by Carol Smith
He needed to know exactly what was going on. Things had proceeded so swimmingly right from the start that he could not accept she could be giving him the runaround now, not after all this time. To begin with, it wasn’t Beth’s style, and what possible motive could she have? Their union had always been gloriously straightforward, which was why it had lasted, and had so far run without a hitch. They loved each other, he knew that for a fact, and got on famously in bed. He saw her whenever it was convenient and didn’t get in the way of her having a life of her own. The great thing about Beth was that she never whined or clung, never talked about permanence or laid down ultimatums. They were both far too mature. She had even done her child-rearing early so the old hormones were safely under control.
Beth had entered his life like a breath of fresh air with her gutsy outlook, her humor, and her determination to stand alone and not be dependent on anyone. He liked her kid, too; Beth was an excellent mother. In fact, he liked everything about her, including the fact that she refused to be hamstrung by fashion and was quite relaxed about being slightly overweight. Beth was modern woman, the exact opposite of the beautiful trophy wife he had married and then grown so rapidly weary of.
Oliver liked order in his life and Beth suited him down to the ground, as tactful and compliant as a first-class secretary. She was entirely accommodating, happy to see him when it suited him yet never cloying or tedious. She was sexy, loving, and loyal—all the things he desired in a mistress—and even when they had come face-to-face in his own hallway in front of his wife, she had not betrayed him by so much as a flicker.
So what could possibly have gone wrong now? He genuinely hadn’t a clue. To begin with, he had been rattled at the idea of Vivienne knowing Beth socially. It had all seemed too much of a coincidence, far too close to home for comfort. But when it had all been explained by Beth (Vivienne stuck to her story about them meeting on some fund-raising committee for a local hospital) he could see it was no one’s fault. Fair’s fair, after all, and Oliver—with his public-school upbringing—was as sporting as the next man and knew how these women’s complaints did have a tendency to draw the fluffy little things together. Also he was a gambling man and enjoyed an element of risk. If anyone was at fault it was Vivienne, for sneaking off to hospital without telling him, and an NHS one at that. But since she had not mentioned it, he was officially still in the dark.
Apart, of course, from the odd involvement of his old mate, Addison Harvey, with whom he played squash at the RAC Club. Harvey was a professional man, one of the best, they said, so naturally he would not spill the beans about Vivienne’s little secret. All he would reveal, with half-closed eyes and a knowing nod and the reassuring elbow squeeze that went with being an eminent doctor, was not to worry because all was in order. So Oliver had put it out of his mind. Harvey was a good bloke, with a deadly backhand that could put the most amazing topspin on his balls, and he was reassured that whatever Vivienne’s little problem might have been, she had been in the best possible hands. And, furthermore, her bizarre desire for secrecy meant it had not cost him a bean, making him a winner all round.
Odd how the two women in his life had met, introduced quite fortuitously by the NHS, another instance of that tired old cliché about the smallness of the world. And Viv obviously had no suspicion that he knew Beth, so Oliver had been able to abandon his paranoia and breathe freely again. Except that Beth now seemed to be avoiding him and that was something he could not lightly dismiss. He had racked his brains but come up with nothing. Yet it was fully four weeks since they had last made love and although she always produced excuses, they were never very convincing. Oliver was on the edge of becoming very annoyed indeed.
Today’s little fiasco had been the ultimate straw. He had gone there solely to see her, she must have known that, yet there she was, done up to the nines and as breezy as you please, flashing that great big inviting smile and allowing some hairy creep to monopolize her just when he, Oliver, was trying to get her on her own for a quiet word. Whatever sort of game did she think she was playing? And who the hell did she think she was?
• • •
Beth and Imogen had gone back to Albert Hall Mansions with the grieving Eleanor and a straggle of neighbors, plus Sally and Duncan, who seemed to be acting as the hired help. They were standing now in small groups in the large, gloomy drawing room, sipping weak tea and talking in low voices, Beth all the time wondering what was coming next and how on earth they could politely slip away. Imogen was behaving wonderfully. She hadn’t said a word but her eyes, when she turned them to Beth, were stricken. A treat for you, my girl, when we finally get home, thought Beth. You certainly deserve it, so that’s what you’re going to get.
