A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  Every time he left his beautiful mistress in her equally beautiful surroundings he vowed this would be the last time. And like all adulterers, he found himself drawn back again and again for just one more time, one last glorious gratification. He was bewitched not just by her but by all that she gave him, and life without her now, in all its drabness, had become quite simply unthinkable.

  ‘Well, young Tom,’ Donald Herbert said as they sat in the Savoy bar, and raised their glasses to what seemed a now inevitable election. ‘Cometh the hour cometh the man. I hope you’re ready for this.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Tom.

  ‘Good. Because if you think you’ve been nursing your constituents before this, you’re about to discover what that really means. Every hour God sends, you have to be there, once the gun has been fired. Of course you know the form, you’ve done it already at the by-election, but this time you’re going to win, I’m absolutely confident. I hope you feel the same way.’

  ‘I think so,’ said Tom. Confidence was not quite flowing in his veins.

  ‘Well, you must tell yourself you do. If you don’t believe in yourself, nobody else will. Now then: the word is May, with a small minority mooting July.’

  ‘Will Attlee lead the party?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. I would rather Gaitskell. No Tom, not Nye, he’d be a disastrous leader, charismatic as he is. Everyone knows the party is riven at the moment and Attlee at least spells unity. They have Eden, attractive figure, well known enough by now; perhaps a bit too much of a Tory stereotype – but that could play into our hands.’

  ‘You think we have a chance?’

  ‘Not really. Not the party. But you do, and that’s the main thing. That constituency of yours is going to see a big swing. There are many more working-class voters than there were, Tom, it’s all yours for the taking. When’s that baby due?’ asked Herbert, suddenly.

  ‘Early April.’

  ‘Hmm. So Alice won’t be much use to you until the end of April earliest, then?’

  ‘Not out on the stumps, no, ’fraid not.’

  ‘But maybe a few crucial appearances towards the end. All constituents love a wife, and if she’s got a baby, she’s double value. And a new baby – well, beyond price.’

  ‘I’ll talk to her,’ said Tom, ‘but it really will have to be a very few. She won’t be very strong.’

  ‘If she can get out on just the last few days, knock on a few doors with you, be there at the count …’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she can do that,’ said Tom. ‘She really wants to help.’

  ‘Of course. Bad timing, the whole thing, but it can’t be helped. Well, look, I must get home, promised Christine I wouldn’t be late.’

  He stood up, pulled on his coat and held out his hand to shake Tom’s.

  ‘You’re off home now, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom, slightly surprised by the question. ‘Of course.’

  ‘OK. Best wishes to Alice. One last thing,’ said Herbert suddenly, taking him completely off his guard. ‘This is no time for scandal, Tom. One hint of it and you’d be done for.’

  ‘Of – course.’

  ‘Yes. Just thought I’d mention it. Word gets round horribly fast, as you must know. It’s not worth it, Tom, not at the moment at any rate. Night, then …’

  And he was gone. Tom sat down abruptly on his chair again; his heart was racing, he felt he might be sick. Christ. Donald obviously knew – something. And if Donald knew – Jesus. Well, he’d have to finish it now. The new incentive would get him through.

  Diana would not be pleased, though. To put it mildly.

  Chapter 44

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘This sold note on the little dressing table.’

  ‘Well, I hate to state the obvious, but it’s a sold note.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to tell me about it?’

  ‘Sorry, Julius, I forgot.’

  It wasn’t worth getting cross with her; she would just get crosser back.

  ‘Who did you sell it to?’

  ‘To Jillie Curtis.’

  ‘Jillie Curtis? Was she here?’

  ‘Yes. She was. She just walked in, one morning when you’d gone out, and wanted to buy something for her mother’s birthday.’

  ‘But – she must be waiting for it. You should have told me.’

  ‘I forgot. Sorry.’

  Julius went into the tiny office and dialled Jillie’s number. Since it was midday and she was mid-operating list, the only answer he received was from the housekeeper. Having met Mrs Hemmings and hugely enjoyed her cooking, Julius was able to leave a friendly and fairly coherent message for Jillie. He then returned to cataloguing a series of prints he had bought that morning, while wondering, in his fantasy-prone way, if it was possible for a human being to actually explode with anticipation.

