Another Woman (9781468300178)

by Vincenzi, Penny

  ‘Well,’ said Harriet, ‘good for Sasha.’ She was shovelling smoked salmon into her mouth with some relish.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. I suppose, too, you think I deserved it.’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘Well,’ he said with a sigh, ‘I expect you’re right.’

  ‘Are you upset? That she’s gone?’

  ‘No,’ he said and sounded faintly surprised, ‘no, I’m not upset, I find. Not in the least.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ he said very quietly, ‘because I still love you.’

  ‘Oh, Theo, stop it. Stop it, stop it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s pointless. And stupid. And insulting.’

  ‘Why insulting?’

  ‘Because if you still loved me, you shouldn’t have married her.’

  ‘I know that. But –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I had to do something,’ he said more quietly still, ‘to ease the pain.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, I can’t believe you said that. That you married someone you didn’t love just to get over someone else. You’re so self-centred, Theo, so appallingly, childishly, self-centred.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  She wasn’t looking at him. ‘The universe revolves round you, doesn’t it, Theo?’

  ‘I’m working on making it that way.’

  She looked up sharply; his eyes were amused. ‘It isn’t funny.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to imply it was.’

  Harriet gave up.

  ‘Sasha knew,’ he said.

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘About us.’

  Harriet felt very odd; she stared at him, trying to take in what he had just said. ‘Who told her?’

  ‘Cressida.’

  ‘Oh God,’ she said and burst into tears.

  ‘She was so awful,’ she said, ‘so awful. I can’t believe how awful she was.’

  They had left the restaurant and were sitting in the gallery with the Degas; Harriet was gazing determinedly at the sculpture of the little ballerina and moving determinedly away from Theo every time he tried to get closer to her.

  ‘I’ve learnt so many terrible things about her. It’s as if she was someone else altogether, another woman, someone none of us really knew. Living a secret life, an appalling secret life, all lies and cruelty. It’s horrible. Poor Oliver, poor poor Oliver. She was pregnant, you know, but not by him – by this man in Paris, I suppose. Who knows? The one she’s married to. Or isn’t married to. Who knows that either? And last year she told Oliver she was pregnant and she wasn’t. I don’t understand it, Theo, I really don’t. How could she have done all that, Theo, lied to us all, to me, to you, to Oliver, and especially to my parents, who loved her so much? The gynaecologist said she was a hysterical personality, she said even the flying was – what was it? – oh yes, symptomatic of her condition, and I was beginning to think the same, to be sorry for her, but now you’ve told me that, I think she was just vile.’

  ‘Maybe a bit of both,’ said Theo mildly. ‘What gynaecologist?’

  ‘Oh, the one she was seeing. I found a letter in the pocket of a cardigan. I went to see her this morning. She was very nice. Tried to make me see Cressida as sick rather than bad, but I –’

  ‘She must be,’ said Theo.

  ‘She’s not,’ said Harriet fretfully, ‘and don’t you start feeling sorry for her. I couldn’t bear it. She’s done that all her life and –’

  ‘Harriet, if she is sick, if she is psychiatrically disturbed, it does put a very different complexion on all this. Explains it to an extent.’

  ‘Not to me,’ said Harriet. The latest disclosure about Cressida had reformed her yet again in her mind.

  ‘How would you feel if she came back?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I hope she never does. I honestly think I’d kill her if she did. I learnt something else about her the other night, something my mother told me. You know my puppy, Biggles, remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said gently, ‘of course I do, of course I remember.’

  ‘It was her fault all along. She opened the gate deliberately, so he could get out, could be run over. She –’

  ‘Harriet, I can’t believe that –’

  ‘You have to believe it,’ she cried, and was startled at the anguish in her voice. ‘You have to, because I always knew in my heart that that’s what happened. She told my mother that it was an accident, that she just forgot, but of course it wasn’t. She hated me and she wanted to hurt me. It was –’

  ‘Harriet, Harriet, don’t –’

  ‘Don’t what?’ she said. ‘Don’t mind? Don’t blame her? Don’t reproach her? Theo, you don’t understand, you just don’t understand the wickedness of her. I suppose it’s not surprising really. She could twist you round her little finger more easily than anyone. Bat those long eyelashes at you –’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ he said wearily, ‘don’t be so bitter, Harriet. It won’t help.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ she said, angry again, ‘how can I not be bitter? I feel so betrayed, so – oh, this is ridiculous, I don’t know what I’m doing even sitting here talking to you. You of all people.’

