by Maggie Ford
They drank their coffee and waited impatiently for the bill. Their waiter looked mildly surprised at the untouched sandwiches and cakes but well pleased at the tip Chester left, though manners forbade him to handle it except to bear it away on its plate as if it had nothing to do with him.
Emerging from the quiet, cool air of the Ritz into the thin sunshine of late March they were instantly assaulted by traffic noise along Piccadilly. A few yards on they turned left in the direction of Green Park.
Chester had already tucked her arm through his in the most natural way, leaving her feeling somewhat disconcerted and wondering why she hadn’t withdrawn her arm immediately as she should have done.
Twenty-Five
‘I have to go out for an hour or so, Simon. I’m seeing a buyer. I’ll be back in time for lunch, OK?’
Simon glanced up from looking over a new consignment of costume jewellery made up from his most recent designs. He shook his head with a mild gesture of remonstration. ‘I’m sure you’re working too hard, darling. Don’t overdo things. Let the buyers come to us.’
Julia felt a flush of guilt touch her cheeks and tried not to admit to the fact that she was being just a little dishonest. But what was so wrong in having coffee with an old friend now and again? She was only seeing Chester casually once a fortnight. What was wrong was not having mentioned it to Simon, turning it into something furtive. Worse, she’d begun to look forward to seeing Chester. She knew she should have spoken out at the beginning. After all, Chester was an old friend. But to mention their meetings now after two months would only make them sound suspicious.
‘That’s how it goes,’ she lied as cheerily as she could. ‘See you for lunch then, darling,’ and hurried off before he could say any more, in her hurry failing to see the puzzled frown that touched his brow.
Simon stood staring at the door for some time after she had gone. She was impeccably dressed, as always, especially whenever she went to meet a buyer or anyone who might benefit the business. It was expected. He did the same: his shoes shone fit to see his reflection in, his suit brushed, shirt crisp, trousers well pressed, his tie exactly the right shade. Finally Julia would brush his trilby before he put it on.
So he was not surprised that she was dressed stunningly. What baffled him was the high colour that touched her cheeks these days when she hurried off to meet someone. She was not normally a nervous person.
* * *
A frantic ringing of the doorbell to their apartment awoke Julia. It was dark. She shook Simon awake. ‘What… what… is it?’ he stammered, hardly yet awake.
‘Someone’s hanging on our doorbell!’ Julia shouted in his ear and fumbled for the bedside table lamp. She switched it on and glanced at the alarm clock. ‘It’s two thirty in the morning!’
It was Wednesday. They’d gone to bed early the night before so as to be ready for another exacting day packing buyers’ selections to be made up at the factory they used – so many numbers per order and several orders coming in regularly over the weeks.
Simon sat up as the ringing continued, spasmodic and frantic.
‘Some drunk?’ Julia queried.
‘I shouldn’t think so. But it sounds urgent.’
She watched him slip out of bed, struggle into a dressing gown and slippers and make for the window that overlooked the Mews and the front door. He wrenched up the sash to lean out and she heard him call down. A female voice, high-pitched and frenzied, answered.
He withdrew his head and made for the bedroom door, calling back to her as he flung it open, ‘It’s Virginia. She says it’s an emergency – your mother.’
In one leap, Julia was out of bed and following him. By the time she was down he was already at the front door, had unlocked and opened it. Ginny almost fell into his arms.
‘It’s Mummy! I think she’s having a fit or a heart attack! I don’t know what to do. Her skin’s gone all sweaty and her eyes are rolling up into her head. She’s as white as a sheet.’
‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ said Simon, handing the trembling girl over to Julia and running upstairs for the phone.
Ginny was dragging her outside. ‘I’ve got to get back to her. Come with me, Julia. I don’t want be alone with her.’ She was crying. All Julia had on was a thin silk nightdress but it was a warm night and Ginny needed her.
* * *
They sat in the hospital waiting room as dawn broke, slowly and begrudgingly brightening to a splendid sun whose light was dulled for them by the smoke-begrimed windows. Even in the warmth of May backstreet families still cooked on open kitchen grates.
Finally a grave-faced doctor came into the waiting room to speak to them. Faces strained, wearied by lack of sleep, they looked up at him in hope. The sight of his expression dashed that hope even before he spoke.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, but Ginny had already begun to weep silently. ‘We did everything possible,’ he went on, looking at the other two after a brief glance towards the younger girl.
Julia and Simon had stood up at his entrance. Now Julia nodded and said stiffly, ‘Thank you.’ Why was she thanking him? Yet she repeated her words. ‘Thank you anyway.’
She hardly heard the information they were being given as she took Ginny to her; Ginny, the only one in the end who had truly given her time to their mother, and who, she supposed, had loved her far more than the rest of them.
Poor girl, she thought as they made their way home. In August she and Robert were getting married. It was to be a big wedding, and there were only a few things still left to do. The dresses were made, the cake and carriages ordered, the church and hotel booked. How would Ginny get through it now? Without her mother there, how could it ever be what it was meant to be: a bride’s happiest day?
‘I did love her,’ Ginny sobbed.
