by Parks, Adele
‘Ava!’ Sarah and Bea cried in unison. It was impossible not to be shocked.
‘Ava, you’re a horror,’ murmured Lydia, flashing an indulgent grin that she wasn’t quite able to suppress.
‘What do you make of Mr Lytton, Beatrice?’ Ava asked.
‘He’s uncompromising, original,’ Beatrice said with a shy smile. Sarah could see from Bea’s flushed cheeks that her sister was thrilled to be part of this discussion about men. No doubt she felt flattered that Ava was hinting that her guests were viable suitors, as though she was the sort of girl who might catch a chap. It made her daring and giggly.
‘Yes, isn’t he,’ agreed Ava.
‘But I don’t think he found me at all so.’
Ava sighed in a way that must have punctured Bea’s euphoria. If she had been hoping for some token disagreement, none came; there was something about the sigh that suddenly and certainly discounted Bea from having romantic aspirations – however tentative – towards Mr Lytton. Sarah could almost see the cogs of Ava’s mind turn as she recalculated and decided that she’d been ambitious in considering Lytton for Beatrice. Maybe she’d thought that his lack of birth and height, his pale skin with its sprinkling of freckles and small snub nose might all add up to mean that he was accessible. Perhaps she had reasoned that as a bohemian he might not demand aesthetic perfection in a wife, but since Sarah had noticed that his hungry, alert eyes had drilled into Ava and Lydia at dinner last night, but glazed over when Bea enquired what type of books he published, Ava could not have missed the same. Mr Lytton’s aspirations were higher than Beatrice Polwarth. The two of them were not even. He was allowed to be ordinary-looking, even unattractive, strapped for cash and inappropriately dressed because he was a he.
‘Harry Fine is very affable. Attractive too,’ commented Lydia, moving the conversation on.
‘I think Harry Fine is already completely in love with Lady Jennings, don’t you?’ commented Bea excitedly. She was generous enough to celebrate other women’s good fortune.
‘Yes. Completely in love. After all, she is an heiress to an absolute fortune,’ added Ava.
‘I think he’s sincere,’ insisted Sarah.
Ava raised an eyebrow sceptically. ‘He sincerely needs the money, that much is true. Terrible gambling debts, I hear.’
‘In that case, you’re very wise to let him fly, Bea,’ added Lydia, kindly implying that Bea might have stood a chance in influencing the man’s decision.
‘Anyway, I think Harry is a little dull, to be frank,’ added Sarah.
‘But Mr Oaksley is interesting.’ Once again Bea smiled shyly. ‘Would you say handsome?’
‘Yes,’ said Sarah and Lydia.
‘Well, he was lucky. There’s hardly any scarring on his face, although I can’t vouch for the body,’ added Ava. Sarah was relieved that she couldn’t. Really, no man was safe from the woman. ‘Thinking about it, Arnie Oaksley is your best bet,’ finished Ava enthusiastically. ‘Terrible thing, losing one’s sight. Awful, but certainly he’s the best bet for Bea.’
‘Because he’s blind?’ Sarah could not keep the indignation out of her voice.
‘Because he plays the piano and likes to go for country walks. They are simpatico,’ replied Ava, the very picture of innocence. ‘I do think it is rum of the chaps to expect him to play a billiards game. I hope there isn’t a wager. It can’t be a fair match.’ She beamed mischievously.
Sarah shuffled uncomfortably; she’d exposed her insecurities and Bea’s deficiencies by thinking the worst of Ava, and she was now not sure if thinking the worst was justified or not. Ava had a subtle way of making one feel conspicuous and wrong.
‘I can’t imagine he’s noticed me,’ Bea said coyly.
Again, if she’d hoped that the other women would protest and insist that he couldn’t have failed to have fallen for her, lock, stock and barrel, then she was disappointed. Instead she was greeted with the honesty of old friends and family.
‘Well, it’s your responsibility to get noticed in that particular way. You need to show him that romance is a possibility. That you are open to it,’ declared Lydia.
Bea blushed, but was determined. ‘Any clue as to how I should do that exactly? Should I run into the billiards room and throw myself on the table yelling, “Take me, take me”?’
The other women laughed, but not cruelly. ‘Well at least go and ask if he wants to take a stroll before tea,’ suggested Sarah.
