AN Outrageous Affair

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘What is it?’ Piers Windsor was in the kitchen, his face taut with concern.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, ‘really.’

  ‘Please let me see.’

  His hand removed hers very gently from her face; it was warm, his hand, very dry, she noticed, careful, tender. For a second she was distracted from her suffering by a new emotion, she knew not what; she stood there, her brown eyes dilated with pain, fixed on his, as if trusting him in some way to ease it, make it better.

  ‘That’s extremely nasty. I think perhaps we should get you to Casualty.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Chloe. ‘No, honestly. I’ll be all right. If maybe I could go to my doctor, leave the washing-up; well, Sarah could do it.’

  ‘I think,’ he said and there was just a flash of amusement in the large grey eyes, ‘I think we can let you off the washing-up. But I don’t think a doctor. I think you need Casualty. It’s quite a big burn. It could get infected. I’ll come with you. Try to be brave.’

  She was brave; very brave. The pain was very bad; she had a burn the size of a shilling piece on her cheek, just above the jawline. The registrar who saw it (after what seemed like hours) said she was lucky it hadn’t been higher; it was bound to scar a little, but wouldn’t mar her beauty. He grinned at her and was clearly put out that she didn’t smile back.

  ‘Now we have to dress it, and you must come back every day for three days for me to see.’

  ‘Could I please have something for the pain?’ Chloe’s teeth were clenched to stop them chattering.

  ‘Hurt that much, does it?’ He seemed surprised. ‘Yes, we’ll give you a shot of Valium. That’ll do it.’

  Finally she was driven home, in Piers’s car, to Joe’s flat, with Sarah moved in for the night – for of course, inevitably under the circumstances, Joe had gone away for a few days with Caroline; they hardly ever went away together, it was so unfair. Fretful with pain, the Valium hardly taking the edge off it any longer, she tossed endlessly on the pillow, and occasionally got up and paced round the room.

  She woke to hear the door bell ringing; surfacing to slightly more ease, she staggered to open the door. A boy stood there with a bouquet of flowers so enormous he was almost invisible; huge white gracefully leaning lilies, white roses, white freesias, tied with a massive white bow.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said and took them in, sat down weakly on the sofa and, with her fingers shaking, opened the card.

  ‘With sympathy and every possible apology, Piers Windsor.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Joe, coming into the flat, dumping his bags on the floor, ‘where on earth did those flowers come from?’

  ‘Piers Windsor,’ said Chloe.

  ‘Piers Windsor sent you flowers! What on earth for?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a long story,’ said Chloe, finding herself oddly near to tears.

  ‘Tell me. And, darling, what on earth is that on your face?’

  ‘It’s a burn,’ said Chloe and then the tears did come, tears of relief at seeing Joe, of being able to talk at last about her trauma: five days ago now, and still the burn hurt, still she felt shocked by it. ‘But it was worth it,’ she said, hiccuping slightly after she had explained. ‘He got the money for his play.’

  ‘Well, that makes it quite all right,’ said Joe, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Stupid bastard.’

  ‘Oh, Joe, it wasn’t his fault. And he’s been so kind. I can’t tell you. So terribly kind.’

  ‘So he bloody well should have been,’ said Joe. He looked very upset.

  Piers phoned every day; she was amazed and charmed by the calls which became proper and quite lengthy conversations, rather than terse How are yous? After a week, he insisted on taking her to see a consultant to get advice on plastic surgery.

  ‘It’s only a tiny scar I know,’ he said, ‘but it’s on your face, and such a very pretty face.’

  After they had left the consultant (who had advised leaving well alone for at least a year) Piers took her out to tea at Fortnum and Mason, and talked to her at great length about her life. He seemed totally fascinated by what she felt were excruciatingly boring answers; and at one point when she said slightly desperately, ‘I must seem very dull to you,’ he said, ‘Chloe, I cannot tell you how extremely interesting I find you, how very much I am enjoying your company. I could sit here all night talking to you, I really could.’