  ‘Harriet,’ he said, and his voice was heavy with emotion, with pain. ‘Harriet, I of all people probably know you best, understand you best, love you best. It is me of all people you should be talking to.’

  ‘No, Theo, it isn’t.’

  She got up, walked over to the little ballerina, stood looking at her, at her awkward grace, her almost simian beauty, the stalklike neck, the hands clasped behind her back; he followed her over.

  ‘Harriet, please –’

  ‘No,’ she cried, loudly, passionately hostile. The gallery guard looked at her, raised his eyebrows warningly; she felt herself flush. ‘I have to get back,’ she said, ‘please take me. The man from the receiver’s office will be there, impounding all my stuff. If you remember.’

  ‘Harriet,’ he said, ‘let me help you at least. Let me give you the money. Sorry. Lend you the money. At very stiff terms if you like. You should be able to buy the company back from the receiver, you know. Let me do it for you. Please.’

  ‘Theo,’ she said, ‘you really don’t understand me at all, do you? Don’t know what I want. Of course I won’t take your money, of course I won’t let you help me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ she said, ‘because then you’d have won. Beaten me. Forced me to do what you want. And I meant what I said to the bank manager. I really would rather die. Now please, Theo, leave me alone. I don’t want you. Or anything you might possibly do for me. Is that really so beyond your comprehension?’

  ‘Harriet,’ he said, very quietly now, putting his hand out to touch her, then dropping it again in an oddly helpless gesture. ‘Harriet, please don’t do this. Please. I love you. I love you more even than I ever knew.’

  There was a very long silence, while she stood there, staring at him, thinking, remembering love, Theo loving her; physically shaken by the force of her longing for it, yearning for it, for him.

  ‘Please,’ he said again, absolutely still, ‘please, Harriet. I want you so.’

  It was that word that changed it, changed everything; that one word, want. That was the whole thing about Theo, the key to him: he wanted, and he had to have. Houses, land, works of art; cars, planes, horses; companies, people, power; women, sex, love. And she would not, could not, join his catalogue of possessions, of things he wanted, and thus of things that then belonged to him.

  ‘Theo,’ said Harriet, ‘you don’t know anything about love, I’m afraid. Anything at all.’

  She turned then and left him, ran out of the room and out of the front door, down the steps of the Tate, hailed a taxi, got into it, managed not to look back, despite a dreadful yearning just for the sight of him, until they were driving quite quickly away from the gallery, away from him, away from comfort, from help, from love. When she did, he was walkin
g down the steps, his hands in his pockets, his head bent, utterly dispirited, looking drained, bereft of power and strength.

  ‘Bastard,’ said Harriet aloud. ‘Fucking bastard.’

  Then she burst into tears.

  Chapter 36

  James 1pm

  The house was terribly quiet, its stillness a tangible, heavy thing. Everyone had gone, even Janine and Merlin. James sat in his study, trying to recover just a little from the previous hour before going to find Maggie, to talk to her, to tell her what? That her beloved daughter was a manipulative promiscuous monster, greedy, ruthless, using her, using all of them, careless of their feelings, their love, their concern for her, heedless of their humiliation, their pain. He tried to remember her as she had been, only thirty-six hours earlier, her sweetness, her thoughtfulness to him, the way she fussed over him, so patently enjoyed his company, asked to go for walks with him, loved to hear about his work, how she would sit on the arm of his chair, chatting to him, as Maggie and Harriet never would. Remembered how proud of her he had always been, how he loved to show her off to friends and colleagues, how deep-down sad he had been at the thought of losing her to Oliver, to her new life, three thousand miles away. Remembered her charm, her lovely smiling prettiness, her grace; and yes, of course he loved Harriet too, was desperately proud of her, admired what she had done, could do, but Harriet was different – Harriet was tough, clever, ambitious, self-sufficient; she didn’t need an adoring, protective father.

