A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Not so sure. Remember them looking at the transparencies. Miss Dickens practically having an orgasm.’

  ‘She wouldn’t know an orgasm if she got hit in the eye with one.’

  ‘Now there’s an interesting thought. Flying orgasms. Like it.’

  ‘Well, look, I’ll let you know definitely on Monday. I mean, I’m sure I will come but –’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘You’ve got your silly face on – you in love?’

  ‘Of course not. No! No, I’m not –’

  But she was.

  ‘OK. Nearly there. Diana, wake up, you’re not being very amusing.’

  ‘Sorry. You shouldn’t keep me awake all night. This is an amazing car. So comfortable.’

  ‘It’s been called many things, but not comfortable. Not sure the designers would approve.’

  ‘Well, it’s beautiful too, of course. I love it.’

  She leaned back in her seat and smiled at Leo. It was hard to believe she could love anyone like this. She realised now she had never known love before. Ned had been a crush; Johnathan, at best, a fondness; Tom – well, who would believe her, but what he had been, and always would be, she hoped, was a friend, an odd, often awkward, truthful friend, the sex a very nice by-product. She was quite fond of Freddie, but she didn’t love him. She hadn’t loved any of them, hadn’t been invaded by them, not found her entire being possessed by them, heart, head, soul, self. Taken, shaken, shocked: seeing differently, thinking differently; made to laugh, to cry, to fear, to hope; to be changed, absolutely, and yet to feel more herself than she had ever been.

  How could she have suspected for one moment as she walked into that restaurant, her knees weakening, that this man, a journalist, for God’s sake, and not even a respected kind of journalist, not a war correspondent, an arts critic, an essayist, a political pundit, but a gossip columnist; a lightweight, flighty creature, spinning and weaving gossip and scandal. This was what he did, all day and much of the night, this man she loved. But then she thought what was she, her career, but flighty and lightweight herself, so what could be more appropriate?

  And he said he loved her. ‘I have seldom said that,’ he said, looking at her almost in awe one night, in bed, and she was consumed with jealousy, asking, demanding to know, to whom he had said it and why. ‘No point in telling you, you’ll be angry or upset, or both, and what does it matter, I love you now, more than I can ever remember loving anyone,’ he’d said.

  It was crazy really, it was only a week since that shining, dazzling Saturday, when they had gone to bed at lunchtime and not got up till morning when he had had to go to work, and returned a few hours later with champagne, a pot of caviar, and a bouquet of white roses so huge she could hardly see him behind it. And every night, and as much of every day as he could spare, they spent together, talking, laughing, she sometimes crying, he sometimes sad, telling stories, laying out their lives thus far for one another.

  Diana told him everything. Her passion for Ned, her marriage on the rebound, her misery in Yorkshire, her adoration of Jamie, her hatred of her mother-in-law. She didn’t tell him of her affair with Tom, for it was not her secret to tell, but she did tell him of her fling with Freddie, even of the baby, the lost baby, and what Johnathan had done.

  ‘That is truly terrible behaviour,’ said Leo, shocked for the first time.

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘but I did some terrible things to him, and besides, he’s quite nice to me now he’s happy with his plain, plump wife.’

  Leo laughed. ‘I love your malicious little asides.’

  He talked too: of his disastrous schooling, of his tough war – first in Italy, then France. ‘I did D-Day, the horrors will never leave me.’ Of his first wife: ‘She was only nineteen, madness it was, but so beautiful, I only love beautiful women –’ he paused and kissed her – ‘and I liked the idea of taking her virginity, of teaching her pleasure, it satisfied my vanity. But I was unfaithful to her in our first year, left her in the second – she had a lover of her own by then, a charming chap, professional soldier in the Hussars.’ And then of Baba, and all the women before and after.

  They drove up to the visitors’ car park at Headleigh House, where Leo’s brother was working.

  A rather snooty girl said they might find him in the studio.

  ‘Up the back stairs, first door on the right.’

  They went up into a small room, with a huge desk. Its occupant, clearly engrossed in his task, didn’t hear them come in.

  Leo crept forward, put his hands over his eyes.