  Chloe felt herself blushing, and feeling at the same time rather light-headed; she wondered if she was falling in love with him, and if it was the reason she suddenly found herself quite unable to swallow the mouthful of teacake she had just taken, when a girl suddenly appeared at the table. She had long straight dark hair, a white face, and heavily made-up dark eyes, with thick fake lashes stuck on both top and bottom, and then a heavy line of them painted in as well; she was wearing a red lace trouser suit and carrying a small dog under one arm.

  ‘Piers! It is! I couldn’t believe it. Taking tea in Fortnum’s. How lovely to see you.’ She bent and kissed him, and then, ignoring Chloe totally, sat down on a sliver of his chair, and started biting into one of his sandwiches. ‘You don’t mind, darling, do you? I’m starving, and Geoffrey hasn’t arrived yet.’

  ‘No,’ said Piers, smiling back at her. ‘Chloe, this is Annunciata Fallon. Annunciata, Chloe Hunterton.’

  Annunciata gave Chloe a smile so brief, so cool it scarcely altered the shape of her mouth, and then turned her attention back to Piers. Chloe sat quietly, watching her, hoping the white-hot rage and sense of dismay that filled her did not show.

  ‘What news, my darling? I was so sad not to see you at the Hair party last week. It was such fun.’

  ‘Yes, well, I had hoped to go, but I couldn’t make it in the end. I heard it was quite – wild.’

  ‘It was, absolutely wild. Everyone was there. Except you – and Suzy of course.’

  ‘Yes, well, Suzy is in Los Angeles.’

  ‘Oh, of course. Is she well?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Piers carefully, his eyes on Chloe. ‘She’s going to be there for a few months. It’s not a big part, but it’s a gem. She’s very happy with it.’

  ‘And you’re not going over there too?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Piers, and his voice was edgy suddenly. ‘Apart from anything else The Lady of Shalott is keeping me very occupied at the moment.’

  ‘Ah yes, the Lady. Well, the rest of us are all going to get very jealous of her, I can see. What news of her, Piers?’

  ‘Oh – hopeful, I think,’ said Piers. ‘I have most of the money now. And Dominic has definitely signed. But –’

  ‘Don’t tell me, no actual Lady yet?’

  ‘No actual Lady yet, no.’

  ‘I heard Tabitha –’

  ‘Well, possibly.’

  Chloe was puzzled by this; she had heard at the lunch that Tabitha was definitely to play the Lady. She sat carefully silent; this was not a conversation she should or could possibly enter.

  ‘I wanted Vanessa originally,’ Piers was saying. ‘But she turned it down. Or rather she’d just signed to do the film version of Camelot. Such a pity.’

  ‘Such.’

  ‘And then I thought about Julie, but she’s too current-looking.’

  ‘Oh much. Susannah York? I’ve heard some talk about her.’

  ‘Well – possibly. She may not be available . . .’

  ‘You could consider an unknown,’ said Annunciata. She smiled at him, the dark eyes under the lashes full of such helpless, naked greed that Chloe was startled.

  ‘Sweetheart, I’d love to. Especially if the unknown was you. But I can’t afford to. I need a name. To get the backing.’

  ‘Oh well.’ She stood up immediately, all pretence at charm gone. ‘Well, I must leave you to enjoy your tea. There’s Geoffrey now. See
you around, Piers.’

  Piers looked at Chloe slightly apologetically as Annunciata swept off across the room. ‘I’m sorry about that. She was rather rude.’

  ‘I didn’t notice,’ said Chloe untruthfully, wretched that he had called Annunciata sweetheart.

  ‘She’s a very talented, but rather difficult actress. Hell to work with. She never seems to realize that’s why she doesn’t get the parts.’

  ‘Couldn’t someone just tell her?’ said Chloe wonderingly.