‘I did too,’ said Julia, holding her tightly, trying to still the sobbing.
During the funeral service and around the graveside, she kept thinking, Did I love her? Did I ever love her?
The question prompted a disturbing sense of having merely pretended affection for her mother during all those years of caring for her, suffering Victoria’s endless complaints about her situation and her refusal to move on after the loss of her husband. Julia alone had got her mother and the rest of the family through the bad times, always trying to get Victoria to find a little more courage to face the world as life improved. But she never had and her attitude had soured any love Julia had ever had for her. As she watched the coffin being gently lowered into the ground, she was shaken by a sudden realization; that all along there had lurked in her a tiny seed of resentment against her mother.
She confided those thoughts to her brother as the funeral party came away. It didn’t seem appropriate to say such things to Simon. But all James said was, ‘You did your best, Sis. No one could have done more than you’ve done for us.’
He had been philosophical about his mother’s death, accepting it as inevitable, sooner or later.
‘Thanks to you, Sis, Mother was at least comfortably off when she died, and had no worries to plague her at the end,’ he said as the funeral guests said their goodbyes to each other to go their separate ways.
So that was it. Her mother was dead. The family would scatter with no focal point to keep it together any longer, though in recent years its members had found that focal point more a chore than a pleasure. James and Caroline had seldom come to see Victoria, and nor had Stephanie and Edward. They had their own little families to carry them onward.
Once Ginny and Robert were married, Ginny would no longer work for her. As a newly married woman she would automatically give up work to take on the role of wife to the man she loved. Ginny though, unlike the other two, promised to continue to visit. ‘We must always keep in touch, always!’ she would say to Julia time after time, as if she regretted having to give up her modelling.
Even so Julia was already feeling deserted. Simon seemed to be taking her for granted more and more, that passion they’d on
ce known dwindling into the commonplace. Would marriage to him make any difference now?
What did brighten her, guiltily, was the prospect of seeing Chester. Aware of her growing pleasure in these meetings she’d told him several times that she couldn’t see him on a regular basis, emphasizing that they were merely old friends. But his agreement to that did little to quell the excited churning in her stomach as they drove to a little restaurant somewhere. She couldn’t help feeling as if there were something grubby about their meetings, yet he never gave the slightest indication of having any ulterior designs on her.
To offset her own feelings she’d make a point of talking about Simon, her business, her family, or listened to him speaking of his life. She no longer felt angry with him; too much water had flowed under the bridge since the end of their relationship, and she was aware that he’d also had his share of trouble, compelled to submit to his parents’ will and now going through a divorce. She even told herself that in the long run she had done better than he, and insisted to herself that they were just old friends. So why did she experience this churning excitement?
This afternoon she sat beside him in the car, the early June sunshine pouring down on them tempered by the slight breeze created by the moving vehicle. Taking the back streets, they headed towards the Ritz but a little beforehand he slowed the car and came to a stop by Green Park.
‘I thought we might not have tea yet,’ he said. ‘It’s a lovely afternoon. We could take a stroll in the park instead and have tea afterwards.’
It was such a splendid afternoon that she readily agreed. There would be no need for small talk; they could just walk and enjoy the fresh air.
They said little to each other; there seemed nothing much really to talk about, and she was beginning to think about getting back home. She even found herself wondering why she continued to see him, calling herself an idiot. She was on the verge of telling him there was no point in either of them continuing to meet, when he suddenly remarked, ‘You must be feeling quite thirsty by now.’
‘Gasping,’ she said, smiling.
He looked about at the expanse of trees and lawns and pulled a face. ‘There doesn’t seem anywhere to get a drink.’
‘We passed a kiosk as we came in,’ she suggested, but he brightened.
‘You know, we’re not far from my place. In fact it’s just over there.’ He pointed towards their left. ‘We’re so near. Blow going back to the kiosk! We can have a proper drink.’
Julia bit her lip. ‘I don’t think so, Chester.’
‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’
‘I have to be getting back very soon.’
‘We’ve only been out half an hour or so. It’s just a quick drink. It’s so very hot. You’ll feel nice and refreshed to return home. If I know you, you’ll plough straight into work and won’t drink anything at all. On a hot day like this, that won’t do you any good. Come on,’ he coaxed, laughing.
There was no hint of any hidden design in his laugh and she laughed in turn at herself for that fleeting touch of suspicion. And she did feel frightfully thirsty.
‘Then we can walk back to the car. It’s only a short distance,’ he was calling over his shoulder as he led the way at a quickening pace, almost leaving her to trail behind. ‘You’ll be home again before you know it.’
His home was beautiful. It had the touch of a woman’s hand on it. Whoever she was her photo was everywhere. There was one beside a great vase of roses on the grand piano in the huge lounge, another on the sideboard, one on the mantelpiece and another on a small desk in the corner. There was even a small one on a coffee table. Suddenly Julia felt deep sympathy for him. He must have loved her, maybe still did.
She touched one of the photos. ‘Is this your wife?’
He nodded, then said, ‘So, what’ll it be, cocktail, brandy and soda? I have some wine or would you prefer a long drink? Or there’s coffee or tea if you prefer.’
