Tell the Girl

by Sandra Howard

  We carried on in silence, but by the time we’d arrived and were signed in I was softening. She’d been honest and straight at least, and I couldn’t help feeling for her too. While many would die to be in her shoes, choosing to stay or walk away from Warren and his billions was no easy decision.

  We bought lobster rolls and glasses of iced tea, which we took to a shady table. Few people were at the Club and I was glad of the Monday quiet. As we sat looking out, I felt drained, listless in the salty humid air. The ocean was misted with a hazy glare, the breakers hypnotic as they relentlessly crashed onto the sand.

  Daisy picked at her roll and avoided my eyes. When she glanced up, I broke the silence.

  ‘Have you made up your mind yet?’ I asked, though it was pretty clear that she hadn’t. ‘It must be difficult. Proposals from billionaires have rarity value for a start, and while the pro column’s a no-brainer, it’s the cons that are harder to flush out.’

  ‘Don’t I know it! And then throw in marrying on the rebound . . .’ Daisy laughed, as though feeling a sense of release. She looked lighter and livelier in an instant. ‘And that’s from Warren’s point of view as much as my own,’ she said. ‘His ex-wife came to the restaurant where we had lunch once, Susannah, and stalked over to our table, pulled up a chair without asking, and set about making trouble. She was a real glamour-puss, the siren type, but terrifically elegant and assured with it; she slotted me into the shop-girl category, I can tell you, with very scratchy claws. I felt mauled to bits. Warren seemed struck dumb, but he soon hit back and put down the harmless old boy she was with, as if he was a comic turn. He matched Willa bitch for bitch, but then afterwards went into a decline. She had quite an effect on him.’

  That was interesting intelligence and it bore out what I thought – that Willa was far from out of his system.

  Daisy and I had a quick swim, but I needed to get going. With so much to do before leaving, ends to tie up, my professional pride was at stake. I was on a 10 p.m. flight from Kennedy airport the next night.

  ‘A couple of things, Daisy,’ I said, as we walked back. ‘Those presents, no need to keep them hidden any more. I’d relax and enjoy them, whichever way you decide. I can’t see the shame in accepting a few gifts. They weren’t the name of the game. And be sure to let me know when you finally make up your mind. Text me or call, won’t you? If you’re staying on, I wouldn’t have to come out in October, you see; I’d promised Warren to fly out to check on progress, but you’d be able to deal with all that. That’s the least of it, though. It’s your future and I care about you, of course, very much. I’d want to know.’

  The tears were streaming down Daisy’s face. She was unrestrained, wordy; self-flagellating. I couldn’t help feeling gently inclined, understanding and forgiving. Our friendship spanned the generation gap like an elastic band. It could survive a twang or two; I trusted it and knew it would hold fast.

  On the plane home I hung onto my sense of calm. Most of the other Club Class passengers were men. I could guess at the ones who played away, for they had a self-satisfied lift to their chins, gave their pink newspapers confident shakes and glanced at the legs of stewardesses, even at mine. The purer characters, men who simply wanted to get home to their wives, worked, looked at their watches and settled to sleep.

  I thought back to the sixties, times in the South of France, Manhattan, even Long Island, when I’d behaved, not exactly like Daisy, but slept around a fair bit. I’d been on a trial separation in Manhattan, living there for three months. Still, it was little excuse for going wild. Only Gil, my celebrity pick-up in London, and one other man, a friend passing through New York, had been married, though.

  There could have been another if only he’d asked me; I fell for Bobby Kennedy, although much of the attraction was that he didn’t make a pass. It was his tousled hair and seriousness that I loved. I remembered him leaving off kicking a ball around with his riotous mob of children to come and talk to me, sit with me on a wooden bench, cogitating and chewing the cud as though we were in a pub garden. It was a golden moment.

  I’d seen little more of him. After that, my times in the States were few and far between, but to read of Bobby’s violent end, some years later, had been heartrending. My brief warm acquaintanceship came vividly to mind. And recalling the horror of his killing in Los Angeles – that ghastly assassination replay, three shots, no proper security – was to think about single moments, history stopped in its tracks, and imagine what might have been. Bobby securing the nomination, taking on Nixon . . . So many thoughts of the sixties lingered on.

