by Carol Smith
But he was reaching meekly for the phone.
“What about the first week in January, right after Christmas?” he inquired. “I think we can fit you in then.”
Chapter Eight
“Have you seen my cuff links?”
Oliver was going out. He was late.
Vivienne sat at her dressing table, staring into the glass, not much liking what she saw. Today had not been a good one, best forgotten as fast as gpossible. The second he was gone she would pour herself a very large glass of something soothing to help speed up the curative process.
He stood in the doorway, flapping his cuffs like a petulant child but still as handsome as the day she first clapped eyes on him at the Clermont. She wanted to beg him to stay, to throw herself at his knees and beseech him not to leave her, to love her again, to turn their sterile marriage back into a living one. Instead she frowned gravely at her own reflection and asked where he had seen them last.
The light fell full on the lines round her eyes, delicately etched but nonetheless there. She smoothed her upper lip with tapered fingers and gave a tentative smile. At least she had so far avoided that dreadful telltale pleating which hit so many women around this age. The second there was a hint of it, make no mistake, it was collagen treatment for her, and if that didn’t work, it would have to be a yashmak. Or a closed order in a convent, maybe, which, the way she felt these days, might be the best solution all round.
He was still fretting around her, poking through her jewel box.
“They’re not in there. Try your hankie drawer, that’s where Dorabella usually puts them when she sorts the laundry.”
Really, men were such babies, and this one couldn’t do a thing for himself. Oh, but he was lovely when he took the trouble. It was just such ages since he had looked at her with anything resembling the old passion. With his pinstriped suit he was wearing a Prussian blue percale shirt, made specially for him in Hong Kong, and just looking at him made her ache inside. What had happened to their fairy-tale marriage? When had it all gone wrong? And was it too late to resurrect what they had once had, to get back some of the long-lost magic?
He had found the links and was leaving, checking his pockets for his wallet and car keys.
“Don’t wait up,” was all he said as he disappeared down the stairs and she heard the final clunk as the front door closed. He was out a lot these days, more and more, and Vivienne sometimes wondered if he could be seeing someone else. Well, why on earth should he not? If she was honest, she had to admit she was only a shadow of her former fascinating self and somewhere along these last lonely years even her wit had evaporated. Whereas Oliver worked hard and was still in peak condition. Maybe he deserved younger flesh in his bed; that was another truth she was beginning to learn to accept as the years ticked by.
Once, she would have cared a great deal more, would have fought like a wild thing to hold on to him while she still possessed the wherewithal. Lately, nothing seemed to be that important. Probably all part and parcel of the incipient condition she had learned about only this afternoon in Harley Street.
She slid open her dressing table drawer and took a mouthful of Stolichnaya straight from the bottle. Nothing could beat the good old-fashioned remedies when it came to crisis time, and if this was the beginning of the slippery slope, she really couldn’t seem to care. For some strange reason, for the first time in months, she caught herself thinking of poor Celia Hartley.
• • •
The other men she knew that season were really little more than boys but Oliver Nugent was a man, no doubt about it. He was dark and suave and at least ten years older, which was, of course, part of the initial attraction. But despite her sophisticated air and beautiful gown, he gave Vivienne scarcely a glance. The card game was more absorbing. She stood in fascinated silence and watched him win, over and over again until he had quite a pile of chips on the baize in front of him. Then he glanced at his watch, swept them up into a pile and into his pockets, made his apologies to Lucan, and was out of there without a backward look. Then and there, in her spoiled little girl’s heart, Vivienne vowed that no matter what, this was the man she meant to marry.
Cold reality struck almost instantly when she rejoined her party and Sukey, seeing her glow and the light of battle in her eye, took great pleasure in deflating her. Oliver Nugent, she said, was strictly out of bounds.
“Your daddy would never approve,” she sneered. “He’s got a Past and is definitely not Safe in Taxis. Besides, he’s not available.”
