Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn

by Hilton, Margery

  juvenile and embarrassing, and was that why he had seemed withdrawn and unresponsive on several occasions? But when people loved each other they should show it—why not? There wasn't enough love in the world today, that was half its trouble. And why pretend and try to keep a man guessing, as Julia believed? Before you got to know him or started an affair with him—yes, but afterwards, it seemed like playacting. It was one thing to have pride and not betray your feelings, but there were limits, and if lovers trusted one another they should be natural and honest. She stifled the instant reflection that she and Quinn were hardly lovers yet; they would be soon, and the actual technicality of making love didn't add up to the whole picture; hadn't he himself said it didn't? There were many pages in marriage. Then why was it becoming more difficult to approach him, to indulge in the adoring which had so amused Julia? She couldn't escape the fact that ever since she had returned from Rhodes it had imperceptibly become less easy to recapture the mood of light hearted affection she had known with him for those brief weeks before her marriage.

  She sighed and noticed that Pamela was regarding her with wide amused eyes. 'Miles away! I was saying: will you get a couple more copies of those snaps you took—the ones with Gino Mariello on?'

  `She's not interested in any of you,' Julia said, getting up and starting to clear the table. 'No, I'll let you off the dishes tonight—why don't you take Shelley into the den? Then you can talk to your heart's content about Gino.'

  Julia's home had a rather large dining room, and, having strong views about the television problem when guests came, she had settled this by having the TV in the dining room and leaving the sitting room free for entertaining guests. Derek was already engrossed in the sports review programme and Pamela took Shelley into the little room across the hall which was Derek's own domain.

  `Wonder what he's writing now.' Pamela investigated the half-filled sheet in the typewriter, then straightened. 'It's just a report. How dull! He used to write short stories, and had several published, but he doesn't have much time now. I

  bought a new lipstick today—the sort that has a nice taste.' A speculative gleam came into her eyes. 'You know, I've often wondered if men ...'

  There was a great deal that Pamela had often wondered about men, and she seemed rather disappointed that marriage had not immediately transformed Shelley into a living encyclopaedia on the enigmatic quintessence of the stronger sex.

  `You have a brother,' Shelley said. 'Why don't you ask him what men really think about women?'

  `Derek?' Pamela snorted. 'There's nothing fascinating or mysterious about him.'

  `But all men are brothers—most of them have sisters. I think Derek's rather nice.'

  `Yes, but he's so ordinary. I mean,' Pamela giggled, 'can you imagine him overwhelming Julia with hot, passionate poetics and making masterful love to absolutely melt her bones?'

  To be truthful, Shelley couldn't. Derek was quiet, almost staid, but utterly dependable, and he had some of the similar quality of thoughtful understanding possessed by Octavius. But she knew what Pamela meant, even while in her own youthfulness she was groping beyond the romantic conception towards the intrinsic values within outward appearances. Lacking ability to translate this into words, she said slowly : `It's just something that happens to you, it can make an ordinary man into a magic one.'

  `I think Quinn's romantic,' Pamela said thoughtfully. `Apart from being good-looking, I mean. He looks at you and you're never quite sure if he's thinking exactly what he's looking. He has depth, he'll always be interesting.'

  Shelley knew this very well, but she was aware of sudden reluctance to discuss him with anyone, even Pamela. About to change the subject, she heard the doorbell chimes and immediately jumped to the conclusion that he had changed his mind and decided to drive over for an hour or so after all.

  Pamela also stayed silent, in that listening stance which isn't actually curiosity but almost automatic in this particular circumstance. Shelley half stood up, then sank back in her chair as Julia's light footsteps sounded in the hall. There was a mingling of voices, the door closing, and footsteps again. Not Quinn's voice, not Quinn after all.

  Pamela's expression had stiffened into exaggerated concentration. She tilted her head on one side, frowned, then sprang up. 'I wonder who it is.'

  `Probably a friend.' Shelley shrugged, no longer interested in the identity of the caller now that the only possibility that mattered had been eliminated. But it was plain that Pamela was itching to know. Presently she stood up and said casually :

  `Would you like to see my new gear? I got a kaftan—it's a genuine Moroccan one—and some new pants. I'll go up and get them.'