  Daisy’s worries about remarrying on the rebound also brought back memories. I should have had similar worries, more caution at least, which might have stopped me leaping in again with my second husband, beautiful aristocratic Max – just as Daisy had done with the loathsome-sounding Peter, who’d left her so short of funds. I hoped she wouldn’t feel pressured; she was making a lifelong decision.

  My decision had been made in the early sixties. How different things had been then, with chauvinism, casually accepted racism, handed-down prejudices, cigarettes as a way of life . . . It was pre-Women’s Lib and bra burning, and male liberty-taking was the norm.

  Did modelling and the life I’d lived then make me self-centred? I’m sure it did, but events had kept my feet on the ground. I’d had knocks in my twenties, a little violence, some heartache, but plenty of loving, too. I had been riding the crest of a turbulent, electrifying decade.

  Chapter 23

  May 1963–January 1964

  ‘You won’t forget the drink with Matt Seeley tonight, Joe? We said seven-thirty at the White Elephant.’ Joe was on his way out, due to record a radio play and cursing the early start. ‘Try not to be late, love, you’re more into Washington than me.’

  ‘Is that meant to be a dig?’

  ‘No, just a fact. You had a drink with Matt there, you’ve got more to talk about.’

  I needed Joe for protection. Matt had been calling from Washington declaring all sorts of undying feelings and I didn’t trust myself to keep my distance.

  I’d been working hard at my marriage in the months since being back, while Joe kept pulling as hard the other way. I despaired of him. He was drinking tankfuls, vodka all day, quantities of wine, brandy, whisky, and he could be quite frightening when the drink really took hold. He was fine with a party to go to, but his downers were deeper than the Jules Verne depths. I couldn’t talk to him; he swatted me away.

  It was May, but felt like February and I spent an icy day outdoors, working for Duffy, shower dodging in Hyde Park. I was a frozen block, very glad that we packed up early and I could go home to have a precious hour or two with Bella before meeting Matt.

  I changed into a black wool dress, scoop-necked and long-sleeved, not too flaunting of flesh, and was about to go when the phone rang. I almost left it to ring, as it was getting late and was sure to be Joe crying off. He’d thought a drink with Matt and me reeked of boredom, yawn, yawn. I’d picked up that much.

  It wasn’t Joe, it was my mother and I heard the stress in her voice instantly.

  ‘What’s up?’ I said, drawing in my breath, feeling fearful.

  ‘Dad’s had a heart attack – a small one, I don’t want you to be too worried. He just has to rest up for a couple of weeks – and stop eating chips!’

  She wasn’t up to light asides, close to breaking down, I felt. ‘You mustn’t worry either, Mum, promise me that? It’ll take all your energies simply to keep Dad confined to bed. It would be a bit difficult tomorrow, but I can get out of my Friday’s booking and be with you by midday. I’ll have Bella with me as Miss Hadley has the weekend off, but you must leave her to me, no picking her up and making more work for yourself. I can arrange to stay next week, too.’

  ‘No, don’t do that, it’s just lovely if you can come this weekend. It would mean a lot to Dad. And to me too, darling.’

  Miss Hadley was beside me. We’d been saying good night, and she�
��d heard it all. ‘I don’t need time off,’ she said, as I hung up, ‘I can come and lend a hand if I wouldn’t be in the way. Bella’s such a little minx now and your mother will only want to help.’

  ‘You’d be far from in the way,’ I said, immensely touched and grateful. ‘I’ll phone Mum back, if you’re really sure, then I must dash.’

  Miss Hadley and I had found a rapport. She’d stopped seeing me as flighty, had absorbed that I paid the bills and wasn’t just modelling-obsessed. I wondered if she’d taken a call or two from Joe’s debtors. He laid on the charm with her, but rather more erratically of late, and with less winsome effect.

  I drove on autopilot to Curzon Street, fretting about Dad, praying he’d be a good patient, wind down and have a holiday at last, as well as the enforced rest. I parked my Mini in a tight space outside the Club – too small for Mayfair’s Bentleys and Rolls – and hurried in. I was late, distressed, an apology on my lips – frustrated to see, as I feared, that Joe hadn’t arrived. Matt was sitting up at the bar, drinking alone just as Richard Burton had been, and must be on his second martini at least.

