Dead Romantic

by Simon Brett

  ‘I’m sure you will manage.’

  ‘If only I could make contact when I need to talk to you.’

  ‘I’ve told you about the situation with my wife. You can’t possibly ring me at home, I’m afraid.’ He felt increasingly glad that he had fabricated a spouse for this particular encounter; the housewife promised to be very clinging, given the opportunity.

  ‘Surely I can ring you at the school.’

  He shook his head. ‘My secretary is the nosiest woman I have ever encountered. She’s a widow who fills the emptiness of her life by creating romances for everyone she meets. You can ring me at the school only if you want to put me out of business.’

  ‘Well, it’s just so. . . When you love someone, you want to be with them all the time.’

  She was nearing post-coital tears. Julian briskly put on his jacket, straightened his almost-regimental tie and smoothed his hair back in the bedroom mirror. Then he made for the door.

  ‘I’ll ring you,’ he lied.

  Madeleine lay in a hot bath on the Thursday evening, feeling satisfied with her day. She had washed her red-gold hair, which once again fanned out in the water, a detail from Millais’ Ophelia. She raised one delicate toe and pushed the tap for an infusion of hot water.

  She had had her lunch with Laura and, as anticipated, Laura had wanted to talk. Her aunt could see this as soon as the girl walked into the health-food restaurant. Laura was thin, excessively thin for Madeleine’s tastes. Madeleine reckoned a certain opulence of line was a prerequisite of feminine beauty. Nor would she have accentuated the angularity with the loosely-hanging, garishly-striped T-shirt dress that Laura had chosen. The hair, too, could have been shown to better advantage. It was reddish, not of course of the same splendour as Madeleine’s, more of an auburn, really, but not an unattractive colour. The short, lop-sided cut did not do a great deal for it, though. And no one, surely, could think that those silver ear-rings dangling from a row of perforations were actually attractive . . . Still, Laura was young. It would take her a few years to develop her own style, Madeleine reflected indulgently.

  She felt great warmth for her niece as they embraced. It was good for them to be together again. There was a reassuring furrow on Laura’s brow which denoted a problem and which promised confidences.

  Laura’s problem, it soon became clear, was love, and Madeleine, her past experience of the subject now intensified by the new feelings for Bernard that were growing within her, felt more than competent to offer advice.

  Laura’s problem, for once, though, was not unrequited love. The man involved, Terry, apparently felt for her on exactly the same scale as she felt for him. The problem was one of parental opposition, strong opposition from Aggie.

  As the situation was unfolded to her, Madeleine glowed. This was her kind of scene, one at which she knew she excelled.

  Quickly, she dramatised it in her mind into a Romeo and Juliet scenario, with Aggie cast as both Montagus and Capulets. Laura and Terry became the ‘star-cross’d lovers’ and she, Madeleine Severn, would have to take the part of a benign Friar Laurence.

  ‘Mum’s being an absolute pig about it,’ Laura had said, as they settled down with their bean-sprout and kidney-bean salads, their grainy wholemeal bread and their carrot juice.

  ‘She doesn’t like him?’

  ‘Certainly the impression she’s giving.’

  ‘What about Keith?’

  Laura shrugged. ‘Keith doesn’t have a mind of his own. He thinks whatever Mum thinks.’

  Madeleine gave a pained nod. ‘Yes. I’m afraid I never could quite fathom that relationship. I know I shouldn’t say it about your mother, but I just do not understand what she sees in him.’

  Laura gave a wry grin. ‘Sex. Pure and simple. Nothing more than that. God, you should try living in the house with them. Bloody embarrassing. They’re at it all the time.’

  Madeleine curled her lip. ‘Well, yes, I can see that that would be part of it, but surely not enough to. . . She caught Laura’s curious expression, and retreated quickly. She did not wish to appear ignorant of the powers of sex. And the unaccustomed feelings that Bernard had aroused made her wonder whether perhaps in the past she had underestimated its influence. ‘No, I suppose you’re right,’ she conceded. ‘There’s no explaining physical attraction.’