  Alone, Shelley glanced at the wall clock over the desk and saw that it was almost half-past nine already : the evening had gone more quickly than she expected. She opened a book that lay on the corner of the mantelpiece, read the notes on the jacket and decided it was quite a time since Pamela's quicksilver movements had hurried upstairs. She replaced the book and wandered to the open door, to give a start of surprise at the sight of Pamela standing motionless in the hall, the long embroidered cream folds of the kaftan hanging over her arm.

  Shelley took a step forward, and her exclamation was stifled by Pamela's sharp turn and gesture of silence. Pamela held out her hand, beckoned and hissed, 'Listen!'

  `But what ?'

  `Ssh!'

  Pamela's stage training was in full sway now. Her body was curved forward, her piquant, beautifully clear-cut features intent on some drama she was suddenly creating.

  `Yes, but ...' Shelley stared her bewilderment at the familiar outlines of Julia's hall. The red and grey-dappled carpeting, the oak table with the telephone and the directories underneath, the banister rails marching up to the dim pool of light from the lantern wall bracket on the half-landing, the blurred murmur of the TV behind the dining-room door,

  the slight chill from under the glass door to the porch ... Then Pamela's hand closed over her wrist and the younger girl breathed against her ear : 'It's Myra! In there!'

  Myra! Shelley's first instinct was to run. Her second was to shake Pamela out of her stupid, playacting nonsense. Then she heard her own name sound within the unseen recesses beyond the not quite closed lounge door and the sweet husky voice that brought instant chill. Suddenly she could not move and as though it came through a long echoing space she heard Julia's voice raised as though in protest:

  you did crack his armour, you know, and cracked his pride, into the bargain. Isn't that enough?'

  `What about my pride?'

  'Myra, don't be an idiot ! What did you expect him to do? Get him to a monastery?'

  `Not put himself out of my reach by marrying a chit half his age. Darling, she's so naive! I can't believe for one moment he's in love with her.'

  Julia's voice altered. 'She's very sweet, and I think he's very fond of her. So—'

  `Fond! How crazy can men get on the rebound?'

  `Now listen, Myra. You can't blame anybody but yourself. I warned you two years ago, but you wouldn't listen. You're not in love with him, you can't be, so forget it, and leave Quinn out of your future plans, and this party next week, or ...'

  `Or what?' There was a soft laugh. 'I thought you were my closest friend, darling.'

  `I am, but Quinn's my brother and I'm not going to see you make trouble just because you want to assuage your self-importance and have a bit of fun at Shelley's expense. I'm warning you, Myra.'

  `I suppose you're right. All the same ...'

  `All the same—what?'

  Nothing—don't look so fierce, Julia, it's hell on your face when you get to thirty! But you must admit it's tempting.'

  `Thanks! Wrinkles are no respecters of anyone. And don't sidetrack.'

  `I'm not, I'm merely being honest. I can't help being

  tempted. There's something about stirring old embers, watching them flare ... and these particular embers are still very much alive—I know.'

  `Oh, th
e bitch !' Pamela gasped. 'The scheming, beastly she-pig! Did you

  `Pamela?' There was a sudden movement within the room. `Is that—?'

  `It's just me !' Pamela's reflexes were instant. She barged into the room, her hand behind her back waving a frantic signal to Shelley to keep away. 'I've just been getting my kaftan to try on—Hello, Myra, when did you blow in?'

  `I'll make some coffee,' said Julia. 'Where's Shelley?'

  `Here—we're going upstairs.' Pamela re-emerged, grabbed the still numb Shelley and literally dragged her upstairs before Julia got to the door.

  In the guest bedroom Pamela tossed the new kaftan carelessly across the bed and slammed the door shut. 'Of all the ... Shelley, are you all right?'

