With her first words it was apparent that Vivien was going to enjoy herself. “Darling,” she cooed, “I would never have dreamed that you would be able to break away from Jeff so quickly. I consider this quite an honor.”
As I walked in I asked, “What sort of honor?”
She slanted me a malevolent smile and said, “After all, you are the Mrs. Hamlyne. Whatever the Hamlynes do sets the pace in Pebble Beach. And, anyway, everyone has been talking about you and dying to meet you. I know a few around here who are going to turn green because you’ve called on me.”
I felt silly, but had to say, “Well, I did meet you first.”
“Yes. Aren’t I the lucky one?”
I swallowed and barely managed to smile. I had left myself open for that one and had only myself to blame.
Scott was not at home, so Vivien led the way to a combination study and barroom overlooking a flagstoned patio, the golf course, and the ocean beyond, shrouded in its heavy bank of fog. The late afternoon sun was setting beyond the fog, creating the effect of a purplish-gold mist in the sky. It was weirdly beautiful and yet chilling.
Vivien mixed cocktails and we sat by the windows to chat as if we had known each other for years. She spoke of the various people I would simply have to meet and supplied character interpolations that bordered on viciousness. She seemed at ease and not at all nervous, yet I noticed that she drank two cocktails for each of mine and lit one cigarette after another. Whenever I looked away from her and then back her eyes would be upon me.
It became so obvious that after a while she said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t help staring at you. I don’t mean to be catty — ”
Not much, I thought.
“ — but all of us here are wondering just how you managed to snare a Hamlyne.”
“Would it help to learn that I didn’t snare him?”
“He certainly fell head over heels for some reason.”
“I have the normal complement of curves. Perhaps it would be too simple to say that we fell in love with each other. Or don’t you believe in love?”
A shadow crept slowly over her face. She said hollowly, but more to herself than to me, “But I’m afraid I do believe in it.”
Of course, I thought, in my husband.
Then she laughed and said, “You married the man, darling, and he must be in love with you. Has John given his blessing?”
“Oh, yes.”
She nodded, as if there had never been any doubt about that. “Naturally,” she said, “he would. He was very pleased. I was — well, visiting at Lynecrest when Jeff returned from New York. The three of us drank a bit too much and John kept slapping Jeff on the back and telling him how pleased he was. For years, you know, John has been after Jeff to get married and settle down. His marriage to you was very sudden and surprised John, but he was nevertheless happy about it.”
Good God, I wondered, who’s insane now? John’s anger over Jeffrey’s marriage was supposed to have brought about the showdown between the two of them. John and Jeffrey had each spoken about it and John had even apologized for his mistaken ideas about me, obviously indicating that he had expressed such ideas to Jeffrey. But Vivien’s words had blithely wiped all that away.
I thought that surely she must be mistaken and said, as casually as possible, “I don’t think John was quite that happy. He seems to be a confirmed bachelor and doesn’t like his routine to be disturbed. Simply the idea of having to put up with a strange woman in Lynecrest would at least irritate him.”
Vivien shook her head. “You certainly don’t know John, or Jeff, either, for that matter. John fancies himself as quite a Napoleon, you know. Or I guess you don’t. He likes to do things his own way, especially when it comes to business, and Jeff just gets in his way. John has always felt that once Jeff married, he would naturally become involved in living a more social life, if you know what I mean — ”
“I think so.”
“ — which would occupy even more of his time and give John a freer hand.” Her eyes were laughing at me, but it seemed fairly evident that she was telling the truth as she said, “His marriage to you was an even happier solution, from John’s viewpoint. Jeff would be spending so much of his time in New York that he would have to withdraw entirely from their business affairs. That’s exactly what John wants.”
Her idea was so completely the reverse of what I had thought to be true that it was almost impossible for me to assimilate it. I said, “But even that wouldn’t seem so important. I imagine John did about as he pleased, anyway. Jeff has no liking for business.”