‘You could walk round the gardens,’ added Lydia.
‘Bit bloody miserable at this time of the year,’ pointed out Ava, who never had to inconvenience herself by going out into the cold in order to seduce a man.
‘But the season means you’ll need to cling to one another for body heat,’ encouraged Lydia.
After a little more cajoling, Beatrice agreed to go and find Mr Oaksley. Sarah accompanied her to the games room, because no one could expect her to make that sort of entrance solo.
12
LEFT ALONE, AVA and Lydia fell silent. They were tight friends, and generally had more than enough to say to one another, but Lydia had been distracted since she’d arrived and was not as chatty as usual. Most of the guests assumed she was feeling the lack of her husband; Ava wasn’t so sure. After some moments listening to the fire crack and pop, Ava stood, yawned, stretched like a cat and ambled to the gramophone.
‘I have Marion Harris’s latest tune. Would you like to hear it?’
‘Is it as sad as all her others?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then no, thank you.’
‘You’re not a fan of the blues, are you?’ asked Ava, as she pulled long and hard on her cigarette, held in an ostentatious opera-length silver holder. Ava had caught on to the musical movement when she visited the States last year, and was following its increased popularity with avid interest.
‘It’s not for people like us, is it?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘I don’t understand that relentless misery.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No. How could I? How could you?’
Ava shrugged and asked, ‘Some jazz, then?’
Lydia wasn’t sure if she understood jazz music any more than she understood blues. She found the big swinging bands unpredictable, almost risky, but the tunes did at least perk her up rather than drag her down. ‘If you like.’
‘I do rather. Music is a stimulating jab into exhausted, careworn souls. I find that jazz stirs our uncertain and stumbling morale.’ Ava wound up the gramophone and carefully placed the weighty disc on the turntable. She eased the needle into position as though she was lowering a sleeping baby into a crib. She was fascinating to watch, as she did everything with such deliberate precision and elegance. The perky trombones and sensuous saxophones blared into the room; she danced alone on the Persian rug for a minute or two. Whereas others might self-consciously shuffle, Ava gave herself entirely to the moves. She never cared if she was alone, observed by adoring crowds of hundreds or scrutinised by just one person; she was always herself, it was the secret to her success. She lifted her legs and wiggled her hips to the rapid, assertive rhythms.
‘What do you make of Beatrice’s new crop?’
‘Unfortunate.’
‘Yes, I imagine the effect she hoped to achieve was glorious; the effect she did achieve is monstrous. Still, there’s something endearing about her misguided attempts to be glamorous. If I were her, I’d settle into being plain. I’d embrace it. Become an archaeologist; go on a dig in Egypt.’
‘Oh, Ava, you couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be Bea. For one thing, how would she fund a dig in Egypt? She can’t afford that.’
‘Really?’ Ava looked surprised, as though it was the first time she’d considered Bea’s financial situation.
‘Really.’
Lydia thought she might jump up and learn the new step when Ava commented, ‘Sarah told me you met a dashing officer in a café last week.’ She managed to disparage the place of int
roduction, just as Lawrence had, by a slight inflection in her voice and the fact that she made her eyes widen a fraction, suggesting disbelief.
Lydia stood and walked to the fire; rather than join in the dancing, she feigned warming her hands in order to buy a few moments to gather her thoughts. She’d been expecting and dreading that Ava might want to talk about her meeting the beautiful officer. She’d known that Sarah would have mentioned the incident; they were all starved of news, and besides, he was notable. She had thought of him often since they met. Frequently. Constantly. It was oddly important to her that the first time she spoke of him to Ava she got it right.
Eventually she said, ‘I’m not sure dashing is the right adjective to describe him.’
‘Really?’
‘Dashing is so clichéd. So used. It suggests a frantic energy and fashionable charm that wasn’t true of him. There was nothing practised or urbane about him.’
Ava stood still, although the band played on. She studied her friend carefully. Lydia still had her back to the room; now she was showing undue interest in the ornamental Chinese mudman that Charlie Harrington had given Ava at Christmas. The elder sage was holding a peach, the symbol of immortality; Charlie had bought it thinking the Chinese salesman had said the fruit was a symbol of immorality, therefore the perfect gift for Ava. An amusing enough joke, Ava thought, though she decided not to share it right now, but to continue pursuing the more interesting topic of the mystery officer. She perched on the edge of a chair, looked past her friend and into the mirror that hung above the mantel and asked, ‘Then how would you describe him?’
