by Mavis Cheek
But she could not make friends. She must remain aloof. Her friends were the others - the giggling girl who talked of cachet, the men who liked men and could hide their preferences from their wives. There was no one in whom she could confide. Even her maid was paid for by Edwin. The memories of films in which the heroine talked into the mirror as her maid did her hair and dispensed wisdom were not real. And her weekly telephone conversation with her mother was almost held by rote. When she asked Edwin if Madame Minette could come to stay for a few days while he was away being something grand, he seemed unwilling. She began to wonder if he was as scared of losing her as she was of being abandoned by him. 'Please,' she said, resenting having to ask. He smiled. There were exhibitions to see - a new one on costume at the Musee des Arts Decoratifs, a new one on Goya at the Louvre for example; she was to have dinner with the Maguires - two of his friends from the English connections - when they came over; he wanted her to attend a couple of book auctions on his behalf ... she would be very busy. And it was only a little less than a week - then he would be back.
The flame flared up again, surprising her. She stroked his arm, let a tear fall, and said, 'Edwin - you have no idea how it feels when I know that you are away on some grand business pleasure with your wife.' This was true - but not, perhaps, in the healthy way of simple jealousy - more in the darker way of feeling wronged and wanting revenge. Madame Bonnard did nothing except be Edwin's wife. This coming trip would be interesting, she knew, because she had helped arrange some of Edwin's part in it. There would be many meetings with cultural officials from the European Union regarding a new, Union-financed, business and arts complex. There would be a banquet given by the President of France, and - among other hospitalities - a lunch would be hosted by Madame Bonnard. The woman walked in sunlight while Audrey was permanently in her shade. It would not do ...
Madame Bonnard - only ever glimpsed by Audrey - was the same age as her husband. She was square in the way some French women end their days, short of stature, well-groomed, perfectly cropped hair, large-chinned - and probably hairy, though Audrey never could not get close enough to see. Madame Bonnard would eat with the President of France, sit smiling and nodding next to her husband as the photographers' cameras popped, she would be gracious as she presided at the Ladies Only Anniversary fundraising lunch for the families of soldiers killed in Algeria. And she would have done - not a thing. Not even warmed her husband's bed. Audrey had done all three - the organising of the lunch, the dispatching of the invitations, and the surrendering in bed.
The flame grew more fiercely. If Minette had come to stay they might have shared a bottle of wine and laughed it away. But she did not. Chattering lunches in the latest smart bistro bored her to distraction; a game of bezique which she tried to play with the now withering and crotchety Madame Helene irritated her. When it came to Marriage and Royal Marriage in the trumps she clucked at her cards acidly. When it came to pointing out to Madame Helene (who was losing her memory, fair enough) that in both Royal and Common Marriages, widowed spouses may not remarry, she threw her cards across the room. Madame Helene, who had seen it all before, said nothing and departed. Audrey then drank a bottle of wine, toute seule. Which, of course, made the fire grow hotter. It was, in any case, summer - Paris was steaming - and had Edwin not been away on this trip they would have been cooling themselves in Cannes by now. Unfair, she thought, and slept badly and woke in a temper. She would do something about it. If nothing else she would have a little revenge.
She arrived in Toulouse in baking hot sun, wearing a pure white silk dress, large dark glasses, a white bandeau covering her hair, and enough jewellery (nearly all of it) to sink Cleopatra's barge. The doorman at the venue for the luncheon was nonplussed. Yes she had her invitation. She helped him tick her off by running her finger down the guest list. And there she found what - or whom - she was looking for. A Madame Delphine Bolle - who was invited and had accepted and had then - late - sent a note (which Audrey had not yet passed on to Madame Bonnard's private office) to say that she could not attend after all. She must be in Biarritz to oversee the furbishment of her new Indian and African Artefact Galleries.
