‘Hi, Mrs Windsor, how are you doing?’
It was Cathy, one of the make-up girls; pleased to have found a friend, Chloe chatted to her for a minute or two, and then realized Piers had disappeared. Glancing at the huge table where the lunch was laid, at the queue of people waiting for food, she couldn’t see him at all; maybe he was in his caravan. It was a couple of hundred yards away. She made her way to it slowly, nervous now of the actual moment of encounter. She tried the door; it was locked. She knocked. No reply.
The windows were impregnable, heavily curtained: no point looking in there. She turned away, and looked back at the table; still no Piers. Maybe he was in someone else’s caravan. Maybe – God, this was a nightmare. She should not have come, it had been a bad idea, she was trespassing in Piers’s country, she had no business to be there, and she was about to leave quietly, make her way back to the parking lot, when she saw Tabitha suddenly, wandering along, smoking, her floating blue-green robe tied up round her waist, her red flower-bedecked hair tucked under a baseball cap, her feet clad in sneakers. Chloe didn’t really want to speak to her, but Tabitha had seen her and there was no escape.
‘Hallo, Chloe!’ she said. ‘How nice. What are you doing here?’
‘I came to see Piers,’ said Chloe. ‘Hallo.’
‘Does he know you’re here?’ said Tabitha, and no, said Chloe, no, he has no idea, it was a surprise. Tabitha said he should be at the lunch table, and slipped her arm through Chloe’s and led her over.
Piers still wasn’t there, but everyone was really nice to her and sat her down and fetched her food and Tabitha asked her if she’d seen any of the rushes and Chloe said yes, she had, and she thought it all looked wonderful, and Mark Warren, the assistant director, came and sat on her other side and told her they would really value her reaction; they gave her quite a lot of wine, and people kept wandering up, half of them dressed in fairy gear and the other half in jeans and T-shirts, some of them even with fairy gear to their waists and then jeans below it. Chloe began to feel very strange and not sure where she was or what she was doing. And still there was no sign of Piers: or of Robin Leveret.
‘I expect he’s rehearsing somewhere,’ said Tabitha, noticing her discomfort. ‘He often disappears at lunch-time. Or maybe he’s having a sleep. He gets very tired lately. I expect you’ve noticed.’
‘Yes, I have,’ said Chloe, smiling bravely, although she hadn’t, feeling horribly hopeless suddenly. ‘Look, I must get back anyway; give him my love when he turns up.’ She stood up and as she did so Robin Leveret appeared, looking rather flushed and bright-eyed.
He didn’t notice her, sat down heavily on one of the chairs, poured himself a tumblerful of wine and said, ‘Oh, my God, I need this.’
Tabitha was looking uneasy now, Chloe noticed. ‘Robin, darling, look, Chloe’s here. You haven’t seen Piers, have you?’ she said, and there was something in her voice that Chloe had come to recognize, something coded, something cautious.
‘Chloe darling, how lovely! How wonderful that he isn’t here, that terrible husband of yours, we can all enjoy you. Have you had lunch?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Chloe. ‘I’m just going actually, but do you know where Piers is?’
‘In his caravan,’ said Robin just a little too casually. ‘I saw him going in straight off the set hours ago.’
‘You can’t have done,’ said Tabitha, still oddly tense. ‘We’ve all been banging on the door for hours.’
‘Well, darling, go and bang some more. I know he’s there.’
‘Oh, honestly,’ said Chloe, ‘it doesn’t matter, he’s obviously resting. I’ll go home, leave him be, poor man.’ She thought Tabitha and Robin too were oddly relieved by her reticence but Mark Warren said no, no, that was nonsense and anyway it was nearly time to get back to work and Chloe hadn’t after all come all this way for nothing.
‘Come along,’ he said to her, holding out his hand, ‘we will go and waken him together.’ Chloe took the hand and followed him obediently towards the caravan, and she felt absolutely terrified suddenly, her heart thumping so heavily it hurt; when they reached the caravan Mark banged and banged on the door and called Piers’s name but still he didn’t come, and then Mark looked through a small window at the back where the curtains were only half shut and said, ‘He’s in there, the bugger, fast asleep,’ and still they couldn’t wake him: finally they found his dresser who had the key to the caravan, and he unlocked the door, Chloe still protesting that it was really not necessary, and they stood back courteously, so that she might go in first, and as the hot sun broke into the still more stifling heat of the van, and the light fell into the dimness, she saw how very necessary it had been that they came, for Piers was lying on the floor, unconscious, curled in the foetus position, his arms clutching his chest, his face a ghastly grey-white, a trickle of vomit coming from his mouth.
It was all hushed up very cleverly. He was rushed to hospital, and his stomach pumped, and was found to have swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills; his stomach also contained a fair amount of alcohol. As soon as he was stable, he was brought home; a press release was issued saying he had collapsed due to pressure of work, and was taking a short break; the strain of directing and starring in the Dream, and of preparing for his next venture, a Chekhov season in London, had proved too much for him. His wife was taking him to Palm Springs for a few days to convalesce.