Beth was horrified at the change in Eleanor who seemed, in the space of just a few days, to have physically shrunk within the whaleboned bastion of her posh frock, suited more to a concert before hundreds than a few sad friends in for a funeral tea.
Sally was being splendid but that was exactly what you would expect from her, fetching and carrying like a daughter and now coercing Imogen into the kitchen to help with the washing-up. Beth wandered in there to see how they were coping and was instantly depressed by the faded cream walls and shabby chintz curtains, and the shadowed vastness of the ceiling that had seen neither mop nor duster for decades. What a life Catherine must have led in this airless, joyless place; an unpaid servant with no hopes or prospects of her own. And now it was over, far too soon. Depressed, Beth left them to it and wandered back to the drawing room.
One of the saddest aspects of her prematurely snuffed-out life was that, along the crowded mantelpieces and tabletops of the cluttered flat, Beth was unable to detect a trace of Catherine, apart from one old photograph of her on a pony at some church gymkhana, smiling broadly with a gap in her teeth and her hair sticking stiffly out in two thin plaits. The rest of the pictures, which were ranged in rows upon every available surface, were of either Sir Nicholas and Lady Palmer in ceremonial dress or else of the diva alone, dressed for one of her many performances in full theatrical fig with stage makeup.
Poor Catherine. It was all so solipsistic, it was sickening. Beth shuddered and turned to find herself being studied from a distance by an amused Duncan Ross.
“No need to tell me what you were thinking,” he said, joining her. “It’s written all over your face.”
“Lord, I hope not!” said Beth in horror, startled to find herself so minutely observed.
“Only to someone who’s really looking. The rest of them here are as self-absorbed as she is.”
Beth smiled in relief; he understood. Duncan, on the other hand, felt a compelling urge to kiss her. He took a firm grip on himself and compromised by giving her shoulder a friendly squeeze. The rest could come later; he sensed there was no hurry. He relieved her of her empty cup and placed it on the piano for Sally to clear. He liked this woman with her frank approach. She was his sort of person, all too rare, particularly here in London.
“What a wicked waste of a life,” said Beth. “Acting servant to that vile old woman. It must surely have shortened her life. I’d be tempted to die young too, if only to escape the tedium of it all.”
“She did have a job,” said Duncan, “with me. Though she wasn’t in it very long, more’s the pity.”
He reviewed the remaining company. Eleanor, a parody of Queen Mary in her antique lace and rows of simulated pearls, had regained her composure sufficiently to be helped to the piano, where she was holding court.
“In a moment she’s going to sing,” said Beth. “Just watch her. I don’t think I can bear it.” There was admiration mixed with her disbelief. Eleanor needed only a potted aspidistra to complete the Victorian tableau. Duncan beamed, enraptured.
“They’re okay, this group,” he said benevolently. “Just lonely folk, a little out of their time, trying to make the best of it. Not a lot wrong with that.”
What a nice, nice man. Beth felt ashamed of her own mean spirit and lon
ged more than anything to be held against that strong chest by those capable arms and not to have to worry about anything again. She grinned apologetically. He was watching her in a knowing way and she felt herself blush.
Other eyes were upon her from across the room and she turned, with a feeling that was almost relief, to see Sally standing in the doorway. Oh-oh. Hadn’t she left them doing the tea things, and wasn’t she supposed to be lending a hand?
“Sal, come join us!” she called, beckoning lavishly, but Sally had turned and headed back to the kitchen.
“Sally?” Beth was startled. She went to follow her but Duncan placed a hand on her arm that forbade her to move.
“In a minute it’ll be all right to leave,” he said. “Come with me. I’ll drive you home.”
“I’ve got my own car outside,” she said defensively. “And a kid in the kitchen.”