  ‘Guess who?’

  There was a shout of ‘You bastard!’ and Marcus, or so Diana presumed he was, turned, embraced Leo and then stared questioningly at Diana.

  ‘This is Diana. She’s a tourist. I picked her up in the drive.’

  Marcus grinned at Diana, held out his hand.

  ‘Tourists don’t usually come as pretty as you. Hello. Marcus Bennett.’

  ‘Hello, Marcus. What an amazing view.’ She nodded at the window, at the grounds beyond; they were indeed amazing, broad rolling sweeps of meadowland, tree studded, set further from the house with what looked like toy sheep.

  ‘Isn’t it? The owners, frightfully nouveau, I’m afraid, but rich, want me to install a Greek temple – and a couple of little classical bridges.’

  ‘Where’s the water?’ asked Diana curiously.

  ‘There isn’t any. But we can make a lake, that’s no problem.’

  ‘Sounds a tad naff to me,’ said Leo.

  ‘It is. But they’re paying me zillions, and I can do tasteful naff. Shall we go and have coffee?’

  They sat on an outside terrace, drinking coffee and eating shortbread biscuits, and Diana decided she liked Marcus very much. He was very like Leo both physically and in personality, but less abrasive. They were obviously very fond of one another, telling jokes in between more serious stories.

  Diana left them to it and went in search of the ladies; when she came back, Leo was saying, ‘I do actually want a divorce this time, you can see why.’

  Hoping she could construe this in the best possible light, she smiled as she sat down, gave Leo a quick kiss. He took her hand and kissed that.

  They were still at the stage of their relationship where any touch, any intimacy was still exciting; Marcus sat smiling at them benignly.

  ‘He’s a nice bloke,’ he said to Diana, when Leo left them to see if the bar could provide anything in the way of alcohol. ‘Not nearly as tough as he pretends.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Most women take him for a ride emotionally, if you get my point, use him as a provider of gossip and fun and possibly even a way into his column.’

  ‘How horrible,’ said Diana.

  ‘Yes, but you’re famous in your own right, so he knows he can trust you. He really likes you, I can tell.’

  ‘Good,’ said Diana lightly.

  ‘But don’t hurt him, Diana, he’s had a hard time of it lately.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ she said as Leo walked back towards them, smiling; her heart turned over and she vowed she never would.

  Chapter 66

  ‘Anyway, show me the rest of this wonderful flat and then we’d better make for your vast Chelsea acreage. What are we having for lunch?’

  ‘Salade Niçoise. Have you come across Elizabeth David?’

  ‘Darling, of course I have. And her Mediterranean cooking. Wonderful. What a perfect day I’m having. Especially seeing you so happy.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I am so very happy. I can’t quite believe how much.’

  And Persephone, looking at him, thought this was how she would always remember him now, relaxed, smiling, totally at ease, his future set fair.

  It made her very happy too.

  ‘Oh, Diana, thank goodness you’ve rung. I don’t know what’s the matter with your phone – it just rings and rings, I’ve been trying all morning. I’ve even had it tested.
You’re usually so good at ringing in.’

  ‘Sorry, Esmé. Been away.’

  ‘You know you have to ring in first thing. Anyway, the Evening Standard rang an hour ago. Can you do a job on Wednesday? Rainwear?’

  ‘Jolly short notice. Who’s the photographer?’

  ‘Some new young genius called Russell. Just that. Anyway, he’s in the Bateman mould. Not as good, of course, but – think you’ll like him.’

  ‘OK. Yes, I’ll do that. Sounds fun.’

  ‘Good. Then Harper’s are after you, two days next week, Wednesday and Thursday, and Woman’s Journal are so thrilled with those pages they want to book you again, for their big autumn fashion issue. But that’s not for a couple of weeks –’

  ‘Esmé –’

  ‘And how would you fancy a trip to Paris? Only a couple of days, but it’s advertising, so the money’s good.’

  ‘Depends when. And what I decide to do.’

  ‘About what?

  ‘New York, of course.’

  ‘I thought you were going. That’s why I’m cramming so much into the next two weeks for you.’