  There was a collage of pictures of Cressida on his desk that Maggie had made for him once: a snapshot of her life, composed of many snapshots: Cressida lying in Maggie’s arms in the hospital, Cressida toddling across the garden, her fair curls haloed round her face, Cressida in her school uniform, in tennis clothes, in party dresses – the frillier the better she liked them, unlike Harriet who had always chosen plainer, starker clothes – Cressida blowing out candles on her birthday cake, sitting by the Christmas tree, building sandcastles, in her first grown-up party dress, on Theo’s yacht, and his favourite picture of all, the two of them together, him and her, walking arm in arm along a wintry beach somewhere, laughing, their hair blowing in the wind.

  And as he looked, as he tried to equate her with the person he now knew about, he realized she was gone, gone forever and the pain in his heart was as great, greater even, than if she had truly died, if she was lying in front of him white and still. He had lost her, lost her completely; she was no longer his child, and he buried his head in his hands on the desk and started to weep.

  The phone rang, sharply; he sat looking at it, lacking the strength even to reach out and pick it up. It stopped again, after a few rings. Maggie must have answered it. It was probably yet another well-meaning friend, another well-wishing enquiry. It was so kind of people to phone, so kind, and so appallingly, stupidly insensitive. Well, it looked as if Maggie would be able to cope with some of it at least today; her sleep must have done her good. Poor Maggie: poor hopeless hapless Maggie. He should be grateful she was so hopeless and so hapless, he supposed; otherwise she would be demanding her own life, revenge, recompense. As it was, she accepted it all, accepted her role, did what he needed her to do, in return for a home, security, status, and a life she managed, although God knew how, to enjoy. He supposed it was much the same for Alistair, in a totally different way: if he did know anything, suspect it even (and James felt he must, although Susie swore he didn’t), he presumably preferred the status quo, the unarguable value of a beautiful charming wife who ran his home and his life, was the perfect consort and mother. Why exchange those benefits for scandal, disruption, hideous expense? He was not in love with Susie, never had been: theirs was a shining, exemplary version of the marriage of convenience. God, he hoped Susie would come back to recognizing the value of the same thing; he had been badly shaken by her demands. His mind (distracted briefly by the events of the morning) returned to the nightmare of Rufus, the new but already familiar panic rising and falling in his chest. He stared out of the window, thinking about it, about Rufus, and into his head came the memory of a survey done on inherited characteristics in Birmingham or some such place, that over half the children were fathered by men other than their mothers’ husbands: they’d had to abandon the survey for that very reason. He clung to the memory, finding it oddly comforting, easing his panic. Maybe he was overreacting, maybe Rufus and his generation were overfamiliar with such things, had grown up in such knowledge that he would take it all in his stride, maybe Maggie, Alistair, Harriet, the other children would just laugh – ‘Christ,’ he said aloud, shocked at his own crassness, ‘Christ Almighty, James, what are you thinking about –’

  Suddenly, desperately, he wanted Susie, wanted to hear her voice, know how she was, tell her he loved her. He dialled the Princess Diana Hospital on his own line; he couldn’t have Maggie picking it up in error, listening to him.

  ‘Could I speak to Mrs Headleigh Drayton? In room fifteen. This is James Forrest again.’

  ‘I’ll see. One moment please, Mr Forrest.’

  He waited, seeing as he waited Susie’s lovely face, her soft dark eyes, heard, before she spoke, her pretty, husky voice. Christ, he was missing her already.

  ‘Mr Forrest?’ It wasn’t Susie’s voice. It was the receptionist again.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Headleigh Drayton says she can’t speak to you, I’m afraid. She’s very tired.’

  ‘I see,’ said James. He felt a slug of shock. Susie had always wanted to speak to him, however exhausted: hours after the birth of all her children, immediately after the funeral of her mother, leaving the deathbed of her father, she had been on the phone, wanting him, wanting the comfort of him. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m quite sure, Mr Forrest.’

