The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  Is Robert one of those male monsters who pride themselves on being thoroughly patronizing on the subject of masculine superiority? That’s a chilling thought, but no, brilliant, rational Robert could surely never be guilty of such stupid irrational opinions. He just wanted to show me how vexed he was by my behavior.

  Yes, Robert takes what he’s pleased to call my “feminine foolishness” very, very seriously but never mind, now that I know how he feels about money I’ll be scrupulously careful, and I’ve no doubt that when we’re married we’ll never have another cross word on the subject.

  We’ve just had the most divine reconciliation. On the morning after our quarrel telegrams of repentance arrived, and the florist’s boy staggered upstairs to my front door with a lavish bouquet of flowers. Fortnum’s delivered the champagne after lunch. Finally at eight Robert swept me off to dinner and a most successful evening later culminated in a most memorable night in the bedroom. It really is remarkable how much can be achieved with the aid of orchids, champagne and a heavenly dinner at the Ritz.

  And now … is this the moment when I can finally compare Robert with Conor and dispose of the problem of comparisons once and for all? Yes, I think it is, because at last I feel I’ve got that particular difficulty solved. What bliss! At least there’s one bridge I’ve managed to cross before the wedding.

  In that brief but nerve-racking crisis which blew up immediately before Robert and I went to bed together for the first time, I told him glibly that there could be no competition between him and Conor in the bedroom, but I said this (a) because it was obvious his confidence needed boosting and (b) because I knew that if he had crowned his romantic dreams by being impotent our affair would have been finished before it had begun.

  However the awful truth remained that Robert was a competitor in a nightmarish trial of sexual prowess, and although Robert’s mind might have been in an uncharacteristic fog at the time my mind was (for once) as clear as crystal because I knew without a shadow of doubt that I was going to compare him with Conor. How could I have avoided it? The situation, in short, could easily have dissolved into disaster, but to my relief the gods decided to smile on us because Robert was very different from Conor in bed, and although I did make a comparison or two, I soon realized that comparisons were more meaningless in the circumstances than I’d dared to hope they might be. To compare Conor and Robert was like trying to compare “The Blue Danube” with the latest Paris tango; both compositions rank as musical entertainment but they appeal to the audience in completely different ways.

  Despite Robert’s Welsh background he’s an Englishman by education and temperament, and he’s very much the Englishman in bed (contrary to what scornful foreigners think, this needn’t necessarily be a disaster). For Robert passion is a sport, like cricket or rugby football, and being Robert he’s bent his will to ensure he knows how to produce a first-class performance. If Oxford University awarded blues for passion, as it does for cricket and rugger, then Robert would undoubtedly have won his blue at passion. And because passion is a sport for him and because he’s an Englishman he obeys the rules and would never dream of breaking them. Breaking the rules wouldn’t be playing the game; only damned foreigners and cads break the rules, every Englishman knows that.

  Conor was a damned foreigner and a cad. He made up all the rules as he went along and then had the most glorious time breaking every one of them in the most amusing way his limitless imagination could conceive. Robert would be appalled by such wildly disordered antics, but interestingly this doesn’t damn Robert for me. I think I enjoy him as he is first because he really is very competent and second because this rational well-ordered sportsmanship is such a novelty that I find it erotic.

  This leads me inevitably to myself. What do I truly think about physical love? I’ve been truthful about my two men and now I must put myself alongside them to complete an honest picture of my private life.

  I think I would like to record once and for all that I enjoy passion not because I was seduced at sixteen, but in spite of it. Men have such odd ideas about early seductions and seem to assume such an episode automatically converts a woman into a furnace of sexuality, but the truth is that I wasn’t in the least keen about passion at first. It raised too many appalling memories for me, and the chief among those memories was fear. I’ll never forget how much Bobby frightened me by turning into someone else. I’ve always thought the tale of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is quite the most beastly story ever invented.

