Summertime

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Yes, do come up.’ She smiled and he started to follow her up to her suite of rooms, until she reached the doorway when she turned and said, ‘Except I have just remembered I, er, have . . . you know. Goodness, I am getting vague, aren’t I?’ As Lewis stared at her, at first not quite understanding, Trilby went on in a rush, ‘Goodness, I am sorry, Lewis. How silly, I should have remembered. It must be painting, makes me so preoccupied, I hardly know the time of day, let alone the time of the month nowadays.’

  Lewis’s forehead started to redden as he slowly took in the implication of her words, and her emphasis on the word month.

  He hated to be thwarted at any time, and just at that moment he loathed it. But he realised at one that there was nothing to be done, and if Trilby had become a little vague in that respect then it was not to be wondered at. At least she had not turned him down, which, given the hiccup of the past weeks, he had begun to suspect might easily have happened, forcing him into a situation which could risk sending her back to take refuge in alcoholism and heaven only knew what.

  ‘Well, if it is not to be, it is not to be.’

  ‘Soon, Lewis.’

  He nodded, turning away and going back down the wide corridor to his own rooms. ‘I quite understand.’ He kissed a fingertip to her, and let himself into his own suite.

  As he did so Trilby thought she could almost hear him swearing, and as she turned to go into her own rooms she thought she could also hear him thinking, ‘Well, well, in a few days’ time, then, it will be all right. Just give her a few days, and then I will be back in her bed again!’

  Trilby lay against her shut bedroom door, her mouth still dry, her pulse still beating faster, it seemed to her, than it had ever beaten in her life, and stared ahead of her.

  She realised at once, given the danger just past, that she could not keep up this barrier against going back to having a husband in the fullest sense of the word for more than a few days, which meant that in a very little time Lewis would be back in her bed, visiting her every afternoon after lunch, and then again in the evenings sometimes, intent on getting her pregnant for the second time. As nausea threatened to overcome her, not at the idea of another pregnancy but at just the thought of Lewis touching her, let along making love to her, she fled to her bathroom and put her head over the basin, at the same time splashing her face with cold water.

  What was she to do? Soon, and it would not be long, Lewis would once more be staring at her over lunch or dinner, and following her up the stairs, wanting her to have his babies, wanting her back in the clothes that he so liked her to wear, reducing her, daily, to being his amatory servant, never once thinking that she had a mind of her own.

  As Trilby dressed she quite put out of her mind any possibility that she might not stay with Lewis any more. To even think of escape was too liberating. Besides, she might, without realising, just by imagining such an eventuality, let her eyes glow unnaturally, or she might look suddenly carefree or, worst of all, in love.

  Trilby had learned many things from her relationship with her father, but most of all she had learned never to underestimate the male mind. Men had women’s intuition too.

  What was more, they could recognise the slightest change in the colour of someone’s skin, the look in their eyes, their tone of voice. Remembering this, a lesson sometimes learned the hard way when living in her father’s house, Trilby powdered her face with a pale powder, darkened her eyes a little, and left off her lipstick. After all, she had to act out what she had just implied to Lewis. Not to do so would mean certain discovery.

  Having bathed and changed, and wearing a dress bought for her only recently by Lewis, Trilby descended the stairs to the hall. Paine came forward.

  ‘You look very nice tonight, Mrs James, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ he murmured as he went to open the library door for her.

  Trilby smiled gratefully. Paine and she had become friends the first day she had arrived for luncheon in Lewis’s house, when he had advised her to keep her borrowed coat with the lining that matched her borrowed dress.

  ‘Thank you, Paine.’ Trilby listened to the sound her voice made and then, realising it did not sound quite as it should, quite as low in tone, quite as full of suffering as might be necessary, she said again, ‘Thank you.’

  Satisfied that she had hit a better note she walked towards her father and stepmother, her hands out in welcome.