Sukey’s triumph was complete. She pushed back the mousy hair from her flushed face and positively gloated.
Vivienne was caught temporarily off balance.
“He’s married?” Surely not.
“As good as. He’s practically engaged to Celia Hartley, has been taking her out for ages and I gather it’s heavy.”
And you don’t mess with money that serious was the underlying message.
Well, engaged is not married, thought Vivienne fiercely, her spirits rising again. And there’s many a slip . . .
“Celia Hartley? That funny little thing?” said one of the boys with amusement. “She was at school with my sister and was forever fainting.”
“Nevertheless,” persisted Sukey, chewing the hereditary pearls her grandmother had lent her for the night, “he’s as good as hooked. Why do you think he left so abruptly? He doesn’t mess around with silly girls. He’s far too intelligent for that.”
She underestimated Vivienne, who simply laughed and strolled away. Vivienne would not let her see she was in any way concerned, but under the ice-blue satin her heart was banging like a hammer. I want, I want, I want, she was screaming inside, and for Vivienne Appleby that meant the same as I will have. Daddy could do nothing to help her now. He was off in Europe somewhere, doing one of his dubious deals. This time she was on her own but was not going to let that stand in her way.
It took a certain amount of maneuvering, though eventually she managed it. As a slightly older man, Oliver had long since lost his interest in being a deb’s delight and didn’t, therefore, frequent the places Vivienne was used to going. If all they said about Celia Hartley was true, she seemed to have him pretty firmly under her thumb, though why that should be it was not at all easy to see, apart of course from the money. The Hartleys were far posher than the Applebys—their money was old enough to have become respectable over the years—so that the two families simply did not connect.
But Vivienne did her homework and tracked Oliver down as assiduously as a professional private detective until she knew every relevant detail—his clubs, his hobbies, even the locations of the flat in Duke Street and the pied-à-terre in Cannes. He swam at the RAC Club and played tennis at Queen’s but sport was not really her thing, despite having the most famous legs in London. So she had been forced to swallow her pride and make nicey-nice to Sukey Portillo, who was fairly ingenuous for all her bold talk and had always been slightly in awe of Vivienne, who was one year older but eons ahead of her in sophistication and low cunning.
Without much effort on Vivienne’s part, Sukey became her intimate, flattered by the attention Vivienne showered upon her and secretly pleased to have such a glamorous friend. They lunched at Drones, did the Chelsea Flower Show together, even shared a room at a ski chalet in Klosters. And when at last Vivienne got around to mentioning Oliver, all Sukey did was giggle and punch her arm and then came through with a weekend invitation to her uncle’s place in Dorset, close to where Oliver had grown up.
Thus they met again. They were ten for dinner that night in Sherborne when Vivienne looked up from her vichyssoise to find the slate-gray eyes fixed at last on hers. And after that it was pretty plain sailing, as she had always known it would be. Celia was not with him that weekend—something to do with a septic throat and a mother who fussed. It made little difference: there was no way she could have stopped the inevitable. Quite simply, Oliver looked at Vivienne then never looked away again. And she, with a si
nging heart and the certainty that he was hers for the taking, had a wonderful time ignoring him all weekend, then driving home alone.
After that it was telephone calls and flowers and invitations to Wimbledon and the opera and, within a matter of weeks, Oliver had asked her to marry him. The Celia business was unfortunate, and afterward, Oliver blamed it all on her, but Vivienne was not going to spend the rest of her life feeling guilty. A person didn’t own another person, not even after they were married (as she was just beginning to realize), and they did say Celia had a history of instability.
She hadn’t given it a thought for months; she remembered her now.