  I don’t believe I exaggerate my situation if I write that Conor saved me. I was very frightened when I first went to bed with him because I thought he too might turn into an evil stranger but he didn’t; he merely became more gorgeous than ever. That was the major hurdle overcome, and eventually my cure was completed (and it was by no means an overnight miracle) because Conor cared enough about me to be patient and I cared enough about him to respond to his patience. I was so lucky not just because (as I now realize) I was born with a considerable capacity to enjoy myself in bed but because at that crucial moment of my life fate presented me with a man who was able to free that capacity from its burden of fear.

  I’ve been naughty about passion in the past. I can’t deny that, but all I can say in my own defense is that I’m not by nature promiscuous. When I was unfaithful to Conor it was for a variety of reasons but never because I merely fancied an exciting roll in the hay. I was unfaithful because he was unfaithful to me and I wanted to get even with him, or because it seemed an escape from problems I couldn’t face, or because I was so depressed that it seemed easier to say yes than to say no. The fact is I don’t think I would have been unfaithful to Conor if life with him had been less racked by ghastly crises. Conor satisfied me sexually. So does Robert. I want, I long, I yearn to be faithful to Robert. The rock-bottom truth is that I can’t stand infidelity. Such a mess, such a muddle, such hell.

  Hell makes me think of Bobby again. Do I now write down what Bobby was like in bed? Or is that aspect of the subject still absolutely verboten despite my confession to Robert? I always thought it would remain verboten for the rest of my life or at the very least until I was eighty and past passion altogether (or will I ever be past it? Horrid thought!) but maybe writing down my opinion will help, just as talking to Robert of the seduction helped. But perhaps all I need say is that after I’d first been to bed with Robert I thought, Thank God he’ll never remind me of his father. Yes, that was certainly a moment for heaving a sigh of relief. Disciplined, competent Robert … Perhaps that was when I first consciously formed the judgment that Bobby was no good in bed, although of course I had always felt that the experience with him was one which I never wished to repeat. However perhaps with other women Bobby’s different; perhaps he was too disturbed when he was with me to give an adequate performance, but one thing I know for certain: sex wasn’t a sport for him. What it was exactly God only knows, but it wasn’t a game at all.

  Enough. No more Bobby. No more Conor. I’ve just had the most wonderful night with the man I’m going to marry, and all that’s left for me to say is thank God we’re never likely to have a row about sex …

  We’ve just had the most ghastly row about sex. At least, that’s what Robert thinks the row was about. Actually although he refused to admit it we were having a row about my previous sexual experience. The stupid thing is that Robert would hate it if I were still the miserable timid woman whom Conor acquired when he married me; Robert can’t stand the incompetent or the second-rate, and he enjoys me exactly as I am. What he doesn’t enjoy—and what he can’t face at all—is the thought of how I acquired my competence.

  When I realized what the problem was I tried to allay his fears that my past adultery meant I was hopelessly promiscuous, but he cut me off. He couldn’t bear to hear me talk of other men, he couldn’t bear to hear me talk of Conor, he couldn’t bear to be reminded that I had ever loved someone else.

  He couldn’t admit that, of course. That was why the whole row took place on an
other subject: my bedroom manners. He had the nerve to say that “a woman who plays an assertive role in bed isn’t very womanly.” Honestly, if I hadn’t been so upset I would have laughed. Anyone would think from that statement that I was some fierce suffragette who bellowed orders at the top of her voice! The truth is that I’m sensitive and considerate in bed, and although I never lose sight of my own pleasure, I do my imaginative best to give a man what he wants. And the last thing Robert wants is some female who does no more than lie on her back with her legs apart—he’d be bored to death.

  This time I didn’t lose my temper and indulge in what he would have described as “a feminine tantrum.” I said politely but firmly that he might not think much of my bedroom manners but I thought still less of his if he treated an intelligent, devoted partner as if she ought to be a mere mindless receptacle for male seed—at which point he threw a tantrum by yelling, “Bloody women, bloody sex, bloody hell!” and retiring in a rage to the lavatory. I know men and women are utterly different but sometimes the little similarities of behavior make one wonder if the differences are as great as everyone says they are.