  ‘Sorry, Matt,’ I said breathlessly, ‘keeping you waiting like this. Don’t be too cross!’

  He climbed down from his barstool with a beaming smile, then, taking hold of my shoulders and studying me a minute, he let the smile fade. ‘Something’s wrong. Tell me. I can see it in your eyes.’

  I’d tried to mask the worry and wondered at his perception while explaining about my mother’s news. ‘It’s a small heart attack, no more than a warning call, I’m sure. Dad has a country practice and he never lets up. I’d hoped Joe would be here,’ I said, as Matt led the way to one of the tables in the bar with navy armchairs, ensuring the Burton evening stayed vivid in my mind. ‘He must have got waylaid, but I’m sure he’ll make it soon.’

  ‘I hope not. I hope he’s permanently detained. Campari and soda?’

  ‘Good memory! How are you, Matt? It’s been six months, which is hard to believe.’

  ‘Six and a half, twenty-seven weeks – I’ve been marking them off.’

  I smiled. ‘Tell me what’s going on in your life, girls, everything. And how’s Pierre?’

  ‘He’s fine, as up against it as ever. Who’d be the President’s Press Secretary! It’s why I’ve been stuck in Washington, walking up the walls. But why ask about girls? You’re the one, Susannah, you must know that by now. I’ve been out of my mind, desperate to swing getting to London to see you. I’ve tried every dodge and wheeze over the months, but no dice. God, the frustration . . .’ Edging his armchair closer, Matt covered my hand with his, fingers pressing, curling round my palm. ‘I’m passionate about you, so obsessed that it’s scary. It carves me up, seeing you in ads everywhere – Jim Beam, Chevrolet. I buy all the magazines, I’ve got a pile way high.’

  It was embarrassing, overdone, and I looked down, avoiding his eyes. Matt knew my mind was on my father; it felt a little insensitive, not the right time. His concern when I came in had been heartening, though, he’d genuinely seemed to care. It was impossible to forget about New York either, how he’d seized me with such passion in the Ferrones’ hall, kissing me with Joe only feet away, in the next room.

  Matt was fingering my hand, expecting some response. ‘Let’s talk about anything other than me now,’ I said. ‘And shall we have a bite to eat here, if you’ve no other plans? Joe can join us, as and when he shows.’ He obviously wasn’t going to, that was clear.

  I told the barman where to direct Joe and we made our way through to the restaurant. A waiter took us to a discreet back table; the place was so softly lit it was almost in darkness, but Matt was well aware of the news I’d just had and I felt I could relax.

  He asked about my childhood and I talked about my brother, my mother giving up a career as a barrister, her wartime struggles – in Malta during the siege, my father away fighting, the desperate shortage of food and me choosing just that time to be born – all the sacrifices made. ‘She’s always helped with the practice too,’ I said. ‘She’s worn out herself, and now has to cope with the shock of Dad. They’ve never taken holidays, however much I’ve tried to persuade them. Maybe when he’s a bit better . . .’

  Matt surveyed me; his foot was lightly touching mine. With his freckles and short hair, clean-cut all-American look, the sense about him of fast cars and fun, his restraint tonight was a relief and a surprise.

  ‘I’ve had an idea,’ he said, ‘and please hear me out. Remember I told you about the rich old lady in Boston who gives me the use of her cottage near Saint Paul de Vence? She won’t be there now, or in June. Take your parents. I’d stay in Cannes; you needn’t see me at all unless you want to. No strings. The cottage is gloriously peaceful, with fabulous views, no telephone, no distractions – and a great restaurant, the Colombe d’Or, just up the road. If your parents knew it was only costing the fares . . .’

  ‘I don’t know, Matt. It’s incredibly kind of you, it sounds perfect in every way, but my parents might wonder a little about a guy like you, over from America – certainly not an old family friend – making such an amazing offer out of the blue. You do see it’s potentially a little awkward.’

  I didn’t mention the fact that Mum – Dad, too, now, since Joe’s disappearance at the time of Bella’s birth – had few illusions about the rocky state of my marriage.

  ‘Can’t you say I simply want to help? I can fit in on timing, Pierre owes me.’

  ‘Thanks, Matt, it’s wonderful of you. I’ll talk to Mum this weekend and see.’ I felt terribly torn. ‘It would be great,’ I added, reaching for Matt’s hand. ‘I’ve never been to the South of France, as it happens, but this would be for my parents, their treat.’