  She finally called him back that evening at home at seven. She sounded wary.

  ‘Hello, Julius?’

  ‘Yes. Hello, Jillie. How are you?’

  ‘I’m very well. A bit tired. And you?’

  ‘Very well. Not a bit tired. Or is that annoying?’

  ‘No. No, of course not.’

  ‘I sometimes think it’s really annoying if one is exhausted and nobody else is. Well, anyway, Jillie, I am so sorry not to have got back to you about the dressing table that you bought. And of course that I wasn’t there, that I missed you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter at all,’ she said. ‘Honestly. It was only two or three days ago.’

  ‘Well, it’s very nice of you to be so forgiving. When would you like me to deliver the dressing table?’

  ‘It would have to be a weekend and preferably this one, as my mother’s away and so no danger of her seeing her present.’

  ‘Well, I’ll bring it up on Sunday. Sunday morning, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Wonderful. You do your own deliveries, do you? Because a driver could—’

  ‘Even if I had a driver, which I don’t,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t dream of sending him to your house. I want to see you.’

  Her. He wanted to see her. Oh, stop it, Jillie, where do you think this is going to get you?

  ‘And your mother’s bedroom, of course. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Well – fine. Marvellous. Come for coffee. And of course,’ she added, in infinitely careful tones, ‘bring Nell.’

  ‘Can’t do that. Sunday is her great working day. I’m not allowed near her on Sundays, really.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jillie and suddenly she didn’t feel tired any more, she felt rather wonderful, as if she had just woken from a very long, very refreshing sleep. ‘Well, in that case you and I will have coffee. But – we may have to hide the dressing table for a bit.’

  ‘We’ll put it wherever you wish,’ said Julius. ‘About eleven, then?’

  ‘About eleven.’

  By a quarter to eleven on Sunday morning, Jillie had changed four times – dress: too dressy; skirt and blouse: too dull; jeans: too casual; capri pants, oversized white shirt, red sweater slung round her shoulders: just right. She had laid coffee in the morning room and was positioned – pretending to read the Observer – in a window seat on the landing, that being prime position to see anyone coming into the drive.

  By a quarter to eleven, Julius was sitting four roads away, in his vintage Austin van, the dressing table carefully stowed in the back, knowing he shouldn’t be early, reading the Sunday Times and checking his watch every alternate minute. At five to eleven, he decided it was all right to be slightly early, and drove carefully into the drive of number five. Pausing to look up at the house, he saw a blurry figure at an upstairs window and moments later, the front door was opened by someone who could have been Audrey Hepburn, had she not been more beautiful.

  He felt quite odd, contemplating her; after days and hours of remembering her, thinking about her, anticipating her. He jumped down from the van and said, ‘Hello,’ and she said, ‘H
ello, Julius, this is so kind of you.’ Adding, ‘What a glorious van.’

  Julius patted its pale blue bonnet and said, ‘Well, I think so. She’s not exactly practical, always breaking down, but she suits her cargo so well, I couldn’t bear to turn up with something like – well, your dressing table – in a l950s Ford.’

  ‘Well, no. Although I can see it might be better from a business point of view,’ said Jillie. ‘Look, why don’t we go and have coffee before you unload? Would you like some orange juice or something? Mrs Hemmings does a big jugful on Sunday mornings.’

  Julius said he couldn’t think of anything more wonderful than some of Mrs Hemmings’s orange juice, and while he waited in the morning room for her to return with it, admiring the extraordinarily pretty rug on the polished floor and the small Staffordshire pieces in a cabinet by the fireplace, he reflected on what a perfect environment Jillie had grown up in and wondered where the sadness came from and how on earth he would find out. Because, having seen her again, heard her voice again, watched her move again, he wanted to know every single, small and large thing about her.