  We were soon reconciled but afterwards it hardly seemed the right moment to insist that he faced the reality of my marriage to Conor, and what now worries me is whether the right moment will ever come. It’s obvious that Conor represents a serious problem for us, but it’s equally obvious that Robert’s decided to solve the problem by locking it up at the back of his mind and refusing to speak of it. Is this a solution? No. It’s merely another example of Robert’s curious emotional naivety; he simply can’t see that before we can hope to resolve the difficulty we have to discuss it frankly together.

  The trouble with this particular difficulty is that I’m not very good at facing Conor’s memory myself at the moment. I’m too afraid that if I start thinking of him my bereavement will overwhelm me, just as it did at the funeral in Ireland, and then I shall have a nervous collapse which Robert would find an awful bore. The only way I can cope with my life at present is to keep going steadily towards my goal—marriage with Robert—and not look back. If I lose my nerve, disaster will be sure to follow, and then chaos will descend again.

  Perhaps I should be optimistic. After all, it’s a fact of life that all second marriages somehow have to adjust to the idea that previous partners existed, and in the majority at least an adjustment is made. The truth is that time will distance us both from Conor and so eventually he’s bound to seem less important.

  Yes, I’m sure that after our marriage we’ll find that darling Conor will simply fade away. …

  “Marriage!” shouted my darling Declan, looking at me as if I were the original serpent in the Garden of Eden.

  “And Pa not yet cold in his grave!” shrilled my darling Rory, who adores being dramatic and emotional.

  “Oh darlings, please don’t be upset—”

  We were at Oxmoon a week later. After a joyous reunion I had lured them up to my bedroom to give them two new watches (bought on credit from divine Harrods), and as soon as I was sure both boys were delighted I embarked on my confession. I had spent hours rehearsing my speech, and by that time I was so nervous that I could delay no longer. I was afraid sheer terror would drive me into forgetting my lines.

  “I’m sorry, Ma,” interrupted Declan, “but I can’t allow this.”

  Declan was taller than I was and already an expert in the art of intimidation; he had walked up to me and was glaring into my eyes. Amidst all my fright I was aware of thinking what an attractive young man he would be when he grew up. He had a great look of Conor, particularly around the eyes and mouth.

  “Darling, just listen!” I pleaded weakly, backing away until I could subside onto the edge of the bed. “I’m doing this for all of us!”

  “Then you’d best go on strike and do no more!”

  “She must be mad, Declan—look at her, destroyed with grief, just like Aunt Dervla said—”

  “That’s enough!” I screamed. “Be quiet, both of you!”

  “Now Ma, there’s no need to be hysterical—”

  “None at all,” said Rory, sitting down close to me on the bed and grabbing my hand for comfort.

  I put my arm around him and planted a kiss on his red hair. I felt racked by guilt, driven by the need to lavish affection on them to compensate for my behavior and beside myself with terror for the future. In short I was in my usual mess.

  “Look, Ma,” said Declan briskly, “I know you need looking after, Pa always said you did, but you don’t have to get married to be looked after. I’ll do it. I’ll make it my permanent occupation.”

  “Oh darling, that’s heavenly of you, but—”

  “Now that I’m fourteen, I don’t need to go to school anymore, I know all there is to know and anyway as I can use a gun and play poker I’m sure I’ll have no difficulty taking Pa’s place.”

  “But Declan—”

  “No, don’t worry about anything, Ma; I’ll organize your life now. We’ll have a swell apartment in Dublin, and you can turn over your income check to me every month and I’ll give you the money for housekeeping just as Pa did, and I’ll be so soft-hearted I’ll even let you smoke in the parlor. And when I eventually get married, you can come and live with us, I’ll take special care to find a girl you can get along with—”

  “Oh Declan—darling—”

  “But Ma, you can’t get married, not again, not ever, it would be so disrespectful to Pa, so disloyal—in fact how could you even think of such infidelity to the man you always swore was the Love of Your Life? No, no, you’ve got to dedicate yourself to chastity and wear black forever—and maybe now at last you can turn to the Church, just as every decent widow should, you know it was the tragedy of Pa’s life that you stayed a Protestant—”

  “Darling, please,” I said, “not religion. Not now. My nerves can’t stand it.”