‘He was …’ Lydia scrabbled around her mind, desperate to find a word other than ‘perfect’ that might describe the man. She wanted to explain that he had struck her as the embodiment of all that was magnificent and masculine, forceful and beautiful. How could she explain that she’d instantly, perplexingly, been frightened and delighted by him? She’d thought of him since. At night. When she bathed. When she dressed.
Or undressed.
The fact that she found him unforgettable horrified her. In the end, she said what was most true and least exposing. ‘He was different.’
‘How different? Good different or bad different?’
‘Oh, most definitely good different.’
‘I see. What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Pity. You could have invited him here to dinner.’
‘How many are we tonight?’ Lydia took this opportunity to turn back to face her friend and to redirect the conversation. She couldn’t do the former without the shield of the latter.
‘We’re thirty-nine, but, as ever, the balance is wrong. Far too many women.’
‘I’m so sorry that Lawrence has stood you up.’
‘Why didn’t he come?’
‘Officially, he has a paper to finish for the PM for Monday. Truthfully, we’re cross with one another. I mean, he does have a paper, but he could have done it here. You know. He has done so on many an occasion.’
‘I see. Do you want to talk about it?’
Lydia shook her head mournfully. Ava was relieved; she believed they’d said all there was to say about the baby business. ‘Well, we shall manage. There are twenty-two women and seventeen men. It could be worse. But really, Lydia, when will you learn? If you meet a suave sort, you must get a card. Was he interesting?’
‘We hardly spoke, but yes, I think so.’
‘Interesting and pretty: what a shame you let him slip. I could do with someone new to look at. Besides, he might do for Beatrice.’
Lydia watched Ava’s hard, flat body shake a little with merriment. She couldn’t stand it, but her indignation was not on Bea’s behalf. She couldn’t tolerate the idea of Ava laughing about the officer, or setting him up with anyone. As disloyal and diabolical as the thought was, she felt he was degraded by being linked with Bea. She could not endure it.
‘No, not Beatrice,’ she spat. She turned again to watch the flames in the fire soaring and diving; she must not expose her indignation.
‘No?’
‘No. He’s not her type.’
‘Darling, that can’t be possible. You know Beatrice considers grandpapas and the wounded. If you find this chap handsome and amusing, then surely Beatrice will.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then who were you thinking of? He has to go to someone. He’s a spare man. It’s your duty to introduce him to some gal.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Lydia stuttered.
Ava had the answer she wanted. She instinctually understood everything about such things. Lydia did not want to share him. She did not want to give him up. ‘So how are we going to find him? This mystery man of yours? If he’s so divine, surely someone ought to know him. I ought to have slept with him.’
Lydia tried not to look hurt. ‘You’re awful.’
‘I must find him, mustn’t I?’ Ava stood up and nonchalantly walked towards her friend. They gazed at one another’s reflection in the mirror. Eye to eye, they both understood the moment; it was the one where Lydia could let it go. Or she could push on. She chose to push.
‘Yes, do find him. But …’
‘But what?’
‘But don’t sleep with him, Ava. Don’t take him.’
‘You said he was divine.’
‘He is.’
‘Then why wouldn’t I?’
Lydia turned and grasped her friend’s hand. It was silky smooth and small like a child’s. She would not look at Ava, but she knew that Ava had already seen all there was to see. ‘Gosh, it’s silly, but I find I’ve developed rather a thing for him myself.’
‘A thing? How is that possible? You’re Lydia, you don’t do things. You leave that sort of mess to the rest of us.’
‘I’m not going to do anything at all. I have no intention … Only I can’t quite bring myself to think about you doing it.’
‘I see.’
Both women fell silent. Lydia abandoned all show of dignity and pushed on, desperate for a pledge, ‘So you’ll leave him be?’
‘I will.’