He grinned, nice and easy. “Then you can drop me, no sweat.”
She laughed in delight. “That’s crazy!”
“I’m just around the corner; I’ll pick my car up tomorrow. I’ve got some new kittens at the surgery. Why don’t you both come by and see them?”
• • •
Vivienne and Georgy were into their fourth martinis and Georgy was beginning to feel a little the worse for wear. She was seriously in love with Vivienne’s cats. As the hour grew later and the temperature dropped, they had moved upstairs to the drawing room where Ferdinand and Isabella were busy showing off.
“They’re not allowed in the conservatory,” explained Vivienne, “because of the fish.”
They really were extraordinarily beautiful, as lithe and perfect as ballet dancers. Georgy was not by any means an animal person but these cats—well, these cats were something else entirely. Isabella had settled cozily into her lap and was kneading her delicate, ten-denier tights with gentle, rhythmic paws while Ferdinand was executing giant Nijinsky leaps in pursuit of an invisible fly. Enchanting.
“I’d love to photograph them,” said Georgy.
“You would? You’re not just being polite?” Vivienne was thrilled. “I’d really like that. They’re my babies. I thought of having them painted but doubt they would ever sit still that long. Photographs would be as good. Better in fact,” she corrected herself, remembering her manners.
Georgy laughed. She was teetering on the brink of being half-cut, though Vivienne still appeared entirely sober.
“Look, how’s about I show you some of my work? Then you can judge for yourself whether I’m good enough. I usually take dancers but these guys have a lot of the same attributes, without the temperament, of course.”
Ferdinand, tired of his fly, was watching them from the top of a tall china cabinet next to a priceless Ming vase.
“Doesn’t that scare you?” asked Georgy. “I know I’d freak if it were my apartment.”
Vivienne shrugged. “Oh, they never break anything,” she said with confidence, swinging Isabella up by her paws and kissing the ice-cold nose. “As kittens they practically wrecked the joint but now they have grown into a state of grace.”
“Which is why,” said Georgy, “I’ve simply got to get them on film.”
It was almost eight and Georgy realized she was starving. How rude, to have stayed so long.
“Don’t leave!” said Vivienne as Georgy drained her glass and made as if to go. There was still no sign of Oliver and she hated to be alone on Saturday night. Throwback to the sixties it might be, but she couldn’t ignore it.
“Stay and eat. I’m sure I can rustle up something in the kitchen, or else we can go round the corner to the Star of India.”
“Are you sure?” But the question was rhetorical. Georgy was feeling very comfortable, and besides, she had nowhere else to go.
In the end they settled for duck pâté and French bread in the kitchen, with a bottle of Beaujolais for Georgy while Vivienne stuck to straight Stoli, having abandoned the ice. It was like a picnic but without the flies and the two of them giggled like schoolgirls having a dorm feast. Bit by bit, Georgy told Vivienne her life story—her childhood dream of becoming a dancer, her place at Juilliard, and her ultimate disappointment when they told her six years later that she simply didn’t have that extra something.
“So then what?” asked Vivienne, her eyes bright.
“My dad bought me a fancy camera,” gulped Georgy.
“And?”
“I started taking pictures.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Georgy shrugged. Put like that it sounded so simple. No need to dwell on the long, long hours and the hard, back-breaking work. Or the courses she had taken at NYU, the apprenticeship to a legendary photographer on the National Geographic (fixed via a family connection) which had involved little more than toting heavy equipment, being up at all hours and in all weather, running errands, cleaning up and making coffee. But learning, always learning.
“I think that’s a wonderful story,” said Vivienne, her sapphire eyes now awash.
Georgy nodded.
“And you’ll take my cats?”
Another nod. They were friends, they were sisters, this had been a wonderful night. Silently they embraced.
