Tell the Girl

by Sandra Howard

  ‘I should be paying for that!’ I exclaimed, shocked not to have thought of it before.

  ‘Pierre’s picking up the tab – well, the government is. I’ll scout about a bit while I’m here.’

  We set off up the winding road to St Paul de Vence. I hadn’t had a holiday since that unique, unbelievable time in California with the Romanoffs and Sinatra, though tensions with Joe had cast a shadow even then. It was nearly two years ago now.

  ‘They like it all right, don’t they?’ Matt turned with a grin. ‘It’s working out?’

  ‘It’s heaven – everything is.’

  He left the car by the roadside and we walked the last bit to the village, strolling into its medieval heart, down narrow cobbled lanes, cool and dark in shadow, illuminated where openings gave way to the incredible view. We watched a game of pétanque going on under huge plane trees in front of the Café de la Place; leathery old men in brown trousers intent on their play. A church bell was chiming, competing with the metallic clink when the heavy balls made contact – to satisfied Gallic grunts.

  ‘Yves Montand plays here with the locals,’ Matt said, ‘or brings his celebrity friends. He and Simone Signoret were married here, having met at La Colombe d’Or. You must have dinner there, if only to see the paintings – Chagall, Braque, Matisse, the Picassos – they litter the walls.’

  ‘I’ll suggest it to Mum and Dad. Would you come too, but definitely on me?’

  Matt rested his arm on my shoulder and fondled my neck under my hair. ‘I’m sure this isn’t allowed,’ he said, without removing his hand, ‘if I’m to stop you imagining ulterior motives. It’s just, in this very romantic setting . . .’

  That was all very well, yet his offer of the cottage, possibly not quite as genuinely spontaneous as I’d imagined, was a wonderful boon and Matt was persuasive. It wasn’t easy, at this stage of knowing him, to resist. ‘Time I did some shopping,’ I said, ‘and we started back.’

  ‘One kiss,’ he said in the car. ‘And am I going to be allowed to show you Cannes? A turn round Antibes, Cap-Ferrat, Juan-les-Pins – of course asking your parents along, too.’

  ‘In the hope that they don’t come?’ But he was closing in, muzzling me.

  We had a swim and Matt stayed for a drink when he mentioned Cannes and sightseeing. My parents loved the idea of a drive, but said they weren’t up to exploring in towns. ‘Say we pottered to somewhere like Antibes, had a light lunch and I dropped you back here for a nap?’ Matt suggested, which went down well. ‘I could whizz Susannah on into Cannes perhaps then for a quick mooch at the boutiques.’ Neatly done, I thought.

  I didn’t window-shop in Cannes. I caved in, gave in. It was inevitable – it could have happened in New York. Matt parked off the Croisette and we meandered; I soaked up the beauty of it all, admiring too, the splendid Belle Epoque façade of the Carlton Hotel.

  ‘It’s where I’m staying,’ Matt said. ‘Come and have a Knickerbocker Glory, or its French equivalent, on the terrace. It’s worth seeing.’

  The terrace looked out through tall palms to the beguiling Bay and the Croisette. We had a clear view, a table right by the solid, elegant balustrade; we gorged on exotic ice-cream sundaes and I said how very glamorous and swish it all was.

  ‘The interior’s even more so,’ Matt said. ‘You should see my room.’

  ‘Which you’d like me to?’ I raised an eyebrow, but I wanted him now. I worried how casual an affair would be, not Gil’s ideal blueprint, but with Joe’s remoteness I felt starved of a sense of connection. It was good to feel lusted after and adored.

  Matt leaned forward, resting an elbow on the balustrade. ‘It’s extraordinary, the human condition,’ he said. ‘I’ve survived without resorting to throwing stones at your bedroom window, without touching you all today. But right now . . .’ He caught a waiter’s eye, motioned for the chit.

  Matt’s lovemaking was frenzied, quick and explosive, passionate and very voluble. I thought of people having siestas in next-door rooms. He buried his head in my neck as he climbed down, panting and heaving, saying he felt dreadful about it. ‘I wanted to make it last, to take you on the journey . . .’ He kissed my fingers. ‘Can we call it a taster? Don’t talk about going, give me a moment or so.’

  ‘An hour, two hours, three?’ I turned to smile as he feigned shock at the slur on his manhood before falling into a deep sleep. I lay beside him in a contented daze.