  Her stepmother inclined her head towards Trilby, as she always did, giving her stepdaughter the impression that if she could get away with not kissing her she would, but since she could not, she would give in gracelessly and allow Trilby to peck her on the cheek. Her father on the other hand gave her a quick, loving embrace, and sat down again.

  ‘Trilby’s still looking a bit peaky, isn’t she, Lewis? She’s still looking a bit thin and pale, to my mind.’

  Lewis looked momentarily awkward. For a second it seemed that his father-in-law might hold him responsible for the whitened state of his daughter’s outward demeanour.

  ‘Only to be expected.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Michael Smythson turned the lighted end of his cigarette towards himself, studying its fiery tip with simulated interest.

  ‘She’s much better than she was,’ Lewis murmured.

  But it seemed that Michael would not let the matter rest, because he continued staring at Trilby. ‘I thought you would look a bit better than this by now, Trilby, really I did. You should get this husband of yours to take you away for a big change, really you should. Get him to take you somewhere exotic. After all, he can afford it, can’t he!’

  Trilby must have looked astonished, because her father gave a sudden grunt of laughter. It was not like her father to mention money, let alone Lewis’s money, nor to shout with laughter in that sudden way. He had quite obviously drunk too many martinis before leaving Glebe Street, but, worse than that, it seemed that he did not care who knew it.

  ‘Michael. Please.’

  Agnes looked beautiful, sour, and solemn, all at the same time. Money was a very serious subject as far as Agnes was concerned, probably because, Trilby thought, she always felt that she had never had quite enough.

  Michael Smythson must definitely have had too many cocktails before leaving home, or perhaps he simply did not care any more what Lewis, or Agnes, or Trilby or indeed the hovering Paine might think, because he continued inexorably, ‘Yes, this husband of yours, Trilby, he can afford to take you away somewhere exotic, somewhere you can eat good food, build up a tan, put this whole pregnancy thing behind you. Because that’s what you need, believe me. I know because I need it too. We both need a great big change. You need to get away from this stuffy old house, and everyone in it, and I need to get away from my stuffy old house and everyone in it too.’

  To fill the astonished pause that followed this outburst, Trilby said quickly, ‘Lewis has been very kind, he has bought me a studio.’

  ‘A studio is not a holiday, Trilby.’ Her father put a heavy arm across Trilby’s slender shoulders, weighing her down as if determined to din into her the thought that she was in dire need of a holiday. ‘You need to get away from all the bad memories of this place, get away from this dratted old husband of yours, get away from everything and everybody. Really, you do. I know I do!’

  No-one knew this more than Trilby, but looking up into her father’s eyes she saw a desperate despair that she had never seen before, and she knew at once that for some reason he was trying to help her escape Lewis, trying to free her from this luxurious cage in which she was now incarcerated, but most of all perhaps trying to help her escape in a way that he would like to escape Agnes.

  As always, Paine came to the rescue. ‘Dinner is served, madam.’

  Trilby nodded her thanks to Paine, but as she stood up and walked ahead of them all in to dinner, she wondered, how did Michael know? Or rather what did he know? Was he aware of her misery? He could not know about Piers. Certainly Agnes could not know about Piers, not that s
he would care if she did. After all, if there was one virtue in Agnes’s egomania it was that she was without the slightest interest in anyone except herself.

  ‘That was a perfectly terrible evening.’

  Lewis stared across at Trilby. Her parents had left early, she and Lewis were alone, and he was staring at her as if she was totally responsible for the whole debacle. Agnes, beautifully dressed in a pale green strapless satin evening dress and matching coat, her swept back dark hair coiffured to within an inch of its life, had sat for most of the evening in frozen silence. Michael on the other hand had sat holding on to a bottle of wine and drinking it all by himself, before trying to do the same to the port, while either end of the table Lewis quite obviously seethed and Trilby, bit by little bit, started to work out a plan of escape. It had to be soon, it had to be now, delay was impossible. Somehow what her father had said to her about getting away, everything that he had, admittedly drunkenly, stated, had served to panic her into realising that she did have to leave Lewis, immediately.