  ‘No, and that’s what makes Mum’s behaviour to me over Terry so bloody annoying. Bloody hypocritical, in fact.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Terry and me. . .’ Laura blushed prettily. In spite of her surface poise, she was still only seventeen, and not a very worldly-wise seventeen. ‘I mean, ours is a physical relationship, too.’

  ‘You mean you’ve slept together?’

  ‘Sure.’ The word was meant to sound casual and defiant, but Laura still coloured as she said it.

  ‘Does Aggie know?’

  ‘I haven’t actually told her, but she must be bloody stupid if she can’t work it out for herself.’

  ‘Is Terry older than you?’

  Laura nodded. ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Separated. You see, he’s working down here in Brighton on a building project. He’s an architect. So he’s only here weekdays, and he’s staying in this guest-house, and there’s no way he can take me back there, so we’re–’

  Madeleine interrupted. ‘Where does he go at weekends?’

  ‘Back to Hereford. He’s still got a house there.’

  ‘Are you sure he hasn’t still got a wife there?’

  ‘She may live there, but I told you they’re separated.’

  ‘Then why does he go back every weekend?’

  ‘His mother. She’s in a nursing-home. Getting very frail now. He feels he must see her whenever he can. Doesn’t think she’ll be around for very much longer.’

  ‘Hmm. And Aggie won’t have him in the house?’

  Laura’s head shook impatiently. ‘It’s not that. On the couple of occasions they’ve met, she’s been more or less civil to him. That’s not the problem. It’s just that whenever I mention the idea of me staying away for a night, she thinks I’m planning to spend it with him and she goes off the deep end.’

  ‘And are you planning to spend these nights with him?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Laura defiantly. ‘I’ve got to. I need to. It’s hopeless. We’re in love, he’s twenty-six, I’m over sixteen, and so far our sex-life has been limited to the back of his car and the golf-course. Well, I don’t know if you’ve ever conducted an affair like that, but you take my word for it, it’s not ideal.’

  Madeleine gave a wise, experienced smile. ‘I’ve been lucky. Never been reduced to those sort of expedients.’ She moved into her shrewd-observer-of-human-psychology mode. ‘Of course, you know why Aggie’s behaving like this to you?’

  Laura shrugged.

  ‘It’s because of what happened to her. You’re a constant reminder of where she went wrong, and she’s afraid of history repeating itself. You’re seventeen, exactly the same age that she was when she . . . made her little mistake. That’s why she’s overreacting.’

  ‘OK,’ said Laura contemptuously, ‘I can see that. But she can’t think that I’m as naive a little twit as she was at the same age.’ Another blush. ‘Terry’s not the first man I’ve slept with. I am on the pill.’

  ‘Have you told Aggie that?’

  Laura shook her head, ashamed.

  ‘I see your problem,’ Madeleine summed up. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure it will sort itself out. Give Aggie a bit of time to get used to the idea that you’re grown up and responsible for your actions. And if it’s the real thing with Terry, I’m sure it’ll survive these difficulties. It may sound a cliché, but love usually does find a way.’

  Madeleine’s recognition of the cliché didn’t make it any less of a cliché, and it didn’t satisfy Laura. ‘That’s not good enough for me, Madeleine. I don’t want to know that love will find a way – I want to know the exact way
that love is going to find.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you could just ignore Aggie and get Terry to move in somewhere where you can be together without problems.’

  ‘We’ve been through that. His company’s paying for where he is at the moment. He can’t afford to go anywhere else. And I can’t afford to move out of home – otherwise I’d pack my bags and be in a flat tomorrow.’

  Madeleine smiled with a touch of pity and a touch of mockery. ‘Then it looks as if you’re just going to have to grin and bear it for the time being. At least it’s a good test of your love for each other.’

  ‘We don’t want our love bloody tested!’ snapped Laura. ‘We want it expressed. And not just in secret. Have you any idea how cold it is on the golf-course this time of year?’

  Madeleine gave a little laugh. ‘I sympathise, Laura, but I don’t really see how I can help.’

  ‘But you can.’ The girl was suddenly insistent. ‘You can help us. That’s why I wanted to see you.’