“Well, that’s true, but there are other angles to it. Jeff doesn’t like the produce game and he’s not acquisitive and he’s not entirely in sympathy with John’s ambitions, but he does feel duty-bound to put in some time in the management of the Hamlyne affairs. You see?”
“Yes.”
“And that,” she smiled, “is where they differ. John wants to run the whole works himself. So when Jeff married you, John was naturally bubbling over with joy.” She paused, then, and frowned at me. “Didn’t you know that?” she asked.
I swallowed, but with difficulty, as my throat had gone dry. I said, “Not exactly, no.” Then I deliberately half lied as I said, “Nothing has been said, but I had the impression that some sort of quarrel had occurred between them over Jeff’s marriage.”
She squinted at me curiously, puzzled by my words, which made me realize that she had been telling the truth. “That’s odd,” she said. “I saw the two of them almost every day for about a week after Jeff got back from the East. They hadn’t quarreled during that time. I would have known it. Using one of Scott’s favorite expressions, they were as happy as clams at high tide.”
My head was swimming by that time, but I was gathering information and there was something further I had to know, even though it meant placing myself in a ridiculous position before Vivien. I stated, with insistence, “But there has been a quarrel, a bad one.”
Vivien’s face suddenly became a smooth mask. She knew of the quarrel, I was positive of that, but evidently it had nothing to do with Jeff’s marriage. She knew also, realizing it at that moment, that she had been giving me information. There would be no more of that foolishness.
She drawled softly, “Is that so?”
I felt that I was on the verge of learning something worth while and continued stubbornly, “Yes. They hardly speak to each other. I believe you know that.”
One eyebrow raised above the other as she said coolly, “I don’t know all that goes on in the Hamlyne household.”
“But I think you know that. They’ve had a bad quarrel. Of course, it may be because John has a queer terror of scandal.” Twin flames appeared for a moment in her eyes and I knew I had loosed the right arrow. Then I hit below the belt by saying, “I hardly blame him, as Jeff is an unruly sort of person, and though it may seem odd for me to say it, he has become involved too deeply with altogether too many women.”
Vivien’s hands trembled and her blue eyes turned to hard agate. She spat out shrewishly, “You know goddamned well what the situation is and you’re trying to make me feel like a tramp. Well, let me tell you something, my dear Mrs. Hamlyne — ”
Whatever it was, she hadn’t a chance to tell it. I could have sworn, too. At that moment the front door slammed and Scott called, “Hello. Hello, there.” The next second he stepped into the study and flicked on the lights. “Well, you two,” he grinned, “do you enjoy sitting in the dark? Evening, Mrs. Hamlyne. It’s nice to see you again.”
I managed a smile and nodded at him and then glanced at Vivien. I could hardly believe my eyes. Her shrewish-ness had vanished and she was again, instantly, an angelic being floating in space. No actress I knew could have changed character as quickly as had Vivien. She floated to her enormous Saint Bernard of a husband and kissed his cheek arid told him what a “delightful” visit we had been having.
Scott put an arm about her to squeeze her waist, but turned to wink at
me. “You two been having a lovers quarrel already?”
I blinked at him and then at Vivien. I gulped and asked stupidly, “Who?”
“You and Jeff, of course. I saw him in the clubhouse a few minutes ago, getting himself well plastered. He won three hundred bucks on the course this afternoon, so he couldn’t have been unhappy about that.”
I turned to look out the windows, but it was too dark to see the fairway by their house. “Do you mean that he has been playing right by here?”
“No, no. There are three courses here, at Cypress Point, the country club, where Jeff was playing, and this one here, the Pebble Beach course. The country club is a couple of miles away. I forgot you don’t know this country. Anyway, that’s where he is, over at the country club.”
I was still feeling stupid and mumbled, “You say he’s getting drunk?”
Scott was silent a moment before answering my question. He was evidently wondering just how much to tell me. He disliked Jeffrey, as I had learned, but he was not the kind to transfer that dislike to Jeffrey’s wife. He said, “Well, he’s drinking, anyway.”