  ‘I can’t believe they’d mind, though, if I showed you Cannes one afternoon . . .’ He gave me a sideways look.

  Three weeks later, we landed at Nice airport. Dad looked sickly, Mum, lined and drained. I’d hired a small Renault and drove away nervously on the wrong side of the road, crawling like an elderly Sunday driver with Mum reading out Matt’s directions and Dad poring over a huge map. We finally made it to the Villa Laurier-Rose.

  I’d been fairly honest with Joe, said that Matt, hearing about Dad, had told of a small villa available near St Paul de Vence. I’d asked Joe to come too, knowing he’d probably be rehearsing in Chichester and saying, truthfully, that the second bedroom at the house was extremely small. Joe wasn’t interested anyway. The opening of the new Chichester Theatre the previous year had been a success and he was pleased to be acting there again. He’d half-apologised, in his terms anyway, for not showing at the Club that evening, saying he’d had a better offer during the day. ‘I’m sure you did,’ I’d muttered sarcastically, while not forgetting my own mad moments, my rush of blood, the last time we were there.

  Matt was watching out for us, sitting on a stone wall, luxuriating in the warmth of a sunny day. The temperature was in the seventies. He greeted us, tactfully avoiding kissing me.

  It was early afternoon. We’d eaten on the plane and I urged Dad to hurry to bed and rest. ‘You’re here to take it easy, remember, that’s the whole point.’

  ‘Fuss, fuss!’ He was clearly exhausted, though, sinking down gratefully onto a cushioned bench against the wall of the veranda where we’d just come in. He stared ahead, his attention held, looking enraptured. ‘I’ve never seen a more stupendous view. It’s magical!’

  ‘Your bedroom has the same outlook,’ Matt said, ‘with more sea. And a bathroom.’

  That got Dad climbing the single flight, still marvelling, but finally stretching out on the bed. ‘This bolster pillow thing is more comfortable than it looks,’ he said.

  The other bedroom was little more than an alcove off the living room, but there was a downstairs loo. Matt showed us the kitchen, the basic provisions he’d brought. He explained about the hot water, rubbish collection, quirks of the keys – and then made us some tea.

  The covered veranda where he took the
tray had a sizable refectory table and ladder-back rush chairs, comfy basket armchairs, a cushioned bench along the wall. I could see we’d eat every meal there. The garden was terraced to cope with the terrain, tended, yet given its head; roses and peonies mingled with cottage flowers, plants tumbled over the retaining drystone walls. ‘There’s a small swimming pool that you can’t see from here,’ Matt said, ‘and a patio with sun chairs and stuff. Come, take a look.’

  ‘I’ll stay here, I think,’ my mother said. ‘I’ll pop upstairs soon to see how Dad is doing.’

  Matt beamed at her. ‘Should I perhaps run Susannah up to the village, show her the shops, the boulangerie, that sort of thing? Would you and Henry be okay for a while?’

  ‘Happy as sand boys,’ Mum assured him. ‘Off you go and explore, love,’ she said to me, ‘and no need to hurry back.’

  She rose and picked up the tea tray, only to smile helplessly when Matt was quick to take it from her. I worried about what she was thinking, whether she was disapproving at heart. She must know that young men like Matt didn’t hang around being altruistic. He didn’t give off an aura of innocence – there was nothing of the saint about him. Still, Mum seemed happy for me – or maybe she was just too concerned and preoccupied. I should be too. I felt guilty, anxious, and said a small prayer for Dad.

  ‘Those are grapefruit and mandarin trees,’ Matt said, as we walked down the garden. I was glad he didn’t take my hand. ‘And the pink oleander hedges give the villa its name. Just past that old olive tree is the best place for the view.’

  I stood looking out over a panorama of villages, church steeples and sleepy countryside with the sea in the distance, gleaming like polished silver; a haze softened the hills that framed and encircled the bay. It was the still of the afternoon, calming. Perfect peace.

  ‘I could stand here till the leaves have fallen from the trees, drinking this in.’

  ‘But I think we should go to the village.’ Matt lightly stroked my bare arm, giving me tingles. ‘And perhaps after that have a swim? Then I must get back to my hotel.’