  ‘They do. But she’s very neurotic. She’s taken an overdose twice. It’s easier to opt out.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Chloe. She looked across the room at Annunciata’s back which was very pointedly turned to their table. ‘I suppose your profession is full of – of – well, neurotic people.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Piers with his gentle, charming smile. ‘It’s a neurotic business. It’s very nice to meet someone like you, who so patently isn’t.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Chloe. ‘I can be quite emotional. You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ he said, looking at her very seriously. ‘You seem the essence of stability to me. And courage,’ he added.

  ‘Oh,’ said Chloe, ‘not a lot of choice, if you mean my face.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think there was a lot of choice. I can think of a great many people who would have screamed the place down, threatened to sue, all sorts of unpleasant things.’

  ‘Well,’ she said and was silent. She felt disturbed and disconcerted by the interlude with Annunciata, demoted abruptly from being Piers’s friend to being someone who had no business to be with him, no part of his world.

  Piers looked at her for a moment thoughtfully, then said, ‘Now what about you? Are you a wildly ambitious young woman? Do you plan to run a business with a cast of thousands? Your own hotel chain perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, good gracious, no,’ said Chloe. ‘I’m not ambitious at all. Well I am, but not in that way.’

  ‘In what way then?’

  ‘My ambition,’ she said, looking down at her plate because she was always slightly embarrassed at telling people about it, but at the same time wanting him very much to know, ‘my ambition is to have a happy family. That’s all, really. I want to be married to someone I love, and to have a lot of children, and a house that’s full of people laughing and having fun. I want my children to feel I’m always there for them, and that they are the most important thing in the world to me.’ She paused, and looked up at him, half embarrassed, half defiant, and said, ‘I expect that sounds very boring to you. Not very swinging sixties at all.’

  Piers looked at her and suddenly put out his hand and touched her cheek, pushing back her heavy hair. ‘It sounds lovely,’ he said. ‘Not boring at all. I think perhaps, Miss Hunterton, you had better marry me.’

  He had not meant it of course, and she had known he had not meant it; but she still found it a profoundly affecting remark. She sat there, looking down at her plate, crumbling her biscuit to pieces, and wondering what on earth she could say next, when he said, ‘Are you free tomorrow night? Because if you are I would really like you to have dinner with me.’

  Chloe sat and stared at him and felt the most extraordinary things happening to her. She was wildly, wonderfully happy, excited, filled with energy and confidence and pleasure. She was dimly aware that the pianist was playing ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ which she had always hated, but which suddenly seemed to her one of the nicest tunes she had ever heard. And the whole room suddenly seemed very bright, and very beautiful; and everyone in it seemed to be smiling, warm, friendly. She was also aware of an entirely new sensation in the depths of her body, a warmth, a quickening, that reached outwards into every corner of herself, and at the same time she wondered at it she knew somehow precisely what it was.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she said finally. ‘You really don’t have to.’

  Piers Windsor smiled at her. ‘I know I don’t have to,’ he said, ‘but I want to.’

  He took her to the Ritz. She supposed it was inevitable. It was a flashy, showbizzy place, and he probably went there all the time. Nevertheless it was exciting. Exciting and flattering that he should take her there. Her main worry was that they would meet lots more Annunciatas.

  He offered to send the car to pick her up in Primrose Hill, but she said she would rather make her own way; he was waiting for her in the cocktail lounge when she walked in. She had spent most of the day looking for something to wear and had finally fallen in love with a black crepe ankle-length dress, by Ossie Clark, with long tight sleeves; it was very plain, skimming over her body, cut low at the bosom (and she was proud of her bosom; it was, despite the fact she had lost so much weight, still quite impressive) and buttoning right through to the hem. She had pulled her hair back from her face, and pinned it in a waterfall of curls on top of her head; she made herself up extravagantly, with (taking her cue from Annunciata) rows of false eyelashes, and a lot of dark brown eyeshadow. She looked stunning, she knew, and more stunning than he had clearly expected; he sat staring at her for a moment or two, before standing up and bending to kiss her cheek.