“He usually does.”
“But not quite this heavily, Mrs. Hamlyne. He has a gang drinking with him and they’re stowing it away. I know that kind of deal; it ends when the bar closes.”
Vivien asked sweetly, “Were you with him?”
Scott frowned and replied, “Of course not. I — ah — just saw him when I went in for a quick one.”
“But, dear, you never stop with just a quick one.”
“I did tonight.” He grinned. “Didn’t I promise to take you to the Lodge for dinner?” His hand lowered to pat a more prominent part of her anatomy, as he was turning something over in his mind, then he suggested, “You may as well come along with us. Your hubby,” he drawled, “ain’t gonna be home early tonight.”
To my utter amazement, Vivien not only thought his suggestion was a good one, but she insisted that I go with them. My brain was so badly stuck in low gear that I used their telephone to call Lynecrest, hoping that John would be home and rescue me. But Brannen told me, “He called just a few minutes ago to say that he would not be in.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“He did not say.”
“Thank you, Brannen. I’ll be having dinner at the Lodge, by the way, with the Chandlers.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Scott got some ice from the kitchen and stood at the small bar against the wall to mix highballs. Vivian finished hers in a hurry, then excused herself to dress. As she left the room she gave me a curious glance from the corners of her eyes, then asked Scott to show me his studio while we were waiting. He seemed reluctant, strangely so, until I said that I would enjoy seeing his paintings.
We went into his studio, adjoining the barroom, probably the largest and most comfortable room in the house. The upper half of the wall facing the golf course was all glass brick and half of the beamed ceiling was composed of skylights. There was a fireplace and a profusion of couches and rather arty furniture scattered about. An easel stood near the glass wall and just beyond was a model’s stand with some sort of rug thrown over a chair. The canvas on the easel had a charcoal sketch of a nude seated on the chair. I wondered who did the posing and had that answered immediately.
Scott stopped before a life-size oil painting on the wall and waved his glass toward it. He said, “I had better show you the best first.”
“This one?”
“Yes. How do you like it?”
It was hard to answer that question. The painting was of Vivien, in the nude, reclining on a couch with one arm dangling to the floor. I have never seen a nuder nude than that painting. It was fleshy and it was all body and there was no other reason for its existence except as a nude. With no stretch of the imagination whatever, I could picture it hanging proudly in an old-time saloon. It was that kind of nude, lush, provocative, sensuous, and suggestive. Even the pose itself was a trifle coarse, and the slanted look in Vivien’s eyes was far from angelic. There could have been only one possible thought in both minds when that picture was painted.
The technical drawing, however, was excellent and the flesh tones were unusually good. The expression in Vivien’s eyes, too, was very good. Scott was not as bad a dilettante as John thought. He could draw and he could paint, but that was about all of it. The general composition was not too good and the choice of colors in the couch was bad.
But what intrigued me was the earthy interpretation of Vivien’s body. The ethereal quality that had first impressed me about her was totally lacking. She was very much female and definitely a body to be reckoned with, if Scott’s interpretation was believable.
I suppose I must have blushed, as Scott chuckled, then said, “Well?”
I nodded. “Very good, Scott. I’m quite surprised. Very surprised.”
He looked pleased and glanced from me to the painting.
“I was afraid to tackle this one,” he explained. “It could too easily be misinterpreted.”
“Yes. I can see how that could happen.”
Fortunately, he missed the sarcasm. “Uh-huh. You can see that, too. I was afraid it would turn out strictly a body and fail to tell the story, but I shouldn’t have worried about it. You really like it?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.”
“Good. This is my best, but you may like these others just as well, or better. When it comes to art, everyone’s taste is different.”