Delphine Bolle, whom Audrey had never met and of whom Edwin did not wholly approve (being in business in her own right when, as the wife of a distinguished politician, she should be thinking of charity work only), was apparently one of those rarities - quite young and very wealthy. A second wife. Edwin spoke of her with a mixture of contempt and admiration. To be in business in African artefacts was, apparently, rather vulgar - but presumably her money, when it came to Madame Bonnard's charities, was not.
The lunch was a buffet so there would be no place names, which was fortunate. More fortunate still, the event was one of the larger functions on the good Madame Bonnard's fundraising calendar. Eighty guests. If she so chose, Audrey could simply arrive and blend. But she did not so choose. She wanted to provoke. And she therefore arrived startlingly dressed. Since it was a charity lunch, and since when it came to matters of charily, the attendees were nearly always somebody's wife or widow, they were usually of a certain age and -though often glamorous - they were certainly not young and lovely. Audrey was glamorous, young and lovely with that added dangerous spark to her that denotes a hint of madness. As she made her way up the steps, across the foyer and into the luncheon room, she drew the questioning looks of each of the women that she passed. And she heard them asking each other who she was - and she heard them mutter and saw them shrug their shoulders. Her presence, and the questioning about it, went through the assembly like a wind through com.
This, incautiously, she found pleasing. She stood by the heavy, swagged gold curtains at the end of the room so that the sunlight poured down on to the white of her dress, the gold of her jewellery, the flash of her eyes. She put her hand on her hip, held her Audrey Hepburn pose, and was transformed into a goddess. She took three dry martinis in very quick succession; Edwin had taught her to make them - two parts gin (kept in refrigerator), one scant part martini, no olives - and she knew they gave a quick hit. Or in this case a heavyweight punch. She immediately felt very powerful, very beautiful and very determined. Slightly shaky on the legs - but perfectly in control. Why, she could conquer the world. Well, certainly poor, ugly, hairy, square Madame Bonnard whose husband must loathe her so much. There she was, right in front of her, a few metres away, feet apart like a prize fighter, strong jaw jutting, talking with chin-shaking urgency to a woman who looked like a road map she was so lined. The Cannes Skin, it was called. From too much sun and too little to do. Edwin had pointed it out to her. 'Wear a hat in the sun all your life,' he said, 'and one day you will be grateful you did so ...'
Audrey approached her prey. With one hand she took up the hem of her flimsy white frock and held it out so that the sunlight flowed through the fine fabric leaving little to the imagination regarding the shape of her thigh. Let them look, she thought, for all their Molyneux and Chanel. In the other hand she held her martini glass outwards, and just so, and proceeded in a southerly direction towards the unattractive duo. She followed the squares on the carpet for a straight line - it seemed the easiest thing to do - and came up close. Both women stopped talking and smiled at her. Audrey noticed that Madame Bonnard had a gold tooth. Age made your teeth drop out too, then. The hostess stood to one side as if to invite the newcomer into the group, and the newcomer obliged. Then Madame Bonnard made a gesture of apology and said that she would introduce Mad'moiselle - Madame? - if she knew - she must forgive - who Mad'moiselle was? It was politely done, kindly done, but an imperative all the same.
'Well,' said Audrey coyly. ‘I could be Delphine Bolle ...'
Both women looked at each other, then back at Audrey, then they laughed, both puzzled and polite.
Audrey laughed too. 'Or I could be Dolphine Belle ...' She swayed slightly, like a child with a secret.
'But,' said Madame Bonnard, with slight embarrassment, 'you are not.'
'Might be,' said A
udrey petulantly.
‘I do not think so,' said the woman with Cannes skin, smiling indulgently despite her nutbrown lines. She looked her up and down. ‘I do not see how you can be ...'
Audrey turned on her with a haughty stare. 'And why not? Do you think I am not good enough? Do you think I am not rich enough? Do you think I am not old enough? Or perhaps, Madame, you think I am not suntanned enough?'
Both women laughed at this, both amused and bemused.
'Ah well -' said the wrinkled woman, stepping back to avoid being splashed by the martini remaining in Audrey's wayward glass. 'Not
-suntanned - exactly - but - you cannot be her ...'
