Well, it was going to be opened. It had to be opened. Who could open a lock? A locksmith. Yes, that was what she needed, a locksmith. But how did you find a locksmith?
‘Rosemary,’ she called to the nanny, ‘Rosemary, I need a locksmith. Can you think how we can find one?’
‘Yellow Pages?’ said Rosemary.
‘Yellow Pages. Of course. Wonderful Yellow Pages. Thank you, Rosemary.’
She could tell from Rosemary’s face that she thought she must have been drinking.
‘Should I go to the hospital, Mrs Windsor? To be with Ned?’
‘What? Oh, no, Rosemary, it’s fine. I need you here for Kitty. I’ll be going back myself later.’
Locksmiths, locksmiths. God, there were dozens. Better get a local one, otherwise it would take days. Like – yes, like James and James, Locksmiths, New Kings Road. They would do.
James and James were unable to help. They only did business locks. Could they suggest Faulkners, Lower Sloane Street? Faulkners said they could come in the morning. Around eleven. They were extremely sorry, but they had a long list of calls to make.
Fuck, said Chloe most uncharacteristically and went back to Yellow Pages. Dysart in the Fulham Road. They sounded nice and hardworking. Dysart were all out. Finally, three calls later, a nice-sounding lady called Mrs Adams said she would tell Mr Adams the minute he came in that it was an emergency and she was sure he’d do what he could.
Mr Adams rang about twenty minutes later. He said he’d have his tea and then come right over.
‘Tea?’ said Chloe stupidly. ‘Tea? What time is it?’
‘Nearly five thirty, madam.’
‘Good Lord,’ she said, genuinely amazed. ‘I thought it was lunchtime.’
‘Time flies,’ said Mr Adams conversationally, ‘when you’re having fun.’
He arrived just before seven, full of apologies. Chloe had in the intervening period drunk half a bottle of Piers’s finest claret. It was the only way she felt she could take revenge on him at that particular time. Later she would think of something else.
‘Mr Adams,’ she said, ‘how kind. It’s this drawer, you see. One of the children has thrown the key away and I’ve locked something absolutely crucial in it, my birth certificate actually, and my passport has expired, and I have to renew it immediately, because my husband wants me to join him in Jamaica and –’ She stopped talking; Mr Adams was clearly not interested in her story. ‘Would you like a drink, Mr Adams? It is after opening time.’
‘Well, now,’ he said, fiddling with his tools, ‘I don’t mind if I do. As it’s after opening time. Port and lemon is my drink, madam. If that would be at all possible. Otherwise a small sherry.’
There was no port, so Chloe poured a large glass of the claret; she couldn’t find any lemons, so she added a tablespoonful of Jif Instant Lemon. The thought of what Piers would say if he knew made her feel more hysterical still.
‘Thank you, madam. Now this is difficult. A double lock. Not easy. But never fear. Adams is here. That is our company motto, madam. Now then, I think a little easing here – and here – and – yes, there we go. Open. Good. My word, this is nice port, madam.’
‘I’m so pleased you like it. Er – how much do I owe you for that?’
‘Oh, shall we say five pounds? And could I take just a little more lemon?’
‘Of course,’ said Chloe.
The drink had been a mistake; Mr Adams became garrulous and started telling her about Locks I Have Opened. The owners of the locks included a famous actress, a racehorse owner and a member of the nobility, none of whom were clearly safe on the streets, in Mr Adam’s opinion. ‘I did think, madam, a man who could lock his own gun away was not to be trusted.’
Chloe rather rashly said she thought a man who locked his gun away was more to be trusted than one who didn’t, and Mr Adams said he’d never thought of that, but she certainly had a point; after a while Chloe opened a second bottle of the St Emilion Grand Cru, 1961, and poured them each a glass of that and added the Jif to Mr Adams’s glass. Mr Adams said it was very nice, although not quite Beaujolais standard, and finally at eight thirty the phone rang and it was Mrs Adams, wondering what had happened to him.