Footsteps sounded along the passageway and Oliver stood at the door, surveying the scene. He was hungry, still immaculate, and as irritated as hell. The table was strewn enticingly with fresh bread, succulent tomatoes, pâté, peaches, and figs. And an empty wine bottle. A homely scene, a cozy one with two women hugging with tears in their eyes and their mascara all smudged. It was altogether too much.
“You’re drunk!” he snapped, and went upstairs to bed.
Chapter Thirty-five
When she saw how Duncan was looking at Beth, Sally was seriously put out. She had the easiest, most happy-go-lucky nature in the world yet here was the man she had been dreaming about gazing with moonstruck eyes at a fat woman who was pushing forty and already had a kid in tow. She couldn’t believe it. Okay, Beth was a doll when you got to know her, but still . . . Besides, Beth already had Oliver—Gus too, after a fashion—so it was doubly unfair. The question was: what could Sally do about it?
For the first time in her life she felt jealous and her confidence in her sexual allure took a serious knock. She carried a pile of tea things into the kitchen, where Imogen was still sloshing around in the sink, and slammed them down on the draining board.
“What’s up?” Imogen was visibly startled. She had never known Sally in a mood before.
“Oh, I don’t know. Just bored, I guess. Time I got out of this dump, the atmosphere’s beginning to stifle me.”
It wasn’t clear if she meant London or merely Albert Hall Mansions; Imogen didn’t ask.
Just then Beth stuck her head around the door and smiled.
“All set?”
She looked around with approval at the gleaming surfaces and stacks of clean cups and saucers waiting to be put away.
“Great stuff, girls! Here, let me give you a hand.”
She started to sort out the various china patterns but Sally waved her off. She looked tired and tetchy, not at all her usual smiling self.
“I’ll do it. I know where it all goes.”
Beth caught her daughter’s eye and Imogen pulled a face. Sally out of sorts, whatever next? Beth took the cloth out of Imogen’s hand and hung it up to dry without a word. Obviously overdoing things, so it wasn’t surprising she was on edge. Look how marvelous she had been to Eleanor these past few days. The poor sweet must be knackered.
“Okay,” she said brightly. “As long as you’re sure, we’ll be off then. Any chance of seeing you tomorrow? You know there’s always a place for you at our table.”
Sally stood with her back turned, running water over her finger until it was hot enough for the final batch.
“I’ll see how I feel,” she said stiffly, after a pause. “Why don’t I give you a buzz in the morning?”
“Just as you like. Take care.” Beth kissed her l
ightly on the cheek, then ushered Imogen out of the room.
“What’s eating her?”
“Don’t know. The mood just suddenly descended about half an hour ago. Probably getting her period or something.”
Beth laughed and ruffled her daughter’s hair. That, currently, was Imogen’s catch-all for most conditions. She didn’t dispute the diagnosis but secretly was disturbed. She loved Sally like a younger sister and hated to see her out of sorts. No doubt the shock of Catherine’s death was beginning to take its toll. And why indeed not? After all the time Sally had spent recently with both mother and daughter, she would not be human if she didn’t feel something; it was a lot for someone of her age to shoulder.
• • •
It didn’t take Sally very long to pull herself together. By the time she had finished drying the tea things and stacked the clean china in the pantry, her gray mood was already beginning to lift. Goddammit, when all was said and done, he was only a man. There were plenty more where he came from and Sally prided herself she could pull any man she set her sights on. Any man at all.
Eleanor, as Beth had predicted, was already seated at the piano, her elderly acolytes clustered around her, set to embark on some muted Schubert lieder, in keeping with the solemnity of the occasion. Beth had left and so, apparently, had Duncan. Sally gritted her teeth and threaded her way through the admirers to kiss Eleanor’s floury cheek, relieved not to have to stay for what would undoubtedly develop into a geriatric rave-up. She had to hand it to the old girl, she was certainly a goer. Nothing defeated Eleanor Palmer for more than a minute. It was this spirit that Sally admired and that kept her coming back. Under the skin, she felt they were really two of a kind. It had been sad for Catherine that she had not inherited some of her mother’s ruthlessness.