by Caro Fraser
Harry’s head drooped slightly; he stared into his coffee as he stirred it. ‘He’s gone off to fight in Spain. Never picked up a gun in his life, but thinks because he can speak Spanish he might be of some use.’ His voice was bleak. ‘Of course what’s happening there is appalling, people being destroyed just for wanting a better way of life. But why does anyone here think they have to make it their fight? Fascism’s a dirty thing, but in my view we should leave it to the Spaniards to sort their own mess out.’
‘I know someone who was idiotic enough to go out, too,’ said Dan, thinking of Charles Asher, and wondered how he was faring. ‘I hope Laurence comes safe home. I hope they all do.’
Harry picked up Dan’s cigarette from the ashtray and used it to light his own. He fished in the inside of his overcoat pocket and produced a rolled-up magazine. ‘Have a look at this. French journalist friend gave it to me yesterday.’ He unfurled the magazine, Vu, flicked to a page, and placed it before Dan. ‘I look at that picture and think – that might be Laurence, if he’s careless, or unlucky. Frankly, Dan, old boy, I’m terrified. Terrified.’
Dan gazed at the photo. It accompanied a piece in French about the Spanish Civil War, and was of a fighter clad in canvas trousers, braces over an open-necked, short-sleeve shirt, who had clearly been shot, caught in the awful moment of death, knees bent as he fell backwards on to a grassy slope, rifle flying from his grasp. It looked as though a small part of his head was exploding. Dan was appalled, yet fascinated. He scanned the article, then returned to the photograph.
‘Truly terrible,’ he murmured. ‘I wonder who the photographer was.’
‘Doesn’t say,’ said Harry, twisting the magazine round towards him. ‘Who knows? He may be dead himself by now.’
Harry continued to stare morosely at the pictures, till Dan flipped the magazine shut. ‘Stop tormenting yourself. It won’t do any good.’
‘I know.’ Harry sighed, rolled up the magazine and slipped it back inside his coat.
Dan wiped clear a patch on the steamy window and peered out. ‘Rain’s eased off. I’d best be going.’ He stood up, chucked a few coppers on the table, and put on his hat. He gazed down at Harry’s gloomy face. ‘How about dinner at Savarino’s on Saturday? Cheer us both up.’
Harry’s face brightened. ‘Why not? Half seven?’
‘See you there,’ said Dan.
He wandered back to the office, thinking about the photograph Harry had shown him. To be a journalist out there – hell, it must be a damned sight more interesting than cobbling together pieces about St Ives’ watercolourists.
*
When he had finished writing up his piece, he left the office and went back to his rooms to freshen up, then headed to a cocktail party being thrown by an old schoolfriend. Diana was among the guests. She spotted Dan and sauntered over.
‘Hello, stranger. Where have you been hiding yourself? I haven’t seen you in an age.’
‘I keep myself in short supply, to excite demand.’ This wasn’t strictly true. He was out and about as much as possible, to the extent that funds allowed. He helped himself to another drink from the tray of a passing waiter and inspected Diana, who was wearing a cocktail dress of russet silk which seemed to cling to every part of her.
‘You’re looking very modish. I like the dress.’
‘Thank you, darling. Vionnet. It’s all in the cut.’
‘How’s Paul?’
Diana made a face. ‘Boring everyone to death with his racing car business. I don’t see much of him. He keeps sensible hours, whereas I, as you know, am more of a night girl.’ She sipped her cocktail and glanced around the chattering crowd. ‘Actually, he seems to be down at Woodbourne House a lot these days. Making a play for Meg, no doubt. She’ll make the perfect wife, and it’s about time he got married. At least I’ll be blessed with a sister-in-law I can stand. Think how dreadful it would be if my only darling brother married someone I couldn’t abide.’
‘Frightful.’ Dan’s expression was distant.
‘Are you coming along to Quaglino’s later? Freddie says Hutch will be playing. Last time he arrived with his piano strapped to his limousine – too killing.’
‘Yes, possibly.’
‘Good. See you later, in that case.’
She moved away. Dan lit a cigarette and examined the unexpectedly disturbed state of his feelings. Why should he care whether or not Meg Slater married Paul Latimer? It would put her out of his reach, which would be a pity, but there was more to it than that – Paul was entirely the wrong man for her. He might be rich and good-looking, but he was also a stuffy reactionary. Meg had the potential to be a beautiful, exciting woman, but if she married Paul she would dry up like some sad, desiccated rosebud. Well, if that was the choice she wanted to make, there was nothing he could do about it, not while she was buried in the depths of Surrey. He helped himself to another cocktail and resolved to think no more about her.
*
The next morning Dan woke with a wretched hangover. He lay in bed and let the events of the night before come back to him in slow degrees. His mind worked its way backwards through recollected fragments of drunken hours at the jazz club, to the cocktail party, and the conversation with Diana. It was that which had started it off. Hearing about Paul and Meg had made him want to get drunk. He had to face the fact that he was a little infatuated with Meg. The reason for that, he decided, was that so far she had proved unattainable. Well, he would put that right. He hadn’t bothered to write to her, as he’d said he would. He would do so now. It would be the start of an all-out campaign. If what Diana had said was true, he would be acting not only in his own interests, but hers – to save her from marrying a prig like Paul.
He got out of bed, pulled on the shirt and trousers which he had dropped on the floor the night before, and knelt to light the gas fire. Then he sat down at the table that served as his desk, found pen and paper, and sat for several minutes trying to assemble his bleary thoughts and find words to begin a letter to Meg. He struggled at first, screwing up and throwing aside several first attempts, until at last he found the right tone. He kept it light, and the content friendly and newsy. The important thing was to renew the link, to maintain contact. The rest would follow.
From time to time he cast a glance over his shoulder at the girl lying in his bed, hoping she wouldn’t wake up for a while.
*
Paul came down to Woodbourne House again the following week, but since he spent much of the time discussing some business matter on which Sonia required his advice, Meg assumed that this was the sole purpose of his visit. She saw him only at lunchtime, and was glad to be able to bask in his company and listen to him expound on matters of the day, her admiration of him so familiar that she never questioned it.
That evening Sonia observed, ‘Paul Latimer is being very attentive, don’t you think?’
‘I think it’s perfectly natural,’ responded Meg. ‘I’m sure he’s very concerned for your well-being since Uncle Henry’s death.’
Sonia was amused