  “But Ma—”

  “No, my love, you’ve been simply adorable and I’m deeply moved but now I’m afraid you must listen to me. Listen, pet, I did love Pa. You know I did. And he was without doubt the Grand Passion of My Life, just as I’ve always told you he was. But there are different kinds of love, and the man I love now I love in quite a different way. Robert’s my friend. He’s like a brother to me. I’m terribly lucky that he wants to look after me because he’s a fine man, brilliantly clever and successful, and he wants to do his very best for all of us, not just for me but for you too.”

  “I’m not living in England,” said Declan, “and I’m not living with an Englishman. It would be contrary to my principles as an Irish patriot and an insult to Pa’s memory.”

  “Robert’s a Welshman, Declan—and before you make any more of those dreadful anti-British remarks please remember that before I went to live at Oxmoon I was born in Warwickshire and that makes me English. I know darling Pa always preferred to gloss over that, but—”

  “All right, if you insist on living here I guess I’ll have to live here too to look after you, but I’m not receiving an English education. Rory, you wouldn’t go to an English school, would you?”

  “I wouldn’t mind so long as I saw Ma every day,” said Rory, “although of course I couldn’t approve.”

  “Darling Rory!” I hugged him lavishly again. “Declan, there are some very, very good Catholic schools in England, places where even Pa would have been proud to be educated. Robert’s been making inquiries at Downside which is a very famous Catholic public school—a private school, as we would say in America—”

  “I’m not letting Robert organize my life,” said Declan, “and hell, Ma, I’m not letting him organize yours either. Maybe Robert hasn’t realized I could keep you in the lap of luxury by playing poker and working for Irish republicanism—in fact maybe he’s just offered to marry you out of kindness because he thinks there’s no better fate awaiting you, but don’t worry, I’ll talk to Robert, I’ll set him straight, you just leave it all to me.”

  Are there any two people on eart
h doomed to clash as disastrously as Robert and Declan? I can see the clash coming—I’ve seen it coming from the beginning, although I was too frightened to dwell upon it—and now I’m well-nigh gibbering with terror.

  I have four days to devise some master plot that will solve the insoluble, four days before Robert arrives here for the weekend and Declan tries to sabotage our future. Can I confide in Bobby who’s being a tower of strength, winning the boys’ liking and respect and giving them exactly the kind of cheerful, friendly, sympathetic attention that they need? No, I really can’t start hatching schemes with Bobby. Robert might think we were conspiring against him and that would lead to some new frightfulness. And the awful thing is I don’t need to confide in either Bobby or Margaret because it must be as plain to them as it is to me that Robert’s not going to be able to cope with Declan.

  No, that’s not true. Robert will cope with Declan. Robert can cope with anyone. But I won’t be able to cope with the way he copes with Declan, and Declan won’t be able to cope with it either.

  Horrors.

  There’s only one thing to do: warn Robert that this is a situation which will require all his professional skill. That will appeal to his vanity in addition to putting him on his guard. And while I’m about it I may as well stop talking of “Darling Declan” and start talking about “Difficult Declan” instead.

  Oh God, how on earth are we all going to survive …

  … and so, darling, I wrote, scribbling away feverishly as I sat at the desk in the morning room, although the last thing I want to do is mention Conor I really think that you’ll understand Declan better if I tell you just a little more than you already know about the background of my marriage. The truth is Conor wasn’t exactly a restaurant owner. He was a professional gambler who had a financial stake in what he used to call a “cabaret,” meaning a drinking place where they have low entertainment downstairs and even lower entertainment upstairs—a sort of brothel-pub. Of course he kept his family well apart from all this, in fact I never even saw the cabaret (well, actually there were several of them) and neither did the boys, but they’ve grown up thinking it’s the height of manhood to play poker, so you see they’re not exactly very English in that respect …