Audrey wagged a finger and said confidently, 'But you are not absolutely sure - now are you?'
At which Madame Bonnard sighed and raised her eyes, beneath their heavy brows (need plucking, thought Audrey idly) and said through perceptibly gritted teeth, 'Oh yes, Mad'moiselle - I am absolutely sure.'
'How can you be? You have never even met her.' Audrey played this trump as if she were playing bezique.
'Even so -' And both women laughed. The crowd around them, listening now, tittered too.
The wrinkled woman nodded and said, 'In a million years you could not be her. Unless you are wearing a great deal of powder.'
Audrey turned a contemptuous look upon her rival. 'Madame,' she said, 'I do not need so much make-up ... Whereas you -'
'Well, you would if you wished to be taken for Madame Bolle,' said the woman sharply. 'Madame Bolle, my little impersonator, is from Senegal.'
'Senegal?' said Audrey shrugging. 'So?'
Madame Bonnard stepped back, shook her head in mock sorrow and said, 'So - she is a Negress. And you - most obviously Mad'moiselle
-are not.'
Audrey paused for a moment wondering whether to run for it or faint. But she did neither. Instead she straightened her neck, looked down what now seemed to be her twin noses as coolly as she could, and said, 'All right then, I'll tell you who I really am.'
And then she thought, sadly, mawkish with the martini, But Who Is That? 'And who I really am is -' Out splashed the last of the drink as she saluted them with her glass, the crowd pressed forward, amused - ‘I am Audrey Wapshott.'
Edwin would kill her, was her immediate thought - never mind His Last Duchess ... Ah well. Too late now.
Did Madame Bonnard's eyes flicker before she said, 'So?' Did the group surrounding them intake their breath? Audrey could not be sure - but something stirred - perhaps it was the pumping of her own blood. She had waited for this magnificent moment - waited and waited for it.
'And do you know what ‘I do for a living, Madame?' She stepped closer. The older woman stood her ground. The jaw jutted and the eyes snapped, but they did not waver from the pink and animated face that looked down at her.
'You must tell me, Mad'moiselle ... What do you do for a living?'
'For a living, Madame, I sleep with your husband.'
This time there was no mistake. The crowd hissed a breath, Madame Bonnard looked - for a moment - as if she had been slapped. She stared around the room, perhaps, seeking escape. But then she recovered. Looking Audrey straight in the eyes and with never a waver to her voice, she laughed a rich, ringing laugh - surprising, to Audrey, for one so squat and plain - and she said, 'Well Mad'moiselle - I thank God for it. Every day. For while you do - it means that I need not!'
At which the crowd murmured their laughter.
If it was wit that she was after, Audrey was upstaged.
Forgetting to follow the squares on the carpet, she wavered her way out of the room. Behind her she heard a united sigh of relief. The pretty, silly girl had gone. They could resume their grown-up ways.
'She has much to learn, that little one,' said Madame Bonnard.
'And she will. He has not begun on the others, yet.'
7
Little Sweethearts
At school they were allowed to choose their project. 'Name two buildings that have impressed you and say why.'
It was an exercise in formulating ideas, understanding research. Apsu cared little for the academic side of it - she took the brief at its broadest and chose two bridges - two bridges, she wrote, that made her tingle, but for very different reasons. Her teacher who was about to explain to Apsu that, for the project, they meant buildings, not bridges, thought again, and said, 'A very good idea. Well done.' And left it at that.
Her choices were the Sydney Harbour Bridge, at five hundred and three metres, the largest steel bridge in the world. And the Kingsgate Footbridge, Durham. Eight hundred houses were demolished, she noted, to build the former - without any compensation to their owners. In the latter the architect and engineer, Ove Arup, spanned one of the most sensitive sites in the United Kingdom: the gorge across the Wear connecting Durham Cathedral with Durham University buildings. Sydney Harbour Bridge, she noted, provides an heroic climb for the brave few kitted out like crack troops who dare to make the two-hour trek to and from its 304-metre summit. The Kingsgate Footbridge, she contrasted, joins a thousand years for the students who cross and return on its quivering structure. Like a spider's web, she wrote, it feels alive. It is alive. It is made for ordinary people. It is this bridge, for its living qualities, that has made the greatest impression on me. She received excellent marks.
