‘It’s not all the time,’ Chloe had said, stung into courage. ‘I’d just like to come sometimes. I’ve never been to America.’ But then she had given up entirely, seeing that she would never manage to persuade him, that the request only irritated him.
He, on the other hand, was almost hysterical in his need to know where she was, every moment of her day; there had been occasions when she had been at friends’ houses, often with Pandora, chatting, careless of the time, had stayed perhaps for lunch unexpectedly, and would get home an hour or so later than she had said, and he would be waiting for her, deeply distressed, even angry sometimes, wanting to know exactly where she had been, what she had been doing. At first she had tried to tease him out of it, but she had learnt it was hopeless, he genuinely minded, so she always phoned home with endless messages and got appallingly tense if she was held up in traffic, or some other situation where she couldn’t contact him. He was jealous of her friendships, too, with her girlfriends; she learnt to play them down, to say she had lunched or shopped or taken Pandora to the park alone when in fact she had been with someone, several other people, and then worried that he might have seen her, and known she was lying. It was as well, she thought, she was so helplessly in love with him, and there would never be the slightest reason for her even to look at anyone else; he would undoubtedly have killed him. He was also fiercely jealous of Joe and any time she spent with him, so she would lie about that as well, imploring Joe to back her up in her deception if the need arose. Piers, on the other hand, however, had any amount of intense friendships, with Damian, with David Montague, with David’s wife Liza, with Giles Forrest, and had endless long conversations with them, far into the night, while she sat feeling chilled and alone, and ended up either falling asleep on the sofa, or going quietly up to bed. But then he would make it up to her, swear desperate undying love, take her to bed and make love to her almost frantically, as if he was aware he might have hurt her.
And then there was the making love itself, the sex; she really still found that the hardest thing to deal with. It was as unsatisfactory, as much of a let-down still as it had been the first time: the wonderful build-up, the longing for him, the confidence (waning now, she had to admit) that this time, this time, it would be all right, that the darts of pleasure would be allowed to grow, the soft tenderness would turn to triumph, but somehow it never was and she would be lying there, yet again, near to tears, fearful that he must be finding her as disappointing, wondering what she could, should do. She tried once or twice to talk to him about it, but her courage failed her; he thought she was simply asking for him, so feeble were her approaches to the subject, and so for now she had given up, a little sad, disappointed even, feeling oddly helpless. The only comfort – and it was a big one – was that he seemed perfectly content with her in bed, always told her afterwards how wonderful she was, how glorious it had been. Well, it wasn’t everything: it wasn’t even nearly everything. When she was feeling really bad, really afraid, she would remind herself that he had had no need to marry her, he could have had anyone, any beautiful, talented, self-assured creature he chose. There could be no doubt, no possible doubt really that he must love her, and that she pleased him. She was doing well, she told herself. It was all going to be all right. And in time, she was sure, her sense of aloneness, of anxiety both with herself and him would ease.
And then she saw Joe’s book. Scandals, it was called, published years ago, just before he had met her mother in fact, and she had been wanting to read it for ages, but it was out of print. She had grown weary of his assurances that he had no copies left, that he had lost his own, lent the very last copy to a drunken colleague, that he would try to get her a copy from his publishers. She had even asked Piers if he had it, knowing there was some stuff in it about the theatre, but he had said no, absolutely not, he’d never even heard of it, and it wouldn’t interest him anyway. Anyway, there it was, in a second-hand bookshop, marked down to a pound; she tucked it beneath Pandora’s pram cover and continued on her walk home. When they got home, Pandora was tired and fretful; she hurried in to bath her, calling for Rosemary, the nanny, and forgot the book until the next morning, when she was looking in the pram for a glove.