  * * *

  ‘Now,’ he said when he had eaten a large number of biscuits, drunk two glasses of the orange juice and two cups of coffee, and they had discussed the relative headlines in the Observer and the Sunday Times, ‘I think we should go and unload the dressing table.’

  ‘Will you be able to manage on your own?’ said Jillie anxiously. ‘No gardener around, it being Sunday, although I’m very strong.’ He assured her the dressing table was not heavy, not very big, and in no way a problem.

  ‘Then I must move my car out of the garage, and we can put the table in its place, covered up, and maybe a couple of tyres or something in front of it.’

  He watched as she emerged at the wheel of her pretty little dark green Austin.

  ‘That is lovely,’ he said, as she got out of it.

  ‘Well, thank you. I love old cars, so does Daddy. He has a most beautiful pre-war Mercedes – go and have a look if you like.’ He went in, and gazed almost awestruck at the pale blue creation, with its lovely low lines, swooping running board, and huge array of lamps.

  ‘It’s glorious,’ he said. ‘Does he drive it?’

  ‘Oh yes, every week – not Sundays, because he can’t bear Sunday drivers, but one day in the week if he has time he takes it for a run down to the coast. I used to go with him, when I was little, and then in the holidays, but now of course I can’t.’

  And Julius said, while knowing he should not, ‘I have a special car, a 1930s Bentley, that likes a run, and I don’t mind Sunday drivers, so if that would make up for the loss of your Mercedes rides, I’d love to take you sometimes.’

  And Jillie, also knowing she should not, said carefully that that would be lovely some time, and then rather rushed him into getting the dressing table out of the van and into the garage, lifting the dust sheet he had placed over it to admire it politely.

  ‘She’s going to love it,’ she said untruthfully.

  ‘Josh. Sit down. I want to discuss something with you.’

  Harry Campbell’s face was unreadable as he looked at Josh across his vast desk.

  Josh looked back, wishing his could be the same. It was a bit of a gift as a journalist, as in poker: and actually the qualities that made a good poker player – courage, appearing to know more than you did, keeping steely calm under pressure and of course the blank face – were all enormously helpful in pursuit of a difficult story.

  ‘Right,’ Josh said.

  ‘It’s homosexuality. And the attitude of the law. I think we should run a piece about it, possibly make it a cause. We need one, haven’t had a good one for a bit. I like us to be unpredictable, and I think our readers – amongst whom of course there must be many such – are educated enough to take it. Well, some of them.’

  ‘Ri–ight.’ Presumably he meant in favour, Josh thought, but there was no real telling with him.

  ‘What’s your view on it, eh? Let’s get that established first.’

  ‘I think it’s appalling,’ said Josh simply. ‘Really shocking.’

  He hoped this wasn’t going to lead back to Ned and Jillie’s wedding. Campbell had been very good about it at the time, not pressed him in any direction, but if he had a bee in his editor’s hat, there was no telling.

  ‘Well, do you think the readers would cope with it?’

  ‘I – think it would be pretty brave,’ said Josh honestly. ‘I mean, we do lean to the right. Some of them could agree, but an awful lot wouldn’t. We could lose some of them. If we made it a cause, that is.’

  ‘Well, let ’em go,’ said Campbell easily. ‘Plenty more where they came from.’

  Josh knew that was far from what he really thought; he counted every additional thousand readers as treasure beyond price. He also knew it meant Campbell was serious about it.

  ‘Anyway, Josh – do some research first. I’m not wild about quite a lot of it, mind you. Cottaging – you know, meeting in public lavatories – for instance, makes me heave. I just don’t like injustice and persecution. Or blackmail, which is where it so often leads. Find a few people you can talk to, then get back to me, all right?’

  ‘All right,’ said Josh. ‘And thanks.’

  Harry laughed. ‘You may not be thanking me in a week or so. This is not an easy one.’

  * * *

  It wasn’t. By the end of ten days, he had a lot of rather dull factual stuff, which would form the bare bones of the piece, but now he wanted gossip – gossip and froth from a completely fresh perspective. And it was proving hard to find.