  ‘Did she send any message?’

  ‘No, Mr Forrest.’

  ‘Is Mr Hobson there?’

  ‘Yes he is. I’ll put you through.’

  ‘Martin? James Forrest.’

  ‘Ah, James. Good to hear from you. How’s things? Surviving dear Mrs Bumley’s reforms, are you?’

  ‘Don’t start me on that,’ said James. ‘I might get violent. Er – Martin. You operated on an old friend of mine this morning. Well, an old family friend. Susie Headleigh Drayton. I – can’t get hold of Alistair and she’s tired of course. I just wondered if she was OK.’

  ‘Yes, she’s absolutely fine. Well, almost, I’m happy to say. She’ll give you the details, no doubt. Pretty woman, liked her. I thought the husband was with her as a matter of fact. They were holding hands like a couple of teenagers a bit earlier. Gives you hope, that sort of thing. Shall I ask him to ring you if I see him?’

  ‘No, no, it’s all right,’ said James hastily. ‘I’m just going out. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘That’s OK, old chap. You going to that conference in Bournemouth next month? The one on pre-malignancy? I’m presenting a paper. Try and make it. Should be quite a good bash.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said James. ‘Thanks anyway, Martin. Goodbye.’ He put the phone down: it rang again almost immediately.

  ‘Mr Forrest? This is Crowthorne’s Florists here. Mr Forrest, there seems to be some confusion about the flowers you ordered for Mrs Headleigh Drayton. At the Princess Diana Hospital. The hospital have just asked us to query the order with you. Apparently Mrs Headleigh Drayton sent the flowers back. Insisted they were not for her. We wondered if we had the right Mrs Headleigh Drayton, or even the right hospital?’

  James felt very sick suddenly. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘must have been my mistake. Tell – tell the hospital to keep them anyway, put them in reception or something. Goodbye.’

  The feeling of panic was increasing. Cressida, Rufus, Susie. Christ, what was happening to him, to his well-ordered life? His head was beating extremely hard; it almost hurt. The pain reached downwards, towards his churning stomach. He felt very physically shaky, and horribly near tears again. He thought how wonderful the drink he’d had earlier had been, and l
onged sharply, desperately for another.

  ‘God,’ he said aloud, throwing back his head, closing his eyes. ‘God help me.’

  Dimly in the distance he heard the phone ringing again. He could not, would not answer it. He couldn’t take any more. He sat, his hands clasped tightly together, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. His legs were shaking violently. The ringing stopped: Maggie had obviously answered it. Thank God. He lit a cigarette, drew on it heavily. He didn’t often smoke, maybe once a week, after dinner. It helped.

  He had stubbed out the second before Maggie came into the room. She was smiling; she looked radiant. James stared at her.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s happened?’

  Maggie sat down, and just looked at him, her eyes bright, studded with tears. Happy tears. ‘That was Cressida,’ she said simply.

  ‘Cressida! What do you mean it was Cressida?’

  ‘It was Cressida. She phoned. She’s in Paris. We had a long talk.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ he said, ‘what did she say? What is going on, I don’t –’

  ‘Nothing’s going on,’ said Maggie, ‘except that she is ill and frightened and terribly terribly upset. She needed to talk. I think I helped her a little. She is desperately sorry about it all.’

  ‘Well, I’m so glad to hear that,’ said James. Rage was flooding him, hot, dangerous. ‘Absolutely delighted. She walks out on a wedding and a husband and a family and terrifies us and humiliates us but she’s terribly terribly sorry about it. Well, that makes it perfectly all right then, doesn’t it? Let’s all relax and hang out the welcome home banner.’

  ‘James, don’t. You don’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ he said. ‘Is that right? Well, I don’t think you can make me understand, Maggie. Not just now. I don’t think you can even make me want to understand. As far as I’m concerned, Cressida is –’

  ‘James, listen! Please. She’s desperate.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘all right, I’m listening. But not exactly sympathetically. If she’s desperate that’s fine by me.’