Audrey never knew if Madame Bonnard told her husband about his mistress's little rebellion. At first, back in the apartment, she was fiery with hope that she would tell him, and that in some miraculous way it would change things. But nothing of the incident was mentioned.
Edwin returned, talked of the trip, described the various schemes and plans they had put their names and signatures to - and things went on much as they always had. For a while. But then something between them did change. And at first it seemed like the end of the world. The mistress became no better than the wife. Edwin lied to her. It was to do with what was called, in the Wapshott household, Having Your Cake. Audrey, who had been thinking along the lines of making a campaign for herself, of even frightening Edwin a little so that he might reconsider his cast-iron marriage vows - was banjaxed. There was a rear flank that she hadn't even considered. Less Cake, more Little Apple Tarts.
It was not difficult to discover. Even for the unsuspecting Audrey. Edwin was not particularly clever, nor overly concerned, in the matter of keeping his dalliances a secret. He was prepared to be discreet and he was prepared to avoid humiliating her by flaunting them - but the truth was there to be discovered if she looked a little more closely.
Audrey saw some of it in those first years. If Edwin saw a pretty girl, or even just a fine pair of legs, or an inviting bosom, he would drink in the sight as if it were wine. He might even go after her - talk to her - tell her with a flirtatious smile how much he admired her -but Audrey assumed it was part of his way. ‘I am an Epicure,' he once said to her when he was slightly in his cups. "There is art, there is music, there is fine living - and there are always - pretty girls. An Epicure.' She was puzzled and looked it up. 'One given to sensual pleasures. A follower of Epicurus (341-270) who taught that pleasure was the chief good.' Nothing wrong with that, she thought innocently, that is what I am here for.
The first time she discovered the reality of Edwin's 'Epicurean' principle was on her birthday. Flowers were delivered - including two diamond tulips for her ears - and as he paid the pretty girl who delivered them she saw him hand her his card. Not in a business-like way - but in the way he had once handed her his card on Brighton Station. She said nothing. She watched him, as he watched the girl. Audrey had seen her before - in the shop near the apartment building - and had seen how Edwin gazed at her through the window glass. Fool that she was, she thought he was gazing as he might gaze, had gazed, at a Renoir nymph or a languorous Goya. But now, suddenly, here she was, in this very apartment, darting about, quite legitimately, under the very nose of, and brought there to do a job for, the mistress of the man who now gazed at her so raptly. The girl, who knew
she was being watched, became more and more provocative -bending, reaching, showing off her feminine attributes as she set the flowers to show themselves off around the room. Audrey, who saw it all, could do nothing. She felt slow and old by comparison - the birthday could have been her hundredth - and now she knew how Madame Bonnard must feel and she was sorry for what she had done. Too late, she thought, always too late. Bloody, bloody, bugger it. But at least Madame Bonnard had a life of her own. Audrey Wapshott, growing older, fluent in French and very little else - except in the Epicurean department - had not.
A day or two later Edwin excused himself from her bed for a few days, saying that he had to go to Perpignan very early the next morning to deal with urgent family matters. No, she could not accompany him - it was - he hesitated so that she felt a frisson of suspicion -purely family. She must stay here. There was plenty to do. When she said, quite sulkily, 'What?' he shrugged in that maddening French way and reminded her, too tersely, that she was in one of the most cultivated cities on earth. She reminded him that when she arranged to have painting lessons with a sweet, bearded old man in Montmartre, Edwin suggested he would rather she did not. Edwin then laughed, but not very nicely, and reminded her that the old man was known to be a great lecher. So she reminded him that he had also refused to allow her to engage one of the younger painters. 'Dangerous,' he said cheerfully. Then he kissed her on the cheek, and was gone. It was the closest they had ever come to rowing. She rather enjoyed it.