  `Yes, I—I didn't know she was— I—we shouldn't have listened.' Shelley sank on the bed, a rush of weakness pervading her limbs as fragments of that conversation began to reiterate through her head. 'She was in Rhodes. When we were there. The last day. I was frightened then. Oh, Pam, do you think she would? She couldn't try—try to—'

  `She couldn't!' Pamela stared worriedly at her. 'You look awfully white. Honestly, there's no need to panic, I'm sure. She was talking a load of sour grapes, that's all.' Pamela sat on the bed and put her arm round Shelley. 'You mustn't take it seriously. Old embers! I never heard such a load of guff. She's the dead ashes. You've got him. It's as simple as that.'

  But was it? Shelley shook her head wearily. She recalled the phone call the previous Sunday, Myra's cool assurance in Rhodes, the day that seemed so long ago when Myra had called and seemed so startled to find Shelley in residence at number eight. The older girl's animosity had been born then and no amount of outward friendliness could disguise it.

  With an effort she pulled herself back to a semblance of normality and heard Pamela saying : 'But don't worry, I'll

  get everything out of Julia. Yes, I'll tell her I heard, not you, and I'll threaten to tell you if she doesn't give me a full report. Then I'll ring you and tell you everything.'

  `No,' Shelley protested weakly, 'leave things alone. It'll only—'

  `Girls! Coffee's ready!'

  `Coming!' Pamela shouted. 'Here, try my new lipstick and then come down and spit in her eye.'

  `No,' Shelley waved away the proffered lipstick. 'I have to go. It's quarter to ten. If I leave now I'll make it.'

  Heedless of her own incoherencies and Pamela's startled protests, Shelley hurried downstairs and feverishly grabbed her cloak, her mind fixed on one thing only: if she left now she would get home before Quinn left. He could do the half-hour bus journey in fifteen minutes in the car. He mustn't come here and see Myra Delane.

  Leaving a still protesting Pamela to make excuses to Julia, she rushed along to the bus stop and fidgeted in an agony of impatience until the lighted bulk of the vehicle loomed out of the darkness. When she alighted at the end of Silverlane Mansions it was exactly sixteen minutes past ten.

  Shelley ran, through the cutting and between the old iron posts that barred traffic and into the lane that backed the long terrace. There were no dark shapes of cars along the deserted lane and her heart contracted as the thought came : if he'd gone, and Myra was still at Julia's ... Her racing steps echoed in the stillness, then she saw the dark shape and the metallic gleam of the car backing out of the garage. The wide sweep of the headlight illuminated the top end of the lane and she saw the deepening red glare of the brake lights as the car stopped at the end of its reverse sweep. In a moment it would drive off up the lane.

  `Stop!' she screamed. 'Quinn! Wait!'

  For a moment she thought she was too late. Then she saw the car wasn't moving and she shouted again, running the last few breathless steps to bring her abreast of the driver's door. Too spent to speak, she put her hand on the door and looked in at Quinn's amazed face.

  `Good heavens! It is you!'

  `Yes,' she gasped, 'I thought I'd missed you.'

  The window slid down and he said with some asperity : 'I told you I'd pick you up at ten-thirty.'

  'Yes, I know.' She took a deep breath and straightened. 'I wanted to save you the journey.'

  'Another minute and it would have been a wasted one.'

  Would it? She thought of Myra and wondered as she went slowly into the house. She heard the soft purr of the car and the thud of the garage door, and Quinn followed her in a moment or so later.

  'Like a sherry?'

  'No, thanks.'

  'Anything else? Some of that sweet cherry wine you liked? I think there's some left.'

  'No, thanks.' A Bloody Mary was the only tipple that would suit her present mood, she thought bitterly, if she could tip a bottleful over Myra Delane ! The reaction of anger was setting in now and she paced restlessly across the room, to drop into the wingchair by the fire. Was she all those things : a chit, naïve, half his age ... had he married her on the rebound?

  'Did you have a nice evening?' he asked at last.

  Nice evening!

  'Yes, very nice,' she said tonelessly. 'Quinn ...?'

  'Yes.'

  'I—I think I will have a drink—whatever you're having.'

  'I think not—this is my after-dinner drink, which I could not have until I was off the road,' he said dryly, putting down the glass of golden cognac. With deliberate movements he poured her a cream sherry and proffered the glass. 'What's the matter, Shelley?'