  It was Jillie who had the idea: he had taken her out to dinner at the Trocadero, to thank her for her help with Julius Noble and his fiancée, and found himself, after three Martinis and some excellent lobster thermidor, telling her about the article.

  ‘It’s brave of the Daily News, or rather Harry Campbell, and I think he’s going to make it a cause for the paper.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Jillie. Her face was carefully blank and Josh knew why; he had always suspected the reason behind the cancelled engagement, although it had never been confirmed by anyone, in or out of the family, and he hoped she didn’t think he was trying to draw her on the subject.

  ‘Yes. And I think it would be a wonderful thing if he does. The whole thing is so filthily unfair, and as Campbell says, it’s turned into a witch hunt. I hate the labels too: “gross indecency”. Look what happened to Turing. The police had him marked down, and somehow after reporting a break-in, he was charged with it, arrested, and forced to undergo what they called hormone therapy. No wonder he topped himself.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I’ve unearthed a lot of similar stories. They’ve all been turned into criminals.’

  ‘Where is this leading, Josh?’

  ‘Oh – nothing you can help with. But I’m a bit stuck at the moment for what I’d call gossipy stuff, bit more light hearted, even scurrilous if you like, don’t know where to find that. Your lobster all right?’

  ‘Lovely, thank you. You should ask someone in the theatrical profession – they seem to get away with it. Noël Coward wears it like a banner.’

  ‘Well, he’s hardly likely to answer my calls, is he?’

  ‘What about an interior designer? Or a photographer?’

  ‘The photographers on the Daily News are hugely homophobic, most of them.’

  ‘Here’s an idea, then. That model, Diana something, the one you had photographed on the big wheel at Battersea with Tom Knelston. God, Alice was so angry – anyway, I bet she’d be a good source. And she owes you a favour. You could say you gave her her big break, put her on the front page of your paper –’

  ‘Hardly. But she’s a good idea. Thank you, Jillie. Now – pudding?’

  ‘I couldn’t. But it’s been a lovely evening, exactly what I needed, thank you.’

  She arrived at Scott’s looking amazing, in a mink coat and Cossack hat
to match. She ordered a gin fizz, one of the specialities of the house, and sat sipping at it, waiting for the questions to come. After about ten minutes, her dark eyes brilliant with amusement, she said, ‘Josh, you’ll have to ask me soon, whatever it is, or I’ll have to go. I’ve got a photographic session in half an hour. The photographer will not be amused if I’m late, nor the client. So come on, what is it?’

  And shocked into directness, Josh asked her whether she had any queer friends or acquaintances amongst her fashion connections who would talk to him openly about their lives in London today. ‘What I’m looking for is gossipy stuff.’

  She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I should think so. They’d have to trust you, though. Could they?’

  ‘Of course. Absolute anonymity.’

  ‘I mean, I couldn’t be more in sympathy with what your paper’s doing, I have to say. The whole thing makes me sick with rage. Poor people, turned into criminals for just – well, just being themselves. Give me a few days, and I’ll see what I can do. Now I must dash. Lovely drink, thank you. And if you want a safe place to talk, you can use my house. Nice neutral territory and they’ll be more relaxed. I’ll do some ironing or something in the kitchen.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Josh, trying and failing to imagine Diana ironing.

  ‘Well, darling, I could say you gave me my big break.’

  He laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘That’s what Jillie – my cousin – said. I thought she was mad.’

  ‘Jillie who? Do I know her?’

  ‘Jillie Curtis.’

  ‘Is she your cousin?’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Diana.

  Tom was being much nicer suddenly. Alice couldn’t quite believe the difference. The angry, resentful man she had been living with for months had been replaced by someone cheerful, helpful and best of all affectionate – although he didn’t seem to want sex, which was a relief. With her eight-month stomach between them, it would have been pretty difficult anyway. She really was very big. Delilah, the large midwife who had been assigned to her at Acton General, and who she loved, had assured her it was not the twins Alice so desperately feared, simply her third pregnancy in as many years, and her stomach muscles had more or less given up the struggle.