• • •
There was nothing really wrong with her, apart from an occasional jerking ache down below, but the truth was her hairdresser was away and most of her girlfriends were beginning to be caught up with the start of the pre-Christmas exodus to sunnier climes which Oliver was always too preoccupied to do, so she began to feel lonely and insecure. Selfish bastard. He always said she could go if she wanted and he’d join her later for a few days when things weren’t so hectic, but what fun was Barbados or St. Moritz if you were a woman unaccompanied? Particularly when you were part of a fabled marriage and still had a public facade to protect. So she took herself off to Harley Street instead for a general going-over before the start of the new season.
Mr. Armenian had been her mother’s gynecologist before her and had that sleek, well-manicured look of the high achiever and the clean, pink skin that comes from pampered living and a careful diet. He purred and oiled his way around Vivienne, complimenting her on her beauty, marveling at how little she had aged since their first encounter when she was still a girl. He was in pretty good shape himself but she was in no mood to tell him so and, besides, it was her tab so he could do the smarming.
She explained her problem—nothing really except a slightly bloated feeling, a sensation that something might be wrong down there, plus an unaccountable lowness of spirits. At first she had wondered if she were pregnant but, well . . . In truth, she had hesitated before making the appointment, deterred by the recurring terror that it might be her liver, that she might really be drinking too much and that he would detect it and tell Oliver or, even more dire, insist she stop. But fear of something worse had driven her on so that now she was here and it was too late to turn back. But she certainly wasn’t about to tell him that.
He called in his nurse before he examined her, delicately, with cold, clinical fingers, then over a cup of Earl Grey tea let her know the worst. Nothing terribly serious that a hysterectomy wouldn’t fix. Just a bit of tidying up that became necessary to ladies of her age and the good news was—he flipped through the pages of his diary—he could get her a bed at the Princess Grace within the next five days.
Vivienne was silent, stunned with horror. This was far worse than she had imagined; even cancer might have been preferable. Then at least she stood the chance of a beautiful and poetic early death, to be immortalized in everyone’s hearts for her goodness and her bravery. But a hysterectomy was another thing entirely and she absolutely wasn’t ready to confront the horrible truth of her own aging. It might mean nothing to Mr. Armenian, in his affluent sixties with the graduation photographs of his children all around the room, but she was childless, still in her prime, and the thought of losing her womb was the worst conceivable catastrophe.
She remembered a pressing appointment on the other side of town, swept up her sable coat, and told him brusquely she would call him later but was far too busy just now to make such a commitment. He sensed he had offended her but it was a situation he was quite accustomed to. It was one of the ways he earned his fat fees; ladies could be very touchy about these matters. She had to be allowed to absorb it in her own good time. He pressed her hand intimately as he saw her to the door, and asked to be remembered to her mother. Then he smiled and penciled her into his diary. She’d be back.
• • •
With her head in a whirl and her mind teeming with all kinds of doom-filled possibilities, Vivienne went the following night to a charity ball at Grosvenor House, in aid of Cancer Research. Oliver was off on one of his jaunts to Strasbourg but Vivienne had bought the tickets before she knew his plans and was sick of constantly having to rearrange her life to accommodate his. She hated being without a partner but tonight that was not her main concern. She knew nearly everyone there so it was more like a private function than a ball.
That morning at breakfast Oliver had told her that the bank was sending him off on a six-week tour of the Middle East, leaving right after Christmas, first stop Singapore.
“You’d hate it, darling,” he said. “Meetings all the time with dreary businessmen and wives who’d bore the pants off you.”
“That’s all right.”
Oliver was suspicious of her compliancy, which usually alerted him to trouble brewing, but today there was no backlash. Vivienne sat contemplating her grapefruit as a wild plan began forming in her mind, and later that night, she had one of her rare pieces of luck.
The ball was organized by Phoebe Harvey, the rich American wife of a Harley Street consultant, whom Vivienne knew slightly from other charitable occasions. Phoebe was one of the nicest women she knew, slim and pretty with a cloud of dark curls and the sweetest smile imaginable, truly one of nature’s angels, from all accounts. Vivienne strolled over to join her as she organized the tombola, snatching a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter to keep her going.
