In the result, it was a spread that was waiting for them. Running her eye hurriedly over the table Mrs. Privett noted sausage rolls, three kinds of sandwich and a plate of shrimp vol-au-vent as well as mixed gateaux and a white wedding cake. But she also noted something else. Nothing on the whole buffet was home-made.
Not that there was much time for reflection, however. Chick had been put in charge of the drinks. And he was undeniably quick. They had scarcely fitted themselves inside the room when there was a loud plop. The first champagne cork had already been prised out. Then, at an hour in the day when Mrs. Privett would normally have been still tidying up the home, she found herself glass in hand preparing to drink the bride’s and bridegroom’s health.
It was Mr. Privett who proposed it. And for the second time that day, his social jauntiness amazed her. It was a side of his nature that he normally kept concealed. But there was a simple explanation. It was merely that he wanted to do his best for Mr. Bloot and not let him down in Hetty’s eyes. He was therefore deliberately arch and facetious. He referred to “the young couple”. He predicted that Hetty would be the making of Mr. Bloot and complimented them both on the snug little home that they had waiting for them. He even said that he was afraid that the front stairs might prove a bit tricky for the baby carriage. And in the result, Hetty was delighted. Simply delighted. She hadn’t known that the little man could possibly have had it in him. Mr. Privett was rather pleased, too. But not Mrs. Privett. She was remembering poor Emmie. And she could not imagine how Mr. Privett could apparently have forgotten her so completely.
The other person who did not seem to have appreciated the toast was Mr. Bloot himself. He seemed hardly to have heard it. He just stood there beside Hetty, dazed, incredulous, uncomprehending. Every time Chick handed him a glass of champagne he took it automatically. But without enthusiasm. It might just as well have been medicine that he was accepting.
Not so Mr. Privett. He took it. And he liked it. And took more of it. In consequence, he became talkative. Putting his arm round Chick’s shoulder, he confided in him.
“ ... thass why I’m so glad iss all worked out this way,” he went on. “Comfobly settled for life. He d’serves it. Iss no more than his due.”
Here he dropped his voice and taking a firmer grip on Chick’s shoulder he lowered his face until he was speaking confidentially into his listener’s ear.
“I don’t mind telling you,” he finished up, “he’s had a hard life. No home comforss. I only hope she makes him ver’ ver’ happy.”
But Mr. Privett was forgetting that Chick was Hetty’s friend, not Mr. Bloot’s. It was evident from the way in which he reacted that he didn’t give a damn for Mr. Bloot’s happiness. All that he was thinking about was Hetty. And from the way he kept glancing from one to the other he might even have been jealous. In any case, he was certainly loyal. He was also more accustomed than Mr. Privett to taking an occasional glass or two of champagne out of hours. He was not in the least garrulous. Merely a shade touchy.
“What about her?” he asked. “Doesn’t she deserve it? My God, she had a hell of a time with her first one, I can tell you. I wonder she was prepared to go through with it again ...”
They broke off because Mr. Bloot was already sidling over in their direction. He still wore a look of complete unconsciousness as though he were sleep-walking. But it was evident that somewhere behind the mask the wheels were again slowly turning.
“Don’t forget about the budgies,” he said brokenly. “It’s ... it’s not just the food. It’s company they need. Someone they can trust. Someone to ... to talk to.”
Then, as soon as the others had gone, Mr. Bloot threw his arms around Hetty. And holding her in an embrace so fierce that she cried out involuntarily, he unburdened his heart.
“You should er told me,” he said brokenly. “Ah never even guessed. Ah’ve never known anybody who was divorced before.”
3
There is always something faintly depressing about a holiday resort out of season. Bournemouth is easily one of the best. The resident population sees to that. And the hotels are the kind that keep open all the year round. But it was still cold. Undeniably cold. The little clump of pine trees at the end of the road looked pinched and frost-bitten.