  'Nothing.' If Myra had wanted brandy she would have got it! Not a nice safe little sherry! Shelley took a gulp, then another, looked up at him and felt the nice safe sherry catch her breath unexpectedly.

  'Myra was there!' she blurted before she could stop herself.

  'Was she?' There was only the slightest hesitation before the query that wasn't a query. He turned away, his expression giving no hint to his reaction to the choked little statement.

  She watched him, conscious of the silence that seemed to grow more oppressive every moment and knowing now she could not summon the courage to enforce a discussion on his former relationship with Myra Delane. A sudden flash of insight told her that he would be honest, that he would tell her in cool, concise sentences the facts she already knew, and suddenly she did not want to hear those facts from his lips; she did not want ever to hear Myra Delane's name on his lips.

  She stood up and made an effort to appear casual. `Pamela's bought a new kaftan—I think I'd like one, if they finally decide to take the plaster off next Monday.' She hesitated uncertainly, looking at the broad outline of his shoulders. `I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Quinn.'

  The dark head did not turn. 'Sit down, Shelley.'

  A small tremor ran through her and ended in a clenching of her fingertips. 'It's getting late,' she said reluctantly.

  He looked at the clock, then at her worried face and shook his head. 'You might as well get it over. Sit down and tell me why you rushed home looking like a scared rabbit, for the only reason I can think of—my ex-fiancée happened to turn up to visit my sister, who happens to be her closest friend. Am I right?'

  `Yes,' she said in a low voice.

  `Why?'

  She was prepared for anything, sudden divulgences of undying love for the woman out of his past, protests that it was all over, assurances that she had to forget it all, everything but the flat question she couldn't possibly answer. `I—I don't know,' she said hopelessly.

  'No?' he said softly. 'I think I do.' He walked calmly to the fireside and looked down at her with calm eyes. 'I suppose I should have told you myself at the beginning, but with Myra being a relation of Derek's and so closely involved with the family, I knew that someone was bound to tell you. If not Julia, then certainly Pamela. You did know, didn't you? Long before I even asked you to marry me.'

  `Yes,' she murmured.

  `And you never gave any indication of curiosity about her, despite that honesty campaign you were so intent on, so why should it suddenly have this effect on you?'

  She looked down at her hands, and after a pause he went on calmly : 'My engagement to Myra Dela
ne ended eighteen months ago. Since then I've seen her exactly three times. On the last occasion you were with me. It's highly improbable that I shall see her three times within the next eighteen months, during such times no doubt you will again be with me. Does that settle these sudden doubts that seem to have beset you?'

  If only it did! Shelley sighed hopelessly. He had told her exactly as she had foreseen, and he had told her nothing that eased the cold fear born tonight during a few moments of guilty eavesdropping in Julia's hall. She made an effort to shake off the stranglehold of silence and said as casually as she could: 'It's not that I want to pry, it's just that—I suppose most girls are curious about the first woman in a man's life.' She shook her head. 'That's all.'

  He moved abruptly and a flash of something like puzzlement crossed his face. He reached into a carved ivory box and extracted a cigarette and regarded her over the flame as he lit it. 'I may as well be honest, Shelley, Myra was not the first woman. There was a girl called Jacqueline, but it wasn't very serious. I think she went to Australia eventually and married an airline pilot.'

  'Oh.' Shelley sounded disinterested. A girl called Jacqueline who might have gone to Australia and married an airline pilot roused not the remotest twinge of jealousy or fear in her heart. She doubted if she was really envious of Myra because she was part of Quinn's past, but she was deeply afraid of what Myra might try to do in Quinn's future. She said slowly : 'You don't have to tell me. It—it makes me feel like an—an inquisitor, or something, and—'

  'No, Shelley.' He sat back on the edge of the desk and there was a strange light in his eyes. 'There's something you have to understand. Try to imagine yourself at the age of thirty-four. Do you think you could have existed till that age

  without ever forming a relationship with someone of the opposite sex? Yes, I've loved other women before I met you. But love wears many masks, as I believe that sculptor friend of yours has already tried to explain to you, and sometimes it's the mask we fall in low with. When that happens it's dangerously easy to make a mistake—and easier still not to discover that mistake until it's too late.'