  I thought about Joe. With no phone at the cottage I’d rung from Nice on arrival and again yesterday from the post office in Vence, to ask after Bella. Joe hadn’t left a number where he could be reached in Chichester as he’d promised. I was angry. Miss Hadley needed to be able to call.

  I was sad to feel so little guilt; was I so hardened and brash, so removed from the days of feeling love and devotion, a simple belief that our marriage was for life? Joe had affairs and the bottle; I had affairs too, now, and my work. But there was Bella.

  I made a decision lying beside Matt. Now, while Bella was so little, was the time for a trial separation. I could go to New York, find an apartment; see if Miss Hadley was willing to come. I’d put it to Joe when we were home. How he’d react, I had no idea.

  I slipped out of a bed that felt impersonal and transitory in the way of hotels and went to the bathroom to wash. ‘My God, where have you gone?’ Matt called out. He appeared at the door of the sumptuous bathroom looking dishevelled, freckled and nakedly keen; he dropped down on his knees, parted my legs and began doing what he’d said he’d wanted to, taking me on the journey rather beautifully.

  I was back at the Villa Laurier-Rose by seven and doubted that my parents would imagine how I’d spent the afternoon. I mentioned exploring, idling over a Knickerbocker Glory, and left it there. I’d told Matt my time was with them now, that I’d see him on our last night, at dinner at the Colombe d’Or.

  I took Mum and Dad to the village and to see the starkly simple chapel in Vence, designed by Matisse as a thank you to the nuns who’d nursed him back to health. I prayed that Dad’s own health would hold; he had a little colour and looked refreshed.

  On our last evening Mum, overwhelmed by the beauty, the food, the art, simply couldn’t thank Matt enough. Her happiness was a joy. She’d wanted to eat early to see that Dad had a decent night’s sleep before the flight and insisted they went back to the house first, by taxi so that we could linger over our wine. Matt immediately booked a room. He was lucky to get one.

  Joe slept through Bella’s breakfast-time, all the banged spoons, demanding wails and kerfuffle. I looked in on him before leaving and he turned over in bed and squinted open an eye. ‘You off? Isn’t it your birthday today, the wifey? Want to go to the Trat tonight?’

  I was impressed he’d remembered. ‘Sounds good. Thanks, darling, I’d love to.’

  I’d been back from France three weeks. Terraced hillsides in the South of France seemed light years away. Joe had been in Chichester much of the time and was only home now for three days. He’d returned Sunday, gone out Monday, ‘seeing friends’ and crept into bed at about four. I hadn’t had a chance to talk about separation.

  A birthday supper, people-spotting at Trattoria Terrazza, was hardly the time, but Joe was due back in Chichester next day. He half-turned to squint at me again, looking sunken-eyed and sickly green. ‘God, my head! It’ll take a few hairs of the dog, egg-nogs, Fernet Branca or whatever, but I’ll be the life and soul on the wifey’s night out, you’ll see.’

  But Joe wasn’t on form at the restaurant, still looking lousy. He picked up with a few glasses of vino, though, and banter with the cheery waiters in their Neapolitan fishermen’s jerseys; the Trat was his sort of in place. Mario had given us a table in Enzo Apicella’s Positano room too, where it all happened. David Bailey and Jean Shrimpton were there, David Niven and Terence Stamp – whom I knew slightly and whose looks turned me on no end. I waited till Joe was on a second bottle and our fritto misto and pollo sorpresa had been served with panache, then took a bre
ath.

  ‘This mightn’t seem the time or place, but I want to talk seriously about our future.’ Joe rolled his eyes. ‘I think we need a break from each other, a friendly trial separation. You’ve been very hard to live with, Joe, you’ve been violent at times and I worry what the drink is doing to you. If I just went away for three months . . .’

  ‘It might help.’ He yawned, which wasn’t over-encouraging. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘You want me to run round Hyde Park, lick the booze and get a job as a bank clerk.’

  ‘Not that last, but the rest sounds good. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you want to swan off to New York and make pots of lolly.’

  ‘Yes and no. I want us to be together, Joe, here, there, anywhere, but with you as a more loving, less sodden husband. Swanning off wouldn’t come into it then.’