In the circumstances, Mr. Bloot would not have minded if the Royal Meadway had been a little farther inland. The wind came in straight off the sea. And the hotel, protected only by a low hedge, seemed to be getting most of it. As he stood outside paying off the taxi driver, he could hear it—practically solid ozone—whistling past him to flatten itself against the uninhabited balconies and the deserted sun lounge. Even the hotel itself was not quite so warm as he had hoped. Or so airtight. Inside the lounge, the only really comfortable-looking person whom he had seen since he had left London was the receptionist. Dressed in a knitted jumper with a thick cardigan on top, she was crouched inside her small glass cubicle over a portable electric fire, drinking tea.
But she was expecting him all right. And she could not understand why he seemed to be in such a state of indecision about signing the register. With the hotel pen on its little captive chain held firmly in his hand, he just stood there doing nothing.
That was because he was still in a daze. He scarcely recognized himself. It seemed that since getting up that morning he had become someone else. The Mr. Bloot whom he knew was a widower who went quietly home every evening to bachelor apartments in Tufnell Park. Whereas this Mr. Bloot, the new one, stayed with divorced women in private suites in expensive hotels. Twice the other Mr. Bloot put the pen down and wiped his forehead.
“Forgotten your name, dear?”
It was Hetty. Tired of waiting for him by the lift, she had come over.
“Well, go on,” she said. “Put down anything you like. I don’t mind. I’m frozen.”
It was because he was being so rushed that Mr. Bloot made the silly slip of writing down his own name first. But, having started, he had to go through with it. And with a little mumble of apology he passed the pen over to her. But she ignored it.
“Just put ‘Mr. and Mrs.’ in front,” she said. “It saves paper.”
The alteration, however, was not a success. On the clean, orderly sheet of signatures it had a strangely illicit kind of look. The receptionist by now was obviously doubtful of the whole episode.
Hetty, however, was not put out. The one thing that she wanted was to get up to the suite and kick her shoes off. And because Mr. Bloot was still scratching and blotting, she picked up the key and went ahead of him. If he hadn’t hurried, he would have missed the lift altogether.
As it was, the sight of the bedroom with its twin beds was almost too much for him. He felt dizzy again. And he found it strangely embarrassing the way the porter went round switching on lights and opening cupboards as though he were going to move in along with them.
He wished that the man would go away. So, apparently, did Hetty.
“Well, why don’t you give him something?” she asked rather irritably. “How’d you like to have to carry up four suitcases?”
Even after the porter had left and the door had been shut on them, Mr. Bloot remained there, motionless.
“It’ser rum go,” he said at last. “That’s what it is. A proper teaser.”
“Whatever’s come over you?” Hetty asked.
She had gone over to the dressing-table and was carefully smoothing out her hair.
But still Mr. Bloot did not move.
“Wot was he lahk, your first?” he blurted out suddenly. “Wot was he lahk?”
“What was he like?” Hetty repeated. “He was no good. That’s what he was like.”
She paused.
“And for goodness’ sake ring down for a drink,” she told him. “This is supposed to be my honeymoon.”
Book Three
Private Affairs of a Leading Model
Chapter Thirty-one
1
Marcia did not forget. On the contrary, she remem
bered all that night. While Mr. Bulping was still with her, in fact. But when morning came she didn’t see how she could very well do anything about it. Not unless Tony came back and asked her again, that is.
And the astonishing thing was that Tony did ask her again. Long after she thought that he had forgotten. They met quite casually. Just as Marcia was coming out of the Salon. Up to that moment, the one thing that she had wanted had been to flop down somewhere. Simply to get off her feet. But at the sight of Tony, she remained standing, one hand on hip, model fashion.
“Weren’t you going to ring me, or something?” he asked.
It was quite extraordinary the effect even his voice had on her. As soon as he began speaking, she might have been back on the dance floor with the band playing somewhere away in the distance. And the gold and silver lights. And her dreary old beige dress that she had chosen specially for Mr. Preece. And all those endlessly refilled glasses of champagne.