So it was that when Piers came down for a very late breakfast she was sitting with it, flicking idly through the pages, not interested enough to read the whole thing, a lot about political scandals and financial ones; she dipped with rather more enthusiasm into the chapter on Hollywood, where the name Byron Patrick caught her eye. Ten minutes later she had not moved, apart from turning the pages, absent-mindedly feeding Pandora with bits of eggy toast; she looked up at Piers, smiled at him quickly and nervously and hurried out of the room, the book in her hand, thanking God that Piers (who considered newspapers purely as vehicles for reviews and theatrical gossip and had, like many of his colleagues, a slightly hazy view of world events) had been so engrossed in an article about the Royal Court Theatre and its financial future that he had not noticed it.
‘Joe,’ she said, her voice shaking, ‘Joe, I’ve just bought your book. The one about the scandals. Joe, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what, poppet?’ said Joe and she knew at once he knew what she meant.
‘You know what, about Byron Patrick, or Brendan, or whatever his name really was,’ she said. ‘The man, Fleur’s father, I didn’t realize he’d died like that, that it was all so horrible. I wish I’d known.’
‘And why do you wish you’d known?’ said Joe, gently. ‘What difference would it have made?’
‘I don’t know. It just would. I might – well, it’s so sordid and sad. I think I ought to have known. I think it makes me feel – well, differently. About her. About his daughter. Sorrier for her. Less hostile.’
‘Well, it’s all a long time ago now. She – Fleur – she’s fine now. She’s got over it perfectly well.’
‘Oh Joe, how could she? If she has any feelings at all. You should have told me, you really should.’
It seemed unbearably sad somehow that Fleur’s father, Brendan, or Byron as Hollywood had rechristened him, the handsome actor playing on the beach with the starlets, the brave hero who her mother had loved, had died, in squalor and obscurity, after some terrible scandal; Fleur seemed less strong, less dangerous somehow, and more important in her life, and she wanted, if a little half-heartedly, to know the rest. She wondered if she should not perhaps be brave and ask her mother about it, and maybe tell Piers about Fleur, about all of it, that it was too important to have lying between them, a sad sorry secret. She was about to go down and ask him if he had the time to talk to her when the phone rang and Piers picked it up and then came flying up the stairs into her room, to say that David Montague had just called to say that the Lady was up for Best Musical with the Variety Club, and was almost certain to get it. It didn’t seem right to bother him with something so complex and difficult at that point, and then he was out for days, and had to go to New York for three weeks, and then she discovered (wonderfully) that she was pregnant again. After that Fleur and her father seemed part of such a distant and different past that they were best left there. After all, they had nothing to do with her own life now; absolutely nothing at all.
Joe sat staring at the phone after she rang off, uncertain as to why he felt so uneasy. Then he realized and felt slightly sick. There had been a copy of Scandals in the library at Stebbings; he had seen it himself. Surely Chloe would have found it, if it had still been there. And if it hadn’t – why on earth not?
Fleur was thumbing through an edition of Harper’s Bazaar one chill and dark November day, checking out one of the Juliana ads, when she came across a feature entitled ‘Good Wives’. ‘Chloe Windsor,’ the caption said, beneath the picture of one of the good wives, ‘ravishing young redhaired wife of English actor and impresario Piers Windsor, seen here with her new baby daughter Pandora. Mrs Windsor, who holds refreshingly old-fashioned views on mo
therhood and says she sees no more satisfying career than caring for what she hopes will be a large family, is pictured here in her London home wearing a white satin ballgown from Belville Sassoon. Pandora’s lace robe is from the White House.’
Fleur felt as if she had been hit very hard, first in the stomach and then over the head. Was it? Could it be? No. No, it was impossible. It would have been the most absurd, the most horrible coincidence. It was a ridiculous idea. It was just the name. That was all. Chloe – well, there were hundreds, thousands of Chloes. She had never actually seen a picture of Chloe, had never wanted to, had strenuously discouraged Joe even from talking about her. Sweet, Joe had always described her as. An old-fashioned girl. Well, this was no old-fashioned girl. This was a gorgeous, very contemporary woman. But – when had that been? When he had said that? Years ago. Well, even so. No, she was just being silly. But what about the red hair? The dark red hair: like Caroline’s. Well, so what? Dozens of girls with red hair. Called Chloe? Yes, of course. She must know several herself. She actually couldn’t think of any.