  Joe shrugged. ‘So go, if that’s how the mood takes you. Maybe it’s not such a bad wheeze. I’ll try to shape up and sort myself out a bit in the allotted time.’

  ‘Oh, Joe, would you really?’ My eyes were moist. I blinked hard, feeling a rush of love and hope. ‘It means me taking Bella, of course, and Miss Hadley if she’ll agree; renting an apartment too, since we obviously couldn’t stay with the Ferrones.’

  Joe stared. He hadn’t factored that in. ‘No. Forget it, just forget it.’ He downed his wine.

  ‘Think how much you actually see her, love,’ I pleaded, ‘not even once a week. She’s still a baby, it really is the best time. She won’t remember when she’s three, four, five . . .’

  Joe fidgeted and turned away, attracted a waiter and ordered more wine. Facing me again he looked sullen and almost ready to cry. He gave me a cold stare. ‘I’d want to come to see her. Is that allowed?’ The wine arrived, presented with a waiterly flourish, and we both beamed. ‘Well, here’s to separation and the wifey’s birthday,’ Joe said, only slightly sardonically, when we were alone again. ‘Sorry about no present and all that . . .’

  I was smiling, crying, tears dripping noiselessly, while Joe drank quantities, rubbernecked, and called hi to a friend.

  I rented a mid-town apartment on East 48th Street from a rich Greek living in London, who fancied me a bit and was prepared to let me have it cheap. ‘It’s only free till mid-January,’ he said, ‘so you’re neatly filling a gap.’

  Miss Hadley, after initial sniffy dubiousness, was quite excited about going. ‘Fancy me,’ she said. ‘I never expected to see New York in my lifetime. My sister’s very jealous.’

  ‘You won’t know anyone at first,’ I warned, ‘and it’s a fair distance from Central Park.’

  ‘I like to walk. Will we buy the pram out there?’ It was a reminder of all I had to do.

  We settled into the apartment, glad of the friendly doorman and good living space, which was soon covered with toys. Miss Hadley was delighted when a second-hand shop yielded a British Silver Cross pram. It helped to make up for her disgust at the grime, the people pushing past without apology, the total strangers who, conversely, struck up a conversation. She loved Bloomingdale’s, couldn’t believe how fast people talked, and was fascinated by the drugstore and deli scene. She and the doorman, Herman, passed a lot of the time of day together, with much cooing over Bella on his part.

  I plunged into work. Eileen Ford had it all lined up, bookings, go-sees; I needn’t have worried. I worked with Penn on a Johnson & Johnson baby ad. Penn had booked twenty babies, and the minute one cried, he’d call out calmly, ‘Next baby, please.’ He was immune to the bedlam in the outer office, screaming infants and twenty mothers who all wanted their darlings to star.

  I called Gil and felt the old fluttering ache deep inside. His voice did it, the loving inflections, the layer of feeling behind the arsing around and casual-sex chat. He was extremely keen to do mother and baby pictures. ‘Come with Bella, this Friday evening, and bring her minder along. Then when we’re done you can put ’em in a cab and stay on a while.’

  ‘What for, Gil?’ I smiled down the phone.

  ‘The teacher’s turn. Or do I have to stand in line?’

  I wrote a long letter to Joe, begging him to think about treatment. I’d given him another small loan before leaving and knew he’d had a much larger one from an impresario fan. How he had got into so much debt was a mystery to me. Gaming clubs? Was that where he went to, so late at night?

  I called Matt and left a message with his office, giving the apartment telephone number, but he hadn’t rung in two days. I was surprised.

  He was full of apologies when he did. ‘Great to hear you! I was out of town. I can’t get to New York for a bit – you coming to Washington any time?’

  ‘The Ormsby-Gores have asked me, but not till next month. Are you here sooner?’

  ‘Possibly – I’ll call.’

  I got the message; he was winding me down. It had been all about the chase and winning through. That had been my first thought, meeting him, yet having begun to believe that he genuinely cared, my own feelings had grown stronger. It was desperately hard to take. My heart was thudding, I felt really let down and upset.

  ‘Sounds like you’re pretty busy, Matt,’ I said, cooling my tone. ‘Thanks again about the cottage, my parents had a blissful rest.’