  ‘You look – older.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, her words totally belying the sophistication of her appearance. ‘I thought I should try. Try and look older. My mother says I look as if I’m still at school.’

  ‘You don’t look,’ he said, ‘in the least like any schoolgirl I have ever known. What would you like to drink?’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘I can’t drink. Not yet. Not till I’ve eaten something. I get drunk terribly easily. Could I have some Vichy water? With ice and lemon?’

  ‘Of course you can.’ He ordered it, wrenching his eyes away from her bosom with transparent difficulty. ‘Now tell me what you’ve been doing today.’

  They sat for hours over dinner and afterwards; just talking. There were two brief Annunciata-type interruptions, one from a very flashy-looking, rather middle-aged-looking blonde who came and hugged Piers rapturously as if she was meeting him after a five-year separation, and who bestowed a look of breathtaking suspicion on Chloe, and another from an intensely beautiful young man with black curly hair who hugged Piers almost as rapturously as the woman had, and called him ‘love’. Piers introduced them both to Chloe as colleagues, talked to them fairly briefly, told her that the woman was an agent, the man the lyricist who was working on The Lady of Shalott.

  The relentless intensity of his interest in her flattered her into confidence. She talked little; sat and listened to him, and tried to eat. Much of the time he talked, told her of his own life. She heard about a jolly father, an adoring mother – now in a nursing home in Sussex – a happy childhood, a ‘slightly dashing war in the RAF’.

  ‘When it was all over, feeling a bit of a fraud, I tried for RADA and got a place.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And oh, I did OK.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, smiling at her slightly ruefully, ‘which means I won a few prizes, and a part in repertory. God, that was fun. That was when I met and married Guinevere. My first wife: Guinevere Davies. An actress, and a girl from the valleys. With all the music of Wales in her. And we were happy. For a bit. Then – oh, well, she got her break before I did. Played Ophelia at the Bristol Old Vic. And got a little grand.’

  ‘Was that why you broke up?’ asked Chloe, gently careful.

  ‘Well, you know, one really should be able to live with these things. It’s what you expect in the theatre. I think we might have been all right even then. But she – she –’ He looked at her, and there was pain, fierce raw pain in his grey eyes.

  ‘She what?’ said Chloe.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. You don’t want to hear this. The ramblings of a middle-aged man.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I do wan
t to. Please tell me.’

  ‘Well.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘All right. She was pregnant. The day she found out she was offered Jennifer Dubedat in The Doctor’s Dilemma. Bristol Old Vic. It was no contest really. She – she had an abortion. I couldn’t handle it. We parted.’

  There was a long silence. Chloe was deeply, painfully shocked, shocked at his patently still-alive grief, and at a breed of woman who could discard a baby simply in order to be in a play.

  He smiled at her rather shakily. ‘I vowed, that day, the day she told me, I would never marry again, until I found someone whom I could – well, trust.’

  ‘And you never have found the someone?’

  ‘I never have.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Chloe, and loathed herself for the fatuousness of the response.

  She heard of a burgeoning career: a series of small parts, then second leads, Horatio, Mercutio, Victor in Private Lives. ‘After that I became that dreadful thing, a male lead, and then I hit the screen and – well, maybe you know the rest. If you don’t, it doesn’t matter.’

  Chloe didn’t like to say she didn’t really know the rest, but she smiled, and said, ‘So did you go to Hollywood?’

  ‘I did. Not until I was quite an old man though. At the end of the fifties. That was to make Town Cousins. Did you see Town Cousins?’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry. But Joe told me about it,’ she added hastily.

  ‘Darling, don’t be sorry. It was a very silly film. But it made me a household name. And a lot of money. And then the next one, Kiss and Don’t Tell, that great genre, the comedy thriller, made it possible for me to get into directing. Dear me, this is turning into a crash course in theatrical history. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Chloe, trying to work out why she felt so heady suddenly, and realizing it was because he had called her darling. ‘I love it. I just feel so silly not knowing about it. So you didn’t think of going to Hollywood earlier? When you were young?’