‘Poppy,’ she said, and her voice sounded odd, ‘Poppy, do you know any girls called Chloe?’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Poppy. ‘Why? You all right? You look terrible.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ said Fleur. She didn’t feel fine. She felt sick. She had to find out. She had to. Ridiculous, absurd as it was, she still had to find out, for sure. She sat as if in a trance for the next three hours, ostensibly trying to think of something original to say about mascara and actually doing absolutely nothing.
When everyone had gone, she picked up her phone and called Joe collect in London.
She heard his voice, giving the number; heard him asked if he would pay for the call, heard him hesitate. Finally, ‘Yes, OK,’ he said, and she was put through.
‘Joe? This is Fleur.’
‘I guessed it was,’ he said, and her heart turned over at the drawly, gravelly voice. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Joe, I’m sorry to bother you, but I – you have to tell me something. Did – is – Chloe married to Piers Windsor? The old actor guy?’
There was a brief silence. Then he said, ‘Yes. Yes, she is. Although,’ he added with a sudden lightening of his voice, ‘I wouldn’t call him exactly old.’
‘He looks pretty damn old to me,’ said Fleur. ‘When – that is, how long ago were they married?’
‘Oh,’ he said carefully, ‘well over a year ago.’
‘How nice for her,’ said Fleur. ‘Er – I suppose this is a silly question, but didn’t anyone think to tell me? She is my sister.’
‘Well, Caroline felt – that is . . .’ Joe’s voice tailed off weakly.
‘Oh, I expect Caroline felt I didn’t need to know. Well, I am a bit of an embarrassment, I can see that, when it comes to family. Not that I am family of course. What on earth does he make of us all? Whatever did Caroline tell him about me?’
‘Well she didn’t,’ said Joe. ‘Obviously.’
‘I see,’ said Fleur. She felt very sick suddenly, and extraordinarily fragile, as if she might faint. She picked up her cup of cold coffee and took a huge swig; the room swam about her oddly.
‘Fleur, are you all right? I’m sorry if this has upset you.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, fighting down the hurt, the raw misery of this latest rejection, that Joe of all people could be so crass, so insensitive, ‘I’m absolutely fine. Don’t worry about me, Joe. I’m not in the least upset. Why should I be?’
‘Fleur,’ he said, ‘Fleur, it isn’t –’
‘I don’t want to discuss it,’ she said, and put the phone down.
Later she sat, staring at the picture, looking with a sense that was almost wonder into Chloe’s serene brown eyes, knowing at last what she looked like. All these years she had been thinking about her, had built her up into – what? Not a person at all, just a faceless, anonymous being, but an enemy none the less in possession of everything she didn’t have. Now, she had not just a face, but a personality, a facile personality; she wore clothes (beautiful expensive clothes), she lived in a house (a flashy, expensive house), she spoke foolish sentimental words, she held an absurdly dressed baby. But oh, how did she do it, how did she go on having it all, love, luxury, security, everyone caring for her, protecting her, the petted pampered wife of a rich and famous man? How had she won such a prize, for heaven’s sake, this vapid creature, even if she was pretty; how could it have happened? Well, she could certainly see why they couldn’t have mentioned her: why, of course, obviously, they couldn’t have. That would have cast a shadow over things, an illegitimate sister, sent off by her mother to the other side of the world. That all would have sounded very shoddy; might even have put him off.
Suppose she had even suggested coming to the wedding, to what had been no doubt an immensely grand and fashionable occasion, probably in Caroline’s fucking great country house, with everyone there, smiling, being happy, being proud of Chloe: suppose she had turned up, like the wicked fairy at the feast. No, obviously they couldn’t have told her about the wedding; couldn’t have told the wedding about her. Obviously.
‘One day,’ she said to the picture, ‘one day I’ll get even with you. One day we’ll be quits, you and I.’
Just before Christmas Piers suddenly had to go away again. ‘Sorry, darling, only for a few days, I just have to see a producer in LA about a new idea I have, such a wonderful idea, just a tiny gleam in my eye at the moment, I’d better not tell you about it at least till I get back, it might be unlucky.’