  Madeleine looked puzzled.

  ‘Look, you know how I used to come and stay with you, down in your house. . .?’

  ‘Yes. You haven’t done it so much recently, I may say.’ Madeleine could not resist this expression of pique.

  ‘I know, but Mum still wouldn’t think anything of it if I said I was going to spend the night at your place.’

  Light dawned on Madeleine, and it was not a wholly pleasing light. ‘You mean you want me to be an alibi for you, to help you to deceive Aggie? I’m to say that you’re staying with me, while in fact you’re off in some hotel with Terry?’

  Laura avoided her aunt’s eyes as she spoke. ‘I was meaning even more than that. I was meaning that I actually should be in your house.’

  ‘With Terry?’

  Laura nodded, her eyes still downcast.

  Madeleine let the silence linger. Her first reaction to Laura’s suggestion was affront, annoyance that her niece had fixed up this meeting with such a cold-bloodedly practical intention. It had not been a sign of any rapprochement between the two; Laura had merely wanted something and hoped to use her aunt to get it.

  But, as the pique receded, Madeleine saw other possibilities in the situation. First, there was the appeal of intrigue. Her role in the proceedings (which she still saw as that of Friar Laurence rather than Pandarus) was capable of considerable histrionic development, and she relished playing the scenes to which it might lead.

  Also the situation offered her power over Laura, so dependent now on her aunt’s decision.

  ‘Laura,’ she said, ending the silence unhelpfully as they rose to collect their earthenware mugs of decaffeinated coffee, ‘I will think about it.’

  And in the evening, as she lay back in her bath and did think about it, Madeleine felt good. She had got Laura back. Laura needed her. Even though what Laura needed her for was something purely practical, perhaps sordid, the dependence had been re-established.

  And Madeleine also had Bernard. Bernard, who moved her so strangely and whom she seemed to have known all her life.

  Her muscles relaxed. The warm water melted away the familiar ache in her back, the bloated feeling of the day receded, and her body began again its comforting cycle of blood, as it had, regularly and without interruption, some three hundred times before in her adult life.

  That same evening, Paul Grigson was alone in the house. He hadn’t been to the hospital, but he had phoned the ward-sister and received the information that his mother was sleeping, but fine, there was nothing to worry about.

  Paul felt his freedom trickling away. He had had the house to himself and not taken advantage of it. He shouldn’t have behaved so badly with Sharon Wilkinson last time. She wasn’t Madeleine and never would be, but he was further advanced with her than with any other girl, and he had to lose his virginity somehow, with someone. Maybe if he had invited her round for the evening, with no one else there. . .

  The idea brought him an instant erection. He went up to his bedroom and, lifting the top of his divan, fumbled through the folded blankets for the stock of books he kept there. If he was going to do it again, at least he’d build up a decent fantasy.

  While he was looking through the books for a suitable body on which to graft Sharon’s face, the doorbell rang.

  Guiltily, he dropped the divan lid and went on to the landing. Then, struck by doubt, he returned to his bedroom to check that he really had put the books out of sight. He had.

  When he opened the front door, he was confronted by Tony Ashton, slouched against the frame, holding a video-box in his hand.

  ‘What do you want? Why are you here?’

  Tony grinned. ‘Bob said your mother was away for a day or two. Got another hot video here. Thought you might fancy seeing it.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Paul moved to close the door, but Tony’s foot prevented him.

  ‘Why, you got someone in there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shagging that Sharon Wilkinson, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  Tony’s grin grew broader. ‘No, you’re not, are you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I took her out Tuesday.’

  ‘So? I don’t care.’

  ‘No. No, you don’t, do you?’

  Paul made another attempt to close the door, but Tony’s foot remained fixed.

  ‘Telling me all about you, she was. Not that there’s much to tell, is there?’ Tony Ashton laughed harshly. ‘Ever thought of joining Virgins Anonymous, Grigson?’

  This time Paul pulled the door back to swing it, and Tony prudently withdrew his foot before the slam.