“Hi!” Phoebe’s great charm was her undimmed enthusiasm; she always gave the impression that you were the one person she most wanted to see, an irresistible trait. She kissed Vivienne warmly on both cheeks, taking in the two glasses of bubbly but making no comment.
“Here, let me help,” said Vivienne, putting down one of the glasses and grabbing hold of a book of tickets. These events bored her within minutes; she could hardly wait for it to be time to decently slip away.
She explained Oliver’s absence with a rueful shrug then asked politely if Phoebe’s own husband was present. She’d heard a lot about him but never actually met him. Like Oliver, he was a busy man. She was curious.
“Over there,” said Phoebe, arranging hampers in order of value, and indicating a heavyset man with graying hair and an expensive suit. Addison Harvey looked every inch what he was—affluent, successful, the darling of the chattering classes, strongly tipped to be next in line as the Queen’s Gynecologist yet still with one foot in the National Health Service. A man of principle and discretion, indeed. Vivienne looked him over with approval. Maybe it was time to ditch Mr. Armenian and move on to someone she found a touch more sympathetic. At least she liked his wife.
“Phoebe,” she said, finishing the first glass and starting on the second. “Have you time for a word?” And she confided her plight.
• • •
Later, on the journey home, Phoebe outlined Vivienne’s request.
“Actually, I already know her old man,” commented Addison, purring down the motorway in the Corniche, Phoebe at his side. “Play squash with him at the RAC on Wednesdays. Nice bloke, bloody clever.”
Phoebe had one soft hand resting lightly on her husband’s thigh. She was concerned about Vivienne and wanted to do something to help. The drinking was definitely getting worse and more flamboyant, and there was a new haunted look in the beautiful eyes that she found distinctly alarming. Poor soul, it was no wonder, with her husband away on business so much of the time.
“I know it sounds crazy,” Phoebe said, “considering how well off they are, but she is terrified of letting him know and can’t think of a way of getting a bill as hefty as that past him without comment.”
Women. Addison Harvey had made a lifelong study of them and they were, indeed, his bread and butter.
“So, what?” There was a favor hovering, waiting to be asked. He glanced fondly at his wife, and squeezed her knee in return. “Spit it out. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Sweeti
e,” she said beguilingly, nestling her dark curls against his shoulder and playing the ingenue, a role she only brought out in extremis, “it’s not a huge favor but I know how much it would mean to her.”
Vivienne needed the operation, she explained, but was scared to death of telling Oliver in case it put him off her sexually. It sounded foolish but Phoebe could well understand. It was a normal, feminine fear which, however ill-founded, could prey on a mind as fragile as Vivienne’s and cause who knows what damage. Just look at the quantities of champagne she had been putting away this evening. Oliver would be abroad at the beginning of the year when, as a rule, things at the hospital were inclined to be slack. So . . .
“Okay, okay.” Addison was there ahead of her. What a peach she was, to be sure, his wife. Never failed to dazzle him, even after all these years. And anything for a quiet life.
• • •
“I really don’t know how to thank you,” said Vivienne in relief some days later. She had taken Phoebe to lunch at the Connaught as a small gesture of gratitude. “You cannot imagine what a load this takes off my mind.”
She was already into her third martini, Phoebe observed as she sipped her Perrier. Poor lamb, perhaps this small kindness would sort out her inner worries once and for all.
“I’ll tell you what you can do,” she said, inspired, opening her bag. “You can take some of these tickets for the opening of a new musical just before Christmas. I don’t know a lot about it, except that it was a huge hit on Broadway and is supposed to be brilliant. And it’s all in a good cause.”
“Autumn Crocus,” Vivienne read, as she scrawled her check to Cancer Research. Oliver would almost certainly not be able to make it but, if necessary, she’d round up a party without him. It was the least she could do for Phoebe, who had just saved her sanity if not her life. And it would be something to look forward to before she embarked on her big adventure as a guest of the NHS.