  Lewis was still grumbling vociferously. Dutifully, Trilby focused her attention on him.

  ‘I know. I am sorry, Lewis. I have never, ever seen my father like that before. He never loses control. I don’t know what has happened to him, to make him like that. He must be terribly unhappy, or have had bad news, something like that.’

  ‘It is none of your father’s business whether I care to take you away on holiday, or not. None of his business!’

  ‘I know. I agree. But he was only being concerned. He is my father, and like any father, I suppose, he worries.’

  ‘He was boring and boorish tonight, not to mention hanging on to my wine like that. The manners! And in front of the servants. Behaving like that in front of Paine, the maids, everyone. In future, Trilby, you will do us both a favour by going to see your parents in their house, and not inviting them here.’

  ‘Very well.’ Trilby knew it was more than likely that Paine would be listening outside the door. ‘I wonder if you could lower your voice a little, Lewis? I mean, you know, it would be less embarrassing for both of us.’

  ‘No, I will not. I will shout if I like. And I do like. I have never known behaviour like it. The man is a lout. He will never be asked again.’ Lewis lit up a cigarette and started to walk about the room. ‘You really should have asked other people with them. It is quite hopeless asking a couple like that on their own. They are just not interesting enough. If you had asked other people with them your father would not have dared to be so impolite to me, and in front of the servants too. On and on he went. I thought he would never stop.’

  ‘He’s not usually like that, really, he isn’t.’

  But Lewis was not listening. He continued to pace up and down, talking more to himself than to her. ‘You should have learned how to entertain by now, Trilby, but you quite obviously have not. I always remember the first evening we had a dinner here, remember?’

  ‘Yes.’ Trilby’s voice had grown, if it were possible, duller at the realisation of what he was on the point of reminding her about. ‘Yes, I remember.’

  This did not stop Lewis. ‘You did all the placement wrong. You embarrassed everyone with the wrong cards, everyone seated in the wrong places.’

  ‘One of the staff did that, Lewis. Apparently it is par for the course, when you are new to a place.’

  Lewis did not hear her. ‘It was perfectly terrible. Happily for you everyone I had invited, every single person, had been before, or they might never have come again.’

  ‘Would that have mattered? After all they were all quite boring, Lewis. All your friends are really quite heartbreakingly boring. They only know how to talk about clothes or the servant problem, and their answer to world problems is just to drop an atom bomb on everyone.’

  But Lewis did not seem to hear this either, or else he chose, momentarily, to ignore Trilby, because he went on, ‘I shall never forget that. It was then that I realised just how much I would have to take you in hand, how far I had to go before you would understand what was required of you . . . What was that you said?’

  Trilby stood up and moved swiftly towards the door. She had no idea why she had suddenly said what she had, but since she had she wrenched open the door, inwardly sighing with relief when she saw Paine straightening up in the hall outside.

  Thank heavens for Paine and his nosy ways. Indeed, thank heavens for having servants, for at such moments they acted as a protection.

  ‘Good night, Paine. And thank you. Everything was perfect.’

  Trilby tried to smile at him and failed. They both knew that whatever the quality of the dinner the company had been everything except perfect.

  Perhaps Paine noticed the sudden unwanted tears in Trilby’s eyes as she turned away, because he whispered, sotto voce, ‘Don’t worry, Mrs James, really, it’s just his way. Mr James likes to put people in the wrong, even me, madam, and I’ve been here over ten years. Gets some kind of a kick out of it, I always think.’

  Trilby was just about to answer when the library door started to open again. The butler quickly grabbed the handle from the other side and once more assumed his most austere expression as he solemnly reopened it, and Trilby ran up the stairs to her bedroom suite quickly and quietly locked the door behind her.