  But the letter-box clacked open and Paul could not shut out the voice that followed him along the hall. ‘You should have had that Sharon Wilkinson. Blew your chance, you did. Take my word for it, Grigson, you missed out on quite a tasty little fuck there.’

  Paul crumpled, trembling, at the foot of the stairs.

  Chapter 11

  Since meeting Bernard, Madeleine had decided that she was going to sacrifice her long-preserved virginity. Or it might be more accurate to say that Madeleine had decided to sacrifice her long-preserved virginity and then met Bernard. He had arrived at the right time in her life and, since he passed almost all of the tests by which Madeleine judged men, she had therefore decided that he was to be the recipient of her largesse.

  The tests that she applied to potential lovers were mostly social and intellectual. Looks came into it, and Bernard’s height, thin frame and pained brown eyes easily qualified him there. The main physical quality that Madeleine required in a man was that he should look ‘sensitive’. On that scale he scored highly.

  Socially, the most important component of a suitable man was his voice, and here again Bernard passed the test. Madeleine’s antennae were delicately tuned to catch the slightest nuance of ‘commonness’ in any area of human behaviour, but especially in the voice. The voice was one of the first things she noticed about people. Keith’s was a constant reminder of the gulf between Aggie and her latest husband. It was in part their voices that endeared Julian Garrett to Madeleine and made her feel pity for Paul Grigson.

  But Bernard Hopkins had no problem with this stringent oral examination. Public school and Cambridge might have provided the polish required, though his deep, soft speech sounded so natural that it probably derived from being brought up by the right sort of parents. (Madeleine, as yet, knew little of his early background. Their conversation, when it dwelt on the past at all, tended to centre on the poignantly doomed relationship between Madeleine Severn and John Kaczmarek.)

  Intellectually, too, Bernard passed with flying colours. His Upper Second in English from Cambridge seemed perfectly to complement Madeleine’s Oxford Third in the same subject (won, let it be said, in the face of terrible emotional upheaval after John’s death). But Bernard did not only have paper qualifications. He was still prepared – indeed happy – to sit for hours talking literature, discussing poems, listening to Madelei
ne reading them over a cup of coffee, for all the world as if the years had not passed and their student days were continuing on a permanent lease.

  This was very comforting to Madeleine, who had found that, though her acquaintance in Brighton was varied and artistic, she had met few people who seemed to be on her intellectual level. Many were simply unwilling to talk about literature, and those who did had an irritating tendency to introduce into the conversation irrelevancies like contemporary authors or comparisons with other media. It was a huge intellectual relief to encounter a mind like Bernard’s, which shared her own views and priorities on the subject of literature, and was prepared to listen to them at length.

  The one detail she knew about Bernard’s life which might have put off other women – the fact that he was married – seemed to Madeleine, upon consideration, a bonus rather than a disadvantage. For a start, it gave their love a tragic dimension. The mingling of Pain and Pleasure, which she so emphasised in her teaching, was immediately present. However much joy Madeleine and Bernard might derive from the relationship, at the back of their minds must always be the awareness of the potential hurt it was inflicting on his poor, crippled wife. The presence of Shirley’s distant shadow also set boundaries round Madeleine and Bernard’s life together. She had lived alone for a long time and, with one of those intuitive flashes of self-knowledge that occasionally came to her, recognised that she might have difficulty in adjusting to the presence of a man who could be around all the time. Most important, the fact of Bernard’s marriage implied experience, which, together with his gentleness of manner, suggested he would be the ideal instrument of Madeleine’s sexual initiation.

  The existence of the unknown Shirley also gave the relationship, for Madeleine, a frisson of excitement. She liked to feel that she lived a life of mystery, that she had secrets, that there was more to Madeleine Severn than met the eye. But why, given her long history of abstinence – or at least of non-consummation – had Madeleine decided that this ‘marriage of true minds’ should take on a physical dimension? There had been plenty of men who had attracted her before; and plenty more who had tried their luck at seducing her, encountering initially polite, but finally intransigent, refusal. Why had Bernard been selected as the one to be favoured with Madeleine’s rich gift?