I was thinking, What art? as we moved on to the other paintings. I think there was one still life in the collection and a self-portrait, which was bad, and perhaps a few other odds and ends, but the majority of the paintings were of Vivien and, with one exception, a sketch of Vivien in a picture hat, they were all nudes and seminudes. In a few of them some attempt had been made to express an idea (or it was accidentally present), but in most of them the sole object was the sheer animal pleasure of the female body. The collection was saloon art at its best.
After I had seen all of them, Scott mixed two more highballs and we sat on a divan in the center of the studio where we could better view the paintings. He mentioned that he had never used any other model and when I asked if Vivien enjoyed posing he seemed surprised.
“Of course,” he replied. Then he grinned and said, “She’s lazy, that’s why. Makes a perfect model. If you’ll notice, there isn’t a single pose that involves any possibility of fatigue.”
“I had noticed that. I thought there might be some other reason for it.”
He was really dense. “Nope,” he said. “Just lazy. I get my ideas from watching her lying around the house.”
“You must have your eyes on her constantly.”
“Just about. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. I never get tired of looking at her.”
“Well,” I said, “you certainly know more about her, in detail, than most husbands do of their wives.”
“No kidding about that.” He chuckled. Then he frowned and twisted about to look into my eyes. “Did Jeff tell you that?”
“Jeff? No. Why?”
“He once made a remark just like that. Right here. We were all having a little party when he said it and I thought he had some other meaning for a moment, then decided not. It’s funny you used the same expression.”
“You mean to say your parties overflow into this room with — well, with these pictures of Vivien?”
He stared at me, then burst into a laugh. “Well, well. Even you have a streak of the prude.”
“No, Scott; it isn’t that. It’s just that — Vivien being your own wife — all these nudes — ”
“Why not? Almost all artists do nudes of their wives. Where are they going to hang them, in a closet? I don’t think anything about it and neither does Vivien. Really, you can’t be that narrow-minded.”
I sighed. “I guess I’m wrong.”
“Sure.”
But I was not at all surprised when Vivien joined us in the studio and stood directly by
the side of the life-size canvas. She was not conscious of it, but that was habit. I thought of Jeffrey seated where I was and looking from Vivien to the painting, and I had to get out of that room. I hurried to finish my drink. Vivien smiled, a subtle little smile of understanding.
I thought I was going to face a horrible evening, but it turned out to be fairly enjoyable. We had a nice dinner in the dining room of the Lodge and then repaired to the bar, where all sorts of people joined us. Scott kept me amused with a steady flow of his ideas about art and the others interrupted constantly to ask me all sorts of questions about New York and theatrical life. Vivien spent little time at our table. She circulated about the room like running water.
Scott, though, was drinking enormous quantities of alcohol and the gathering was turning into a major drinking bout. By eleven o’clock I had had enough and whispered in Scott’s ear that I would be leaving. “Sure,” he mumbled. “Run along. We’ll all be pie-eyed in another hour.”
Vivien was already tight. She walked with me out into the night and the damp fog and stood unsteadily by the side of my car as I started the engine. She was no longer an angel, or even a nude, but looked like a sad lost child.
I said, “Don’t you think I’d better drive you home?”
She shook her head. “I’ll stay with Scott,” she said, being the martyr about it. “I always stay with Scott. Run ‘long, Carol.” She took a deep breath of air and blew alcohol in my face. “I’m a’right.”
“Thanks for the evening.”
“Welcome. Hadda look you over. Wanted to see how you impressed other bitches ‘round here. You do a’right. They like you. Funny. They all like you. Much.”
“I’m glad of that.”
“Why shouldn’t you be? Don’t tell me. I know. Hate myself. Someday I’ll kill some’ne. Know that?”
“You’ve had too much to drink.”
She smiled, a lopsided grimace. “That’s what you think. I’m teilin’ you, I feel like killin’. Can’t stand that big slob. Bed manners of a wild boar. No breeding. Not like Jeff.” Then she paused for a moment, wondering what she had said to change my expression. She shook her head at me. “You run ‘long. You just don’t know what goes on this place. You just don’t know. You run ‘long.”
Marriage Bed Page 8