  She lay down on her bed in the dark and stared at her mistakes, at her marriage, at her own shortcomings, examining what she could have done, and what she should do now.

  She had been too long in leaving Lewis. She should have left him after the miscarriage. Staying with him in the hope that he would somehow change had been, and still could be, a disaster.

  Hearing a footfall outside in the corridor she half sat up, staring at her bedroom door. Lewis, along with her father, had drunk too much at dinner and most especially after dinner, and that might encourage him to think that he could come and see her. Stealthily she switched on her pink-shaded bedroom light and found herself watching the bedroom door handle with fascinated eyes. It was turning, slowly, so slowly. Quickly she shut off the light and lay back, her heart beating. Thank God she had locked the door.

  She packed nothing except an overnight bag, knowing that whatever she took might be a clue to where she was going, and besides, Lewis had chosen all the clothes in the wardrobe for her, and she wanted none of them.

  Morning seemed to be a century in coming, as it always is when you wait for it, but at last, little by little, Trilby saw the light coming up over London and heard first the milk float and then the newspaper boy, and eventually a number of taxis picking up and dropping early risers, or perhaps people only just going to bed.

  From high above Trilby was intent on watching for only one thing and that was Lewis’s car picking up Lewis and driving him away from the house, driving him away for long enough for Trilby to escape him.

  At last there it was, and the chauffeur was busy polishing its already very polished exterior and waiting to open the door for Lewis, which he did some twenty minutes later, Lewis handing him his briefcase to put on the front seat.

  As soon as the car started on its way, Trilby ran towards her bedroom door dressed in travelling clothes and carrying only a small suitcase. She sprang down the stairs two or three at a time. She had locked the door behind her, stuffing the keyhole with paper, and left the radio on in the hope that it would sound as if she was still inside her suite. She knew that the chances were that Lewis would come back, that he would make some excuse and return, because he was like that, and sure enough, no sooner had she crossed the street to the other side than she saw the famous flying lady on the front of the Rolls-Royce returning. She crouched down behind a parked car and watched with frightened eyes as Lewis got out of the car again and stood looking up at the house to her bedroom window, but, perhaps because she had taken care to leave her curtains drawn, he remained for only a minute or so before stepping back into the Rolls again, and being driven off once more.

  Minutes went by, but since he had not returned Trilby dared to doub
le back to the mews where she garaged her Morris. Getting in, starting up, threading her way from Holland Park towards Richmond, the open road and freedom, seemed to take for ever. In Trilby’s mind it actually took a century before at last the road in front of her was open, and she was able to stop and stare at a map, and wonder where on earth she was, and why.

  She had money, but she knew money was not what would protect her from Lewis. The only possible way of protecting herself from Lewis would be to hide away somewhere so remote that he would not be able to find her, and to hide away in such a fashion that she could not be recognised by anyone.

  She had left Lewis a letter explaining that she no longer loved him, that she had not had enough time before marrying him to get to know him, and that now she had she was unable to stay, as they were quite obviously not suited, and that she wanted nothing from him, just peace of mind. This would, she imagined, be enough to put an end to most marriages, but not she knew to hers. Nothing would stop Lewis from coming after her. He did not have the mentality to give up. Anyone as violently possessive as Lewis would never give up chasing after someone he imagined he now owned, and once he caught up with her there was no knowing what he would do. She realised now that he must be, in many ways, what a more normal person would call – mad. He was possessed by possession, he had to dominate everyone and everything, and he would not, perhaps could not, ever change.

  Stopping at traffic lights Trilby stared at herself momentarily in her driving mirror. What she needed now, more than anything, and urgently, was a complete change. She parked outside a chemist’s shop near Berry’s studio in Tankridge Street, and quickly made some purchases.

  ‘Titian is as Titian does,’ said Berry, staring at Trilby, ‘but lud, Trilby ducks, I think it’s quite good. I may yet be a challenge to your old friend André of Mayfair.’