She sighed, relieved. She firmly believed that if Ava wanted a man, she could have him, and Ava would want the perfect man if she saw him; how could she not? Lydia had had to put the barrier in the way. Her request was irrational, revealing and ignoble, but she could not stop herself. For the first time in her life, she felt the vines of jealousy creep through her body. Ava was single and free to pursue; Lydia was not. She shook her head, confused. ‘We may never find him, and he may be married, of course, in which case this entire conversation is irrelevant,’ she blustered, trying to erase the tension that choked the room.
‘Why would you think that? Half my lovers have been married. They are the very best sort. So discreet and practised and grateful.’
‘You say the most terrible things.’
Ava smiled unhurriedly. ‘Yes, darling, I do. That’s what separates me from the pack. Everybody else simply thinks them.’
13
LYDIA, SARAH AND Beatrice stood together in the crowded drawing room, waiting with varied levels of patience and animation as the extra guests arrived for dinner. Ava, as the hostess, had to circulate. She moved through the throng, greeting and delighting. Her many attributes sharpened in front of their eyes. Her beauty ripened, her conversation sparkled, and without exerting any real effort she became everyone’s focal point. She saturated the space around her with an aura of rare magnificence; to many she seemed more exquisitely regal than even Her Highness Princess Mary. Ava progressed at an unhurried pace, the dignity of which contrasted with the frenetic energy that surrounded her, as her guests eagerly tried to catch and hold her attention. Artfully, she appeared to scarcely see those clamouring for her notice, which encouraged their desperation. Then, when they seemed to be on the brink of collapsing with frustration and despair that she’d never turn their way, she would bestow a smile that singled them out in time and space, convincing each and e
very person that he or she was her particular and absolute favourite. As she passed by her best friends, she whispered into Bea’s ear, ‘Have you seen Lady Anna Renwick is wearing teal evening gloves?’
‘Not white?’ asked Bea.
‘No.’
‘Or black?’
‘Are you deaf? I said teal.’
‘Well I never.’
‘No, darling, you would never,’ commented Ava, and melted back into the crowd, leaving Beatrice unsure about her view on teal glove wearing.
‘Teal gloves, how exciting,’ commented Bea, avoiding making a gaffe by committing herself one way or the other to the effect and appropriateness of the fashion; exciting could be a good or a bad thing.
Lydia sighed at her life; a life where coloured evening gloves defined excitement. She had forced herself to be polite to the three or four people who’d approached her in the last half-hour, even though she had found them predictable in their conversations and concerns. The women had complimented her on her dress – gold velvet decorated with a substantial amount of intricate jet beading; she’d agreed it was divine. The men had asked after Lawrence, commenting that it was a shame he couldn’t join the party and sharing their opinions that he was, perhaps, rather too conscientious, because everyone knew what all work and no play led to. A dull boy. Lydia nodded and shook her head when appropriate; she smiled gently, but did not let loose her full beam. She found she was not required to actually say much, because these old duffers were quite content carrying on the conversation without her active participation. She too wished Lawrence was here with her. She was used to having him by her side. He padded her out. The evening afforded her a brief insight into the lives of Sarah and Beatrice. Not Ava’s life, because whilst Ava was technically single, she never required or requested any padding. She was substantial enough.
Lawrence and Lydia very infrequently quarrelled; if a difference arose, they chose instead to be cool and silent with one another until their anger subsided. After their rare disagreements Lawrence often congratulated her on her good sense and conduct. He was naturally peaceable and, whilst Lydia was considerably more fiery by instinct, she had learned to curb any hint of ardent fury or zeal. Girls of her sort were taught by their mothers that angry, emotional scenes were unattractive and led to premature wrinkles; happy faces all round were infinitely preferable, significantly more flattering. But this recent tension was darker and deeper than anything that had gone before in their marriage. The things that had been said at last week’s dinner polluted and stained the atmosphere in their smart London home. She had shared with him her greatest dread, not out of malice, but because she didn’t know who else to voice it to. She had held the cruel thought tight to her for years now; it had bubbled like a cancerous growth in her head, malignant and stubborn. On Thursday it had erupted, her private menace spilling out across the napkins and glassware. She wasn’t sure why, but she hadn’t been able to curb her desperation a moment longer. Not a moment. So there was no chance of her remaining silent for a lifetime. She’d hoped her husband would reassure her, explain things to her; maybe he would show her a way of looking at things in a different light. She wanted her pervasive horror to be contradicted, blocked, eradicated.