“Was I?” she asked. “Tell me. What about?”
She lowered her eyes while she was speaking. And then raised them again. As she did so, she realized with a start that it was a mannerism that she hadn’t used for years. Not since she was a girl. A mere beginner.
What was so annoying, however, was that Tony did not seem to have noticed. Possibly hadn’t even been looking. His voice still sounded entirely casual. Matter-of-fact.
“I asked if you’d care to come along to Giselle” he told her. “Can if you like. I’m going.”
She was a little disappointed that he should put it like that. It didn’t sound as though he minded either way. But it was definitely being asked again. And that was all that really counted.
“I’d adore it,” she said.
She was using her husky voice by now. It practically came natural to her when she was tired.
“O.K.,” Tony replied. “See you at six then. I’ve got the car.”
Because it was all so rushed and sudden, Marcia was in a difficulty. It was nearly a quarter to five already. And she had nothing to wear. The dress in which she had come to Rammell’s that morning was a strictly plain black one. Not even the dress for a cocktail party. And, of course, her shoes were all wrong, too. So was her bag. And her ear-rings. If it had been anyone else but Tony, she would simply have refused. But there was something in the sheer thoughtlessness that she found rather touching. It showed how impetuous he was. How boyish.
And with another walk-through in Model Dresses at five-thirty there was no possibility of going back to the flat to change. She therefore had to do what she simply hated doing. She was forced to borrow something from stock.
The dress she chose was one of the new Italian models. With a single shoulder-strap. And just absolutely no back at all. Definitely the kind of dress that required wearing. And definitely the kind of dress that she knew that she could wear.
She stood regarding herself in one of Rammell’s tall mirrors. And really the effect was quite lovely.
“But somehow it’s not ... not me,” she was forced to confess to herself. “It ... it might be anyone.”
There was no time, however, for regrets. It was nearly ten to six by now. She had managed to find a pair of shoes that weren’t too terrible. And Furs had sent her up the familiar, over-insured mink that she always wore when she was representing Rammell’s anywhere. The fact that it was old did not matter. There is something about mink that is always reassuring. Marcia felt a warm, suffusing glow of satisfaction beginning to run through her.
“Oh, God, have you gone and changed?”
She noticed as he said it that Tony himself was looking even untidier than usual. It was something to do with his shirt. The corners of his collar did not lie down properly. And his hair was all anyhow.
“I thought you’d rather,” she told him.
“I don’t mind, if you don’t,” he replied cheerfully. “I was only afraid that you might get knocked about a bit.”
It was not until they reached the car that she understood what he meant. Then it was obvious. Up to that moment, she had somehow expected it to be Mr. Rammell’s Rolls that they would be using. Or a taxi. Anything, in fact, but this low awful red thing to which Tony was leading her. The sides were cut away sharply. And the seats were nothing more than two little rubber cushions with curved backs.
“Thank God, it isn’t raining,” Tony remarked.
This time she saw at once what he meant. The horrible little car had a mackintosh sheet that could be pulled over it. But no hood. And, even though the sides had been scooped out, it was still difficult to get into. That was because a starting handle and a spare petrol can were lying on the floor where her feet were supposed to go. Tony moved the starting handle and the petrol can. But there was nothing that he could do about the hand-brake and the gear lever. Marcia had to gather her dress round her knees so that he could even drive.
“Better look out,” Tony reminded her. “This car’s filthy.”
Because of the cold and the rush of air on her face, Marcia did not attempt to speak. When Tony asked if she would like to eat something straight away, she merely nodded. She supposed that he’d understood. But she couldn’t imagine where he was proposing to take her. He had been doubling through the smaller back streets of Soho. And now he was making for somewhere on the other side of Seven Dials. The Ivy, possibly? Or Boulestin’s? Or Rule’s? Or was it another quick way through to the Savoy?