  ‘And what’s happening about Enchantée?’

  Enchantée was a new perfume; they had approached Diana about signing her up exclusively not only in England, but France and the States as well. It was a big contract worth hundreds, possibly thousands, of pounds. It would take her right into the model stratosphere, one of a small exclusive band, but there hadn’t been time for the lawyers to look at the contract.

  ‘Diana …’ Esmé hesitated, sounding more awkward than Diana had ever heard her. ‘Enchantée have cancelled. I’m so sorry. They decided they wanted a blonde.’

  ‘Ri–ight. When did this happen?’

  ‘While you were in New York.’

  ‘Bit sudden. I mean, I know we were dithering a bit, but they knew I was frightfully keen. It just seems – odd. So who?’

  ‘The rumour is it’s Jo Courtney.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see. ‘

  Jo Courtney was new on the scene, young, blonde, classically beautiful; she was clearly going to make it in a big way. And she could not have been more different from Diana.

  ‘Bastards.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. I did try, of course, fought very hard for you, but – well, it was no good. I’m sorry, Diana. But everyone else loves you.’

  Diana was silent, then she said, ‘Well, you win some and you lose some. Never mind. The exclusivity clause was a bore. Anyway, Esmé, you go ahead and call the Standard and Harper’s; I need a bit of time to think about Woman’s Journal. Sorry I didn’t call in this morning.’

  Waking, sleepy with love, in Leo’s bed that morning, looking at him tenderly as he slept on, she wished – most unusually for her – she need never get up again, never work again, never go to another casting. She was in no mood for Monday, and especially this Monday, when she had to ring Freddie with her answer about New York. She and Leo had had a perfect Sunday, talking, talking, talking.

  ‘Do you think we’ll ever run out of things to say?’

  ‘Not if you’re there, Diana.’

  They were walking in Kensington Gardens, saying ‘Good morning’ to Peter Pan, lunching at the Berkeley, and then back to Leo’s flat for afternoon tea and the newspapers. ‘I have to read them all, by mid-morning usually,’ said Leo. ‘Bath and bedtime,’ he said firmly very shortly after that.

  His bath was enormous; they sat in it together, she on his lap: with inevitable consequences. ‘Oh,’ she said, leaning back against him afterwards, ‘that was wonderful. I never could see the sense when people went on about it, but I do now.’

  Later, back in bed, drinking first tea for her, coffee for him, then the most poetically beautiful white burgundy; then more sex (‘Where does it come from, all this – this wanting?’ she asked) and then just as she was drifting off, he said, his voice blurred with sleep, ‘Don’t you dare agree to go to New York without discussing it with me first.’

  That did it. She would not go, she decided, not if he didn’t want her to, but then, in the morning, his phone started ringing, obviously with a lot of amusing gossip, and he sat up in bed, propped on his pillows, making notes and saying things like, ‘She sounds a bit of a peach,’ and ‘I had a huge fling with her once, nympho really, but if that’s what she’s up to now, I’d love to see her,’ until Diana began to feel irritated, and she got up and dressed and, blowing him a kiss from the doorway, which he returned without pausing in his conversation, went out into the street in search of a taxi home, feeling uncertain of herself: which was a most unusual emotion.

  * * *

  Leaving the agency, she felt more uncertain still – and confused. It had all been wonderful at first, of course, being at the heart of it, admired, wanted, the centre of attention, soothing after the hour sitting beside Leo, very much the reverse. But the news about Enchantée had been a shock. As always when she was in emotional turmoil she phoned Wendelien and said she needed to see her.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she wailed. ‘I love Leo, love love love him, and he loves me.’

  ‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ said Wendelien. ‘How perfect you must be together.’

  ‘Well – maybe. But I have to make a decision about New York, whether I go or not, and I had decided to say no today. But now I’m not quite sure.’

  ‘Why not, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Well – well, it’s quite complicated.’

  ‘Diana, it always is with you.’

  ‘I know. Can I tell you? And then will you give me your advice?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wendelien resignedly. ‘As long as you don’t take it.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  This was a running joke between them.