Chloe, sick with fear, with remorse, had scarcely left his side since she had found him.
‘Don’t question him,’ the doctor, the awful actor-style doctor, had said, ‘just let him come round to it himself. He’ll tell you when he’s ready. Spoil him, make him feel good about himself, just give him everything he wants for a while. He’s obviously feeling deeply unhappy and insecure. He’s horribly exhausted, you know, and very thin.’ His voice, and indeed his face, were clearly reproachful.
Piers told her, in the end, that he had no real idea why he had done what he did, except that he had been feeling desperate, exhausted, ill, misunderstood, and very alone. Chloe, knowing he was telling her only half, a quarter maybe, of the truth, desperately trying to reassure him of her love and support, and mindful of the doctor’s words, found herself agreeing to allow Pandora to appear in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Notes for Cracks chapter of The Tinsel Underneath. Quotes from Handbook of Psychiatry. Priest and Woolfson.
‘There is no doubt often a desire on the part of the patient to seek attention or to manipulate the feelings and actions of other people.’ (Attempted suicide.) ‘Overdoses are ways of acting out problems.’
Those who actually kill themselves are ‘men, old rather than young and of high social class’. (Poor old manipulative high-class Piers.)
Attempted suicides on the other hand are often ‘young, female and from the lower social classes’. (Poor little lower-class Kirstie.)
Only her attempt became successful. Or did it? Was it really an ‘attempt’? Did she mean to succeed?
‘It is a myth that those who talk about it never do it.’ Is it?
Kirstie is the most puzzling part of this puzzle. She was a tough little cookie. Why kill herself, just because she was pregnant? Why not an abortion? Did she do it because she couldn’t get a part? According to Lou Burns she was a successful little scrubber, having a wild time. Not a despairing neurotic.
Doesn’t make sense.
1969
‘Oh no,’ said Caroline, to the piece of paper lying next to the phone. ‘Absolutely not. No way.’
An hour later the phone rang. ‘Caroline?’
‘Yes, Mr Phillips. This is Caroline Hunterton.’
‘I rang and left a message. You obviously didn’t get it.’
‘I did,’ said Caroline.
‘But you haven’t had time to call me?’
‘I’ve had time,’ sa
id Caroline, ‘but I decided I wouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’ The voice was amused, still confident.
‘Because I didn’t like what you did last time I agreed to see you.’
‘What on earth did I do?’ The voice sounded genuinely surprised. ‘I seem to remember behaving like a perfect gentleman.’
‘Mr Phillips,’ said Caroline, ‘you wouldn’t know a perfect gentleman if he came and spat in your eye.’
‘Lady Hunterton, I thought the whole point about perfect gentlemen was that they didn’t spit in people’s eyes.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Caroline irritably, ‘this is getting us nowhere.’
‘Absolutely not. Now I have something to tell you. Something I thought you ought to know.’
‘I’m sure I don’t want to hear it.’
‘You might.’ There was a long silence. Then: ‘I find you totally attractive. You’re very sexy, and I’d like to have an affair with you.’
Caroline put the phone down.
An hour later he rang again. ‘I’ll rephrase that. Even I can see that was ungentlemanly. I’d like to get to know you, and then have an affair with you.’
Caroline smiled in spite of herself. ‘That doesn’t sound too gentlemanly either.’
‘Well, like you said, I’m pretty far removed from the genuine article.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘And do you only have affairs with gentlemen?’
‘I don’t have affairs, Mr Phillips.’
She put the phone down, and walked into the kitchen, made some tea, sat there, feeling shaken and disturbed, and wondering why it was such a pleasant sensation. As she put the tea caddy away, she saw the jar of Cooper’s Oxford marmalade, and felt a pang of quite extraordinary regret.
Much later that night he rang again.
‘Magnus, please . . .’
‘That’s an improvement. At least you’re not calling me Mr Phillips.’
‘I wish you’d leave me alone.’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. Well, not just yet. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to get to know me better?’
‘Yes, I’m quite sure.’
‘I’ve obviously misread you,’ he said with a sigh so heavy she smiled in spite of herself.’
‘Yes, you have. What did you read as a matter of interest?’
‘Oh – boredom. Frustration. A certain – willingness to be approached.’
‘Very wrong,’ said Caroline, hoping she sounded firm.
‘Well, I’m sorry. Is Joe there?’
‘No. No, he’s not.’
‘Doesn’t he live with you?’
‘Well – yes, yes of course he does.’
‘But he’s not there in the house?’
‘Well – not usually in the week,’ she said and then cursed herself. What an incredibly stupid, crass thing to say.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘well, it does sound like a passionate relationship.’
‘Mr Phillips, I have no intention of discussing my relationships with you.’