  It hurt a lot. Like hell he’d been out of town – his office had said he was in conference with the Press Secretary. Matt clearly didn’t go in for serious relationships, not with me at least. His outpouring of passion in New York, devouring kisses, beautiful declarations on transatlantic calls, the ‘spontaneous’ offer of the cottage in France – it had all been to one end: to lay me and chalk up another scalp. He’d probably made a bet with his mate who had the apartment in New York.

  The hurt went further than pride. I’d been longing to see him, having fallen for him in the end and gone happily to bed with him in Cannes. He’d invested a lot of effort, broken me in like a horse and made me docile, but one more for his stable and nothing more. And the pleasure he’d given my parents? Whatever the opportunistic motives, he’d done some good and a kindness there, I had to hand him that. I wondered if he’d ever call; I felt physically in need of him and hated myself abjectly for it.

  Janet, my model friend, told me to give him the finger. ‘You’re separated, Susannah. You can get stuck in, join the creeps at their game. You’re on the Pill, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yep, came out with a three months’ supply,’ I said, thinking back to Gil’s wry amusement that I’d got as far as a bed in his loft with no protection. The Pill hadn’t been available then, it was a Dutch cap or relying on the man.

  I went a bit wild in Manhattan, trying to dull the hurt of Matt. It wasn’t Janet’s influence, more a souring inside, disillusion, despair at my failure to find love and trust. Men made advances non-stop. Most were married, but never let on, and I felt desperately disenchanted. Gil was a married man, true, and a flagrant womaniser, yet he was probably the most honest man I knew.

  The husband of a fashion editor at Vogue chased me as persistently as Matt; he’d be in his car outside a studio, say he was waiting for his wife, but had time to give me a lift. I’d accepted at first, though soon wised up. I was in agonies one day when his wife picked up my little red address book that I’d inadvertently left by the studio phone. She stared so long and hard at a page that I knew she’d seen her husband’s number, innocently written in once, when they’d invited me out to Long Island for a lunch party. Her pensive gaze was hard to bear. She left the book open at the page, but couldn’t mention it without admitting to snooping. I was surprised that she ever booked me again.

  I had a whacky affair with another photographer, a gorgeous six-foot-something hunk called Dale. His thatch of hair was a triumph, blond as straw from the bottle of peroxide he frequently tipped over it, and with an impressive layer of dark roots. He wasn’t married, he said, and his apartment had the bare boards and lack of furniture to back that up, but who knew? I’d lost all ability to trust.

  Dale took me away on a coup
le of working trips and his enthusiasm was catching. ‘Ace!’ he’d say, scrunching me into his side, pointing out a handsome crescent in Boston where I’d been to with Gil. ‘Ace architecture, just ace, the symmetry, the elegance!’ I adored him. ‘You’ve turned up the volume on my life,’ he said once, ‘way high!’

  He had colourful turns of phrase. ‘Never squat with your spurs on,’ was his take on watching your back, and he’d stand in his boxers in front of the television and jab at some hapless politician. ‘He’s the kinda creep who can cry out of one eye.’

  Bert Stern featured in my life, too. He was into pot and more adult fixes, but I was for the foothills and didn’t go there. He photographed me for Vogue covers. We did one with large, sunny flower heads pinned to a strapless bra, and my bare midriff held his eye. It was how we got to know each other.

  Friends from London passed through. Ludo Kennedy, the writer and broadcaster, was one. He’d heard from Joe that I was in New York, called me and we went to see Tom Courtenay in The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner. Afterwards we ate at his hotel, discussed the gritty film, Courtenay’s genius, and talked far into the night.

  We had a new Prime Minister and I said, curious, ‘I miss not seeing the British press with Alec Douglas Home taking over. I know you’re a Liberal, but what do you think?’

  ‘He was a good Foreign Secretary, at least. Of course, all bets had been on Rab Butler. It was a surprise.’

  ‘Cecil Beaton was funny about that when I worked with him before coming here,’ I said. ‘He really didn’t fancy Mr Butler. “Just imagine that dull, plain, bulbous face on our television screens every night,” he said with a wicked eye. He does love a little bitch!’

  I asked Ludo about a shocking report on the news earlier in the evening – Adlai Stevenson, the UN Ambassador, being booed, spat at and hit with a stick in Dallas.

  ‘It’s Kennedy’s focus on civil rights,’ Ludo said, ‘and his hints over pulling out of Vietnam. The extremists and Southern racists can’t handle it. They’re in revolt.’