  ‘Anyway, you know I thought I’d got that amazing perfume contract? Well, they’ve dropped me in favour of someone else, about fifteen years younger than me, the girl they want now. Esmé made a great thing of the reason being she’s blonde, which she is, but that’s not it. I’m thirty-five years old, Jo Courtney is twenty-one. She’s making all sorts of waves and this is a huge campaign. All other things being equal, it’s going to run for five years – and in five years I’ll be in my forties. And however amazing the retouchers are at taking the years off and the lines away, far better that there aren’t any years or lines to begin with. This is only the first time, Wendelien; it’ll happen more and more, there’ll be more gorgeous young girls, with beautiful faces and nimble, bendy, loose-limbed bodies. So I don’t have very long left, however busy I am now, and I want to get out while I’m still at the top.’

  Wendelien digested all this, then she said, ‘Yes, I think you’re being very brave and positive about it, and sensible. But I don’t see what it’s got to do with going to New York.’

  ‘Well, it’s a lot of money which I could quite do with at the moment. I’ve spent so much on my house. And it’ll be fun. And they really, really want me, which is important to me, I’ve learned today. I rather like being the centre of attention. Wendelien, why are you looking at me in that funny way? I also like being independent, more so than ever now I’m involved with Leo. He’s such a star, and I don’t want to trail round being nothing but his girlfriend. I’ve got an idea about what I want to do next, but it’ll take money to set it up.’

  Wendelien listened politely, and when Diana had finally finished she said, ‘I’ve listened very carefully, Diana, and if you really love Leo – and I must say it’s rather early days to be sure – I still don’t think you ought to go to New York. He’s hardly a pipe and slippers man, waiting patiently for your return, and you could come back to find him gone. Metaphorically speaking. Sorry, not what you want to hear, I know …’

  ‘No, but you’re probably right,’ said Diana. ‘Anyway, thank you for your time and wisdom, as always. Can I have another sherry, please?’

  She rang Leo’s office when she finally got home but he was out to lunch; hourly calls after that yielded the same answer, righ
t up to five o’clock. When, this being her deadline, and midday in New York, she rang first Freddie and then Miss Dickens and told them she had decided to make the move, and was looking forward to joining them in two weeks’ time.

  Leo Bennett, feeling that a five-hour lunch with a drunken (albeit wonderfully garrulous) peer of the realm, followed by a rather tough editors’ conference, was enough for one day, was on his way to Diana’s house as arranged, bearing a bottle of Perrier Jouet, with a suitably flashy diamond ring in his pocket, to tell her exactly why she shouldn’t go to New York.

  They had a rather ugly row, and Leo left half an hour later, the bottle of Perrier Jouet unopened on the dining-room table, and the diamond ring still in his pocket.

  Chapter 67

  ‘Jillie, hello. I wondered if you’d care to come out for supper one night this week?’

  ‘Oh, Ned. How lovely to hear from you. I’d like that very much.’

  ‘Good. So – when?’

  ‘Well, could it be Saturday? Week nights are hopeless – all my clinics run terribly late because half the women seem to have awful problems, quite apart from gynae ones, and I’m operating Tuesday and Thursday, terribly long lists.’

  ‘No need to sound so apologetic, Saturday would be absolutely fine. Shall we say eight? And I’ll think of somewhere nice where we can go. I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘Oh – oh, goodness, yes. Ned, I’d love that. Thank you.’

  She put the phone down, smiling.

  She had ended the relationship with Patrick. It just didn’t seem fair. He was getting increasingly keen, and – well, she felt she was using him, a bulwark against perceived spinsterhood. She was obviously destined to end up like Miss Moran, married to her work.

  Diana spent the week in a frenzy of work. She was booked every day. Shopping – absurd, she knew, when she was moving to the shopping capital of the world, but it was a distraction – packing, arranging with Johnathan for Jamie to stay with her in the summer holidays, a few days in New York and then with Freddie’s family in Maine. ‘New York is vile in the summer, so hot. I’m spending a week in Sconsett with my parents and a couple of my cousins, the family has a house there, and they’d all love you and Jamie.’