‘Not even ours?’
‘We don’t have one.’
‘Ah. Could you just tell me one thing?’
‘Probably not.’
‘What did I do that was so terrible last time we met?’
‘I don’t want to discuss it.’
‘Because if I upset you, talking about Piers Windsor, I’m very sorry. I know I lack – tact.’
‘I rather think,’ she said, ‘there was more to it than that. Actually.’
‘No. No, there wasn’t. But of course you must think what you like.’
‘And I get the feeling that all you really want is to get information out of me. For all these horrible things you’re writing.’
‘They’re not all horrible. And you misjudge me.’
‘I don’t think I do. Goodbye, Mr Phillips.’
Three days later she was unsaddling her horse after a particularly good day’s hunting when she heard a loud throbbing from the front of the house.
‘Dear God,’ she said.
Magnus Phillips was standing at the front door being told she wasn’t yet back by Mrs Conway, the cleaner, when she walked into the hall. She was very aware that she was filthy, her face spattered with mud, her white breeches stained, her hair plastered to her head where her hat had been jammed on to it.
‘You look wonderful,’ said Magnus, grinning.
‘Thank you. I’m going to have a bath. Mrs Conway will give you some tea. Mrs Conway, I think Mr Phillips would also like some toast and marmalade.’ She found herself, entirely against her will, smiling at him. She had always admired persistence.
She lay in the bath soaping herself tenderly, feeling the pain of the day easing out of her; she had no intention of hurrying. She washed her hair, soothed body lotion all over herself, and then dressed in a big mohair jumper and a soft, easy woollen skirt. She brushed her still damp hair, applied just a dash of bright lipstick, sprayed herself with Joy and went downstairs, absolutely determined to refuse to enter into any kind of arrangement with Magnus Phillips.
‘Have some more wine.’
‘No, thank you. I really should be getting home.’
‘I’ve enjoyed this evening.’
‘Me too. Thank you.’
‘Can I see you again?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh – because you know why not. Because of Joe, mostly. And – well, you know the other reasons.’
‘Caroline, I swear I will never again try to get information out of you. OK, yes, I did wonder if you knew that guy Patrick or whatever. It really wasn’t my main reason for coming. I genuinely needed your help with that piece. I could not give a monkey’s fuck about Pier Windsor’s sexual preferences, or what anyone may be saying about them. I just fancy you rotten. I think you’re gorgeous. I’d like to – know you.’
‘In the biblical sense I suppose,’ said Caroline tartly.
‘Well – yeah. Ultimately. But any sense would do right now.’ He reached out suddenly and touched her cheek. A sliver of fire shot through Caroline: she tensed against it. He felt it and smiled.
‘And you?’
‘I told you. There’s Joe.’
‘There’s nothing left there,’ he said, ‘so far as I can see. Except habit. And life’s too short to waste on habit. Especially good ones.’
Caroline told him he was wrong.
He was clearly unimpressed.
‘You just don’t understand,’ she said, ‘And now I really must go home. It’s been lovely, but. You’re not going back to London tonight? On that thing?’
‘That thing is the love of my life. Don’t knock it. Yes, I am. Unless you have something more comfortable in mind.’
‘Yes,’ said Caroline. ‘The village pub.’
‘I’ll stay with the love of my life.’
‘OK. Now I really mean it, Magnus. This is it. Beginning and end.’
‘Alpha and Omega. Don’t you want to know more about me? Don’t I intrigue you?’
‘No,’ she said, and she knew he knew she was lying.
Sleepless that night, she thought about Joe, and what Magnus had said. That there was nothing left but habit.
There was a lot more than that. Tenderness, affection, gratitude. And a relationship that worked. They didn’t trouble one another, didn’t demand much. Didn’t give much either, maybe, any more. Neither of them. But they were comfortable, easy. She could live in Suffolk, enjoy her life there, he could be in London; they could meet when it suited them. It was peaceful, ideal really.
She was still very fond of Joe. And she knew he was fond of her. And there were times still, when she looked at him, at that shambolic
grace of his, his long untidy body, his lazy smile, and her heart could turn over, and she wanted him all over again. But it wasn’t very often and she actually couldn’t remember now when they had last been to bed together. Months. That was sad. She would remember how good it had been, quite suddenly and sharply, and wonder at its passing. But he had withdrawn from her as much as she from him. They neither of them seemed to mind. There was no hostility between them. They had other concerns, other claims on their attention.
Just the same, it was all too good to throw away. She wouldn’t see Magnus again.
He came down and took her out to dinner twice more, invited himself to the Moat House one Sunday when Joe was away, and then over dinner the following week told her life was too short to waste on any more courtship, and he needed her in bed with him. Otherwise, it was finished.
‘There’s nothing to finish,’ said Caroline coolly, and walked out of the restaurant. She was very upset for a few days; then he phoned.
AN Outrageous Affair Page 54