Chloe was cross, miserable, feeling unwell with her pregnancy; she hated the thought of him being away; nevertheless she put a brave face on it, packed his bag for him, drove him to the airport, and then, faced with a long day ahead with nothing to do, decided to go and visit Piers’s mother in her nursing home. She phoned Rosemary at the house to make sure Pandora was all right, and said she’d be back at tea-time, phoned the nursing home to say she was coming if Mrs Windsor was up to it, and then made her way down to Sussex.
She adored Flavia; she wished she could see more of her. But Piers was not over-attentive; there was always some excuse not to visit – although when he did, they were clearly so besotted with one another, had so much to say, that Chloe had initially felt slightly awkward, playing her usual role of outsider; but then Flavia had been so sweet to her, so affectionate, told her she was so absolutely delighted to have a daughter again, that she had longed to see more of her.
She had offered several times to go and visit Flavia on her own, but Piers had frowned on the notion, had indeed been quite hostile to it: ‘She’s very fragile,’ he had said, ‘not nearly as strong as she seems. She needs delicate handling.’
‘You make her sound like a nervy horse,’ said Chloe irritably. ‘Anyone can see she just can’t have enough chat. Please let me go, Piers, I’d love it and so would she.’
‘I really think it best that you don’t,’ said Piers. ‘Her doctor has stressed that she must be kept quiet.’
Chloe thought that the kind of conversations Piers conducted with Flavia, endlessly frenetic anecdotes, requiring intense admiration and boundless laughter, hardly qualified as keeping her quiet, but she didn’t say so. She was becoming so irritated by his endless absences, and his refusal to take her with him, that the thought of disobeying him was soothing, positively pleasurable. Besides, it would give Flavia pleasure too: she couldn’t get many visitors.
Flavia was sitting in a chair by the bed when Chloe arrived, not doing anything, just looking out of the window: she was still a pretty woman, with thick, wavy white hair and large grey eyes exactly like Piers’s. She was wearing a pink robe over a frilled white nightdress; there was a gold locket round her neck, and several very beautiful rings on her thin fingers; she had told Chloe on their first meeting that she still spent quite a lot of time trying to lo
ok as nice as she possibly could. ‘I may be a bedridden old woman, but I don’t intend to look like one.’
‘Flavia!’ said Chloe. ‘Hallo.’
Flavia’s face looked at Chloe, taking a few moments to come back from the distant country her thoughts were fixed in; then she smiled, her enchanting sparkly smile. ‘Chloe, my darling, how lovely, how lovely to see you. And what beautiful flowers, freesias, my favourite, they make the room smell so wonderful. Have you brought that naughty husband of yours with you?’
‘No,’ said Chloe, ‘he’s on an aeroplane on one of his endless trips to Los Angeles.’
‘Good. Then we can have a really lovely talk. Men are all very well, but they do go in for such heavy conversation.’
Chloe would not quite have called the kind of conversation Piers and Flavia had heavy, but she didn’t like to say so.
‘I’ve brought you some pictures of Pandora,’ she said, bending to kiss Flavia. ‘I would have brought her in person, but she’s very exhausting at the moment. And I’ve also brought you some really nice news.’
‘Darling, what?’
‘I’m pregnant again,’ said Chloe, blushing slightly.
‘Oh, darling, how lovely. Oh, I’m so thrilled for you, and so happy for Piers that he found you. He always so longed for a family, it’s just wonderful, and so good for him too. It will make him grow up a bit,’ she added slightly sternly.
Chloe was surprised at such frankness from so adoring a mother. ‘He seems quite grown up to me.’
‘My darling, he is still a baby. Never had any responsibility, always been the centre of attention. It’s my fault, of course, I spoilt him when he was little. And since then the whole world has spoilt him. The only person who refused to do so was my darling Guinevere. And then look what happened,’ she added, a look of great sadness in her large eyes.
AN Outrageous Affair Page 44