He glanced towards her for a moment.
“Pub be all right for a sandwich?” he asked. “Get a proper meal afterwards.”
This time Marcia did not even nod. She was too frozen. She simply sat beside him, shivering inside the mink, wondering what on earth her hair was going to look like when they got there.
On the whole, of all the parts of London that she knew, she felt that Covent Garden was the one she hated most. The surrounding buildings were either wired up and empty or shuttered like a row of catacombs. And up the narrow side streets barrows had been turned over on their sides and left roughly lashed to piles of empty baskets. The whole place had the air of having been evacuated after an unsuccessful spell of street-fighting.
It was not until they were actually inside the Opera House that Marcia began to feel better. The staircase was distinctly promising. And the chandeliers had just that note of elegance that had been so conspicuously lacking outside. Scarcely like a theatre at all, in fact. More like a private mansion. The sort that can be hired for charities and things. Marcia began to feel at home.
And as she went through into the auditorium she understood why Tony should have wanted to come. In a restrained cathedrallike way it was certainly impressive. It was the size that did it. And the emptiness. As though a giant oval gasometer had been cleaned up and furnished entirely on the inside. The one thing that was puzzling was why ballet of all things should have to be conducted on Cup Final scale.
The orchestra was just arriving. The players came trooping in, whole hordes of them, through the two doors leading from somewhere underneath the stage. It was the numbers that Marcia found astonishing. The whole thing was music-making as Cecil B. de Mille might have arranged it.
But from that distance, it was all unreal somehow. It might have been a marionette band that was being assembled. Then the puppet conductor himself was brought on. And all the real people near at hand began clapping. The house lights went down. And the conductor, very expertly manipulated, gave two peremptory taps with his toy baton. Immediately, the whole puppet orchestra—ingeniously hinged violinists, woodwind players, brass and percussion—straightened up as though the concealed strings had suddenly been pulled tight. The overture had begun.
“I wonder what time it all finishes,” Marcia found herself wondering. “I forgot to ask.”
But all that really mattered was that she was beginning to get warm again. And the music was pleasant rather than otherwise. Even though she couldn’t truthfully say that she enjoyed it, it was nice being able to watch it all happening. And it was heaven, shee
r heaven, having Tony there beside her. She glanced across at him. His hand was up to his cheek. His eyes were half-closed. And on his face was an expression of sheer inward happiness. It was wonderful, seeing him as happy as all that. But, in a sense, he was too happy. Too abstracted. He seemed to have forgotten about her entirely.
The dancing itself, Marcia had to admit, was a just a teeny-weeny bit tedious. And—oh, so embarrassing. Really, those young men in sausage-skin tights. How they could do it. There must be someone who could have told them. One of the girls perhaps. They certainly looked serious enough. Not so much as a smile anywhere. Come to that, only about five out of ten for looks. And less for deportment. They all had a curious duck-like movement with their feet turned too far outwards. Marcia longed to go down on to the stage to show them just once how to walk properly. But why worry? Nobody else seemed to have noticed how much was wrong. And if you just sat there, not concentrating on anything, an agreeably anaesthetic sensation came over you. It was like taking a long hot bath without the nuisance of having to dry yourself afterwards. The only difficulty lay in being absolutely sure that you could keep awake.
“Like a drink?” Tony asked when the interval came round.
Marcia rose obediently. It was gratifying that he had even remembered that she was there. And he was actually looking at her now. That was better still. Because she could tell that he was admiring her. It was lovely to be standing there with him, and feel his admiration run all over her.
“Enjoying it?”
“Dreamy,” she answered. “Absolutely dreamy.”
But the drink, all the same, was a mistake. Because it wasn’t really a drink that these people wanted. It was talk. And such talk, too. It wasn’t enough apparently that they had just been watching all that dancing. They had to keep on about it. Go over it. Again. And again. And again.
Bond Street Story Page 28