every new idea I have, every new move I make. You still regard Compro as Patrick’s company and yours, and look on me as an interloper.’

  Rosalind shook her head, but Slade persisted, ‘Oh yes, you do. I’m sorry to be blunt, but I have to say it. In your dealings with me, you play on our relationship. Provocation is never very far away—admit it. Look how you spoke to me as you left my office this morning. “Thank you, sir, for the audience.” Would you have said that to the director of any other company for which you worked and with whom your relations were on a completely business footing?’

  She clenched her hands on her napkin, creasing its starched whiteness. ‘So what are you going to do, sack me?’ ‘Nothing so dramatic’ He drank some coffee, then lowered the cup carefully to the saucer. ‘I intend, with Patrick’s agreement, to appoint a personnel director. You will work under him.’ ‘Suppose I refuse?’

  ‘You’ll either have to find another job or live at home—’ with a spark in his eyes, ‘on my money, receiving an allowance from me.’

  ‘And being,’ she sneered, ‘that devoted wife we talked about yesterday morning.’

  ‘You talked about. You invented her, played with the image, trying to incite me with it.’

  ‘And you—’ She was going to say ‘slapped me where it hurt’ and knew that everything he had just said was correct. She did play on their relationship, she did speak to him in an intimate way …

  She looked around, returning to reality, realising where they were. The other customers were relaxed, enjoying the food. The long mirrors here and there reflected a pale, unhappy young woman who was gazing round like a trapped creature seeking an escape route.

  At a signal from Slade the waiter approached, the bill was paid. Rosalind rose, murmuring, ‘Ladies’ room,’ and made for the exit, seeing the notice indicating ‘Ladies’ powder room’ pointing in the opposite direction.

  Uncaring, she ran down the steps, throwing a ‘thank you’ over her shoulder to t
he man who had held open the door to the street, offering to call a cab. There was one standing at the kerb, the driver having just been paid by a passenger. She gave the driver her home address. As the cab drew away, she saw Slade emerge from the restaurant, look angrily after her and lift his hand impatiently to a passing taxi.

  It took some time to reach Patrick’s house. The streets were jammed with traffic, the lights seemed to be against them so often, Rosalind leaned back and closed her eyes, drained, disappointed, disillusioned. She paid the driver and added a reasonable tip, then ran up the steps leading to the front door, turned the key and entered.

  Reaching her room, she flung herself on to her bed and let the tears come. The day which had started with such promise and which was still only part way through had turned sour, like drinking vinegar after champagne. When the front door opened she could not believe it. Unless it was Emma, returning early from shopping in London?

  The footsteps mounting the stairs could belong to only one person. They were coming her way, yet she did not rise from the bed. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ The voice directed at her was angry.

  Her face half-turned. It was streaked with tears and her hair was in disorder. ‘You don’t know? You’re so thick-skinned you can’t guess?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m thick-skinned just like I used to be, years ago, when I loved you.’ Years ago when I loved you! Could he ever have uttered words that hurt more?

  She sat up, smoothing her hair. ‘W-when you said we were going out to lunch together, I w-was so happy.’ Her lips were dry and cracked. ‘I thought it was because you wanted to please me, give me a t-taste of luxury. You took me to an exclusive place—expensive you called it, and it was. And I, in my innocence, enjoyed every minute. Until,’ her eyes lifted and challenged, ‘you let me know the real reason for taking me out—to sugar the pill. To tell me you were demoting me.’

  She got up and walked round, stared out of the window, wondering dully how it was that people like Patrick and Jeanie could have been happy, now Patrick and Emma … yet happiness eluded her.