He was questioning her far too rapidly. ‘What’s her name?’ she asked. ‘You have never mentioned her by name.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s all over anyway. Now what do you fancy?’ Julia gave up. ‘I’d like a long drink, port and lemonade if you have it.’
They sat side by side on the sofa, she with her tall glass, he sipping a whisky. He had turned on the radio. It was playing soft music. Julia listened without speaking for he was gazing ahead as if she were not there.
After a while she said, ‘It a nice wireless,’ more for something to say, to break the silence, than for any other reason.
‘It’s a radiogram,’ he replied.
They fell quiet again. Then he seemed to pull himself together. ‘Look, I’m not much company. I’ve turned into a miserable sod. Perhaps I should take you home.’
On impulse Julia took his hand. ‘You’re not a miserable sod, Chester. You must feel really down, you and your wife breaking up. You’ve never really told me about it. I don’t know whose fault it was…’
‘No one’s fault, just didn’t work out, that’s all.’
She wanted to say that if that was the case, things might right themselves, but she merely continued to sit there silently, his hand in hers. Or now it seemed her hand was in his.
‘You’re such a good person,’ he was saying in a low voice. ‘I should have held on to you. I did love you, you know, very much. I was such a fool.’
She realized that his free hand was covering hers and out of nowhere came that warm excitement, overwhelming this time. As she whispered his name he leaned towards her until his lips touched hers. In an instinctive move her arm went about his neck, holding the kiss as together they sank down on the sofa. She heard his voice in her ear but didn’t know what he said. She felt him undo her clothing but made no move to stop him. Something in her wanted this. It wasn’t love, it was a need. His hands were caressing her breasts, moving over her body to wring a responsive sigh of pleasure from her. But as the touch became more eager, she tensed. This wasn’t love, only a sensation of love, and it was wrong. ‘Chester… no!’
He stopped. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘We mustn’t. We really mustn’t.’
‘I have protection,’ he whispered. ‘No need to worry.’
Maybe not, but suddenly Julia had thought of Stephanie, of how free she had been with a man, or maybe more than one, and she felt ashamed. She had wanted to hang on to that delicious sensation, abandon herself to this need she’d felt but all she said was, ‘I’m sorry, Chester. I can’t.’
She had her eyes tightly shut as he lifted himself off her. She heard him go from the lounge and only then did she open her eyes, sit up and slowly adjust her clothing.
He had come back into the room to sit on the edge of an armchair, his hands linked together between his knees, his gaze on her. ‘I am still in love with you, you know,’ he whispered.
She didn’t reply but sat, awkward and embarrassed, and then, feeling she had to take charge of the painful situation, said, ‘I must go home.’
She saw him nod but he said nothing and she took a deep breath to compose her jangled nerves.
‘I didn’t finish my drink,’ she said.
‘No, you didn’t.’
The heat of excitement had melted away and now she felt completely drained. Yet she knew she wanted to see him again, to feel his hands on her body again and maybe next time… No, she wouldn’t think of next time.
He must have read her mind. ‘Will I see you again?’ he asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asked slowly.
‘Yes,’ she said again. There was nothing more to say, but both were aware that next time would see the fulfilment of what today had been left uncompleted.
Twenty-Six
It was July. She’d been seeing Chester on and off since March. She was sure she had set Simon wondering sometimes. Her cheeks would grow hot when he regarded her with that enquiring look he�
��d begun to adopt. He would frown but never once asked questions, which was all the more worrying.
If he’d thought her off colour surely he’d have asked if she was all right. He never did, and that made her certain he suspected something. She hated deceiving him. She still loved him. Yet it was Chester who fulfilled her needs.
The excuse of meeting buyers or clients had been used too often to sound convincing any longer, though of course she did visit shops, checking who stocked her labels, but her work was falling by the wayside – another thing to make Simon frown, make him suspect that something was very wrong.
‘I don’t know what I’d to do if Simon found out,’ she said to Chester.
From the start she’d allowed him to make love to her only infrequently and then not fully, afraid that one day they might become carried away and forget to take precautions. She was sure he would have the sense to be careful. He didn’t want an accident any more than she did, her primary concern always of Simon finding out. Deep down he was the one she loved.
‘We shouldn’t meet too often,’ she’d said ‘in case he does find out.’
‘Are you worried?’ Chester would challenge, too lightly for her peace of mind. He had nothing to lose, soon to be divorced. She had everything to lose. Even if he wanted to marry her after his divorce, did she want to marry him? What she wanted was to be married to Simon. The brief excitement of being with Chester wasn’t what she really yearned for. In truth, all she was doing was jeopardizing her own happiness for an occasional thrill with a man who’d already let her down once, even though he swore he still loved her.
‘This Simon isn’t married to you,’ he’d often reminded her.
But I love him, came the irrational thought. The idea of losing him made her go cold. ‘It’s all becoming too risky,’ she now said inadequately.
Chester had laughed softly. ‘It’s a little late to be getting cold feet,’ he had pointed out. But seconds later he’d become intense. ‘I still love you, Julia. I made such a mistake last time. I won’t ever make it again, my sweet darling.’