‘Just having a quick one with the lady,’ said Mr Adams, firmly, ‘and then I’ll be on my way. Women never understand the importance of business entertaining,’ he said confidingly to Chloe, who, suddenly afraid of him leaving, of being forced to open the drawer, the terrible crawling, obscene can of worms, eager to detain Mr Adams, to postpone the moment, said that was quite true, she never really understood it herself, and Mr Adams explained the importance of business entertaining at some length, so that by the time he finally wove rather unsteadily down the steps it was after nine. Chloe, suddenly and horribly alone, took hold of all the courage she possessed and sat down and started working her way through the drawer.
It was the usual mess, inside the drawer. Letters to Piers from his mother, from the Montagues, his army papers, old photographs from the RADA days, some pictures of her, a great many of Pandora, old programmes, yellowing cuttings and reviews. Chloe tore through them all carelessly, ripping some of them, unfolding them, pushing them back again, breathing hard, so hard that every now and again she had to sit back and consciously try to relax. Nothing, nothing, it seemed. No reason to lock the drawer. Just another example of Piers’s extraordinary secretiveness, it seemed; unnecessary, tantalizing secretiveness. She rummaged harder, half sobbing now under her breath, her eyes blurred with tears; no, nothing. Nothing at all. And then she saw it: a brown envelope, newer than the rest, stuffed inside another one filled with old school photographs. It reminded her of another occasion her life had been shattered by a search through old photographs and she stopped briefly, remembering that hurt, that pain, wondering if she should put it all back again, walk away, wipe it from her mind, tell herself that yes, Gerard Zwirn must be a drama studio, a theatre workshop, forget the whole thing. But she couldn’t; it wasn’t possible, and, watching her hands trembling, she opened the envelope.
Bank statements: the only ones she had ever seen Piers file, bank statements from the year 1957, a dollar account with his own bank, a standing order made out in favour of G. Zwirn, in a bank first at Playa del Rey, and then at Santa Barbara; a regular amount, only two hundred and fifty dollars initially, then slowly mounting over the years to the current sum of one thousand dollars. Payments into the account erratic, sometimes quite small, inadequate, but just about levelling up, every time: every so often a very large one, three or four thousand dollars, one huge one in 1964, for twenty thousand dollars, and then back to the regular amounts. Chloe sat staring at them, trying to make some kind of sense: blackmail, she thought, it had to be, this Gerard Zwirn was blackmailing Piers; he must have something on him, had done for years, before she had even known him. She could imagine with horrible clarity what it might be. As she sat there, reading them over and over again, and then rather half-heartedly tidying the drawer, refolding the papers, replacing the photographs, she suddenly remembered with a thud of horror that she had left Ned in the hospital many hours earlier, that he would be wanting her, calling for her, and she stood up, dazed, not only with shock but with the bottle or more of wine she had drunk. Well, it was just as well, she thought, that she felt dazed, otherwise she would be feeling a great deal worse. She ran down the stairs, scribbled a note to Rosemary, grabbed her keys and went out to the car.
Halfway down Knightsbridge, she suddenly felt sober, horribly, hideously sober. Tears rose from somewhere deep within her, and started coursing down her face; something seemed to be stifling her, it was hard to breathe. She tried not to panic, dashed the tears impatiently from her eyes, took deep breaths. She knew really she should stop, but the thought of little Ned, crying for her, wanting her, made it impossible. She had neglected him all day and the very least she could do was go to h
im now. She would calm down, sober up, and then she would be able to think what to do. But she needed help, advice. And suddenly she thought of Ludovic. He would know what to do, he would help her, comfort her. She suddenly, more than anything in the world, longed to hear his voice; she saw a phone box by the road, halfway along Piccadilly, and felt a rush of relief. She would ring him, tell him to come and see her, maybe he could even come to the hospital to pick her up. Or just sit with her. She needed him so badly, so very badly. She pulled in sharply towards the phone box, and as she did so, heard a terrible noise, several terrible noises, a blaring of car horns, a screeching of brakes, a loud bang and then a deathly silence, broken only by a human scream, going on and on. It was only much later when she awoke in hospital, and was able to recall at least some of the accident, that she realized the human screaming had been herself.
By some miracle no one else had been hurt, although three cars had been damaged. She was hurt quite badly: concussed, a broken wrist, a knee cut through almost to the bone – and clearly, from the knives of pain running through her almost constantly, a threatened miscarriage. But no one else had even been scratched. The police told her that, sternly but kindly, as they sat with her waiting for the ambulance while she swam in and out of consciousness. They didn’t ask her if she had been drinking. She presumed they could tell that for themselves.
Chloe supposed she had known she would lose the baby. Nevertheless when the pain grew so bad she was crying out, and she was bleeding so much they started talking about transfusions and when finally the doctor came and said they were taking her down to theatre, that there was nothing, nothing else at all that they could do, she turned her head into the pillow and wept endlessly, bitterly for the loss of her baby: Ludovic’s baby: her hope for, and her stake in, the future.
‘So I’m afraid she’s lost the baby. I’m terribly sorry. She’s lost a lot of blood and she’s very shocked. But the concussion is not serious, nor the broken wrist, and she’s young and strong. There should be no lasting damage.’
The young doctor looked at Piers slightly nervously. He was white under his extremely expensive-looking tan, and the muscles in his face were taut with fear and – what? Outrage? Rage?
Piers said nothing. He just sat there, staring at him. Then he said, ‘Can I see her?’
‘You can, but she’s very heavily sedated. She’s only been up from theatre for an hour or so. And she’s very shocked. I would urge you not to tire her in any way.’
‘Of course I’m not going to tire her,’ said Piers. ‘What do you think I’m going to do, drag her out of bed and start playing charades?’
‘Of course not,’ said the doctor, keeping his face straight with an effort (and was that right, he wondered, was the great actor trying to be funny – being funny even?). ‘But very often relatives make emotional demands, even while they’re being sympathetic. Above all, don’t question her. She really isn’t up to it.’
‘I am not going to question her,’ said Piers, speaking quietly with what was obviously a great effort. ‘I just want to see her. That’s all.’
‘Fine. Come with me.’
Chloe kept surfacing to consciousness and drifting under it again. The drifting was nice, an easing of pain, of misery; the surfacing was horrible, a nightmare of fear. Any moment now Piers would arrive and if she wasn’t careful the doctor would tell him she had had a miscarriage. Even Piers would know there was no way she had become pregnant by him. He would want to know how it had happened. And then he would go home and find the ransacked desk, the forced-open drawer. Every time she thought about that, and what the drawer had contained, she began to cry weakly; then a nurse would come, stroke her forehead, sponge her hot face, and she would drift off again. And Ludovic: he would hear about it, he would discover she had had a baby, would know it was his baby, a baby he had never known about, that she had been too much of a coward to tell him about. Ludovic, who wanted children more than anything in the world; Ludovic, who would be as hurt, maybe more hurt even than Piers. God, how had she got into this mess? How was she ever going to get out of it?
‘Chloe, hallo, darling.’ It was Piers; he looked nothing but tenderly, gently concerned. She was amazed how good it was to see him; she reached out her hand and took his.
‘Piers. Hallo. I’m sorry to spoil your holiday. How was it?’
‘Wonderful. Thank you. How are you?’
‘Oh – you know. A bit sore. I hit my head, cut my knee. That’s why they put this stupid drip in.’ She closed her eyes, trying to smile, exhausted by the long speech.
Piers was silent; a long time later, from a far distant place, she heard him say, ‘Chloe, it’s all right. They told me. About the baby.’
Chloe opened her eyes; he was looking at her without anger, just a terrible sadness. She closed her eyes again, very tightly, to blot this awful vision out.
‘Piers,’ she said weakly, summoning the last of her strength, ‘Piers, you have to tell me something. Who is Gerard Zwirn?’
She forced herself to look at him again, and watched his eyes darken with shock, with horror almost, saw him turn first waxy pale, and then flush, a dark flush, rising to his hairline.
Then the nurse came in and told Piers it was time he left, and he bent and kissed her and said, ‘I’ll leave you to sleep. Don’t worry about anything.’
And then he was gone.
‘Piers, this is Ludovic. Thank God you’re back. I’ve been so worried about Chloe and you know what they’re like in these places, won’t tell you anything. How is she?’
‘Not very well.’ Piers’s voice was infintely weary, dark, heavy. ‘Oh, she’ll be all right. But she’s not very well at the moment.’ There was a pause, then he said, ‘She’s concussed and shocked, and oh, yes, she’s had a miscarriage.’
‘A – a miscarriage?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Oh, we hadn’t told anyone, it was early days. But – there it is. Always sad. Anyway, she’s coming out in a day or two. Then I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you.’
‘Yes, sure. I’ll – phone.’
Ludovic put the phone down, and sat staring at it for a long time. Then he told his secretary not to put any calls through, laid his head on his arms and for the first time since his mother had left him at his prep school, he wept.
Magnus Phillips was feeling contented: a somewhat rare state of affairs. The Tinsel Underneath was in the pleasant honeymoon period, the early chapters, when it was apparently writing itself, something which he knew would swiftly change to it refusing to be written at all, but which was pleasant while it lasted; he had received in his morning mail a very large royalty cheque for Dancers which was still selling fast in America, and he had had a very good dinner with Richard Beauman at the Stafford Hotel, at which Richard had outlined some rather satisfying promotional plans for The Tinsel Underneath.
‘I thought we’d use posters: countrywide, and particularly cross-track ones on the Underground, with an excerpt from a particularly tantalizing chapter. It’ll get them reading it and then the train’ll come and interrupt and they’ll want to go and buy it. Plus the usual space in magazines and newspaper, and I thought possibly a radio campaign on a few of the commercial stations. Capital in particular. That’s a very interesting news media. You can really grab the imagination.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Magnus.
‘I suppose the book’s almost finished,’ said Beauman casually.
‘Almost,’ said Magnus.
The minute he opened his front door, he could sense something was wrong. The house felt cold for a start; and he always kept it very warm. The kitchen door which he always kept open was closed; and the radio which he always left playing quietly upstairs when he went out was off. He shut the door quietly, put down the rather large briefcase he was carrying, and pushed open the kitchen door gently. It was empty, quite quiet –
and in chaos. Every drawer, every cupboard had been ransacked. The oven door was open, and so was the fridge. There was food on the floor, where it had been pulled out. He turned and went into his study: worse. Nothing had been left. His desk drawers, his files, his interview tapes, his notebooks, all thrown on the floor. His typewriter turned over; his books pulled off the shelves, even his leather chair had its seat slashed. The same scene of horror continued upstairs. Every room had been turned over. In the bedrooms, the carpets had been torn up. Magnus walked through the house, slowly, surveying the damage, occasionally pausing to right an upturned lamp, to replace an ornament. Finally he went back down to the study, lifted the phone and called the police.
‘You seem very calm, sir,’ said the sergeant, handing his report to Magnus to sign.
‘I feel very calm,’ said Magnus, smiling at him cheerfully. ‘They didn’t take the one thing that mattered, and the damage is minimal.’
‘Really, sir? What would that have been?’
‘Oh – something I’ve been working on for a long time.’
‘Would that have been very serious, sir?’
‘Very serious.’
‘Very valuable to you, I suppose, sir, but maybe not to anyone else.’
‘No, that’s probably right, Sergeant.’
‘So where was this, sir?’
‘Oh,’ said Magnus, ‘I had it with me. All of it. It’s in that briefcase over there, as a matter of fact. Never go out without it. Even to do my shopping.’
‘Very wise, sir.’
He could see the sergeant thought he was completely mad. He thought by the time The Tinsel Underneath was published he probably would be.
‘Piers,’ said Chloe, trying to keep her voice calm, ‘Piers, we have to talk.’
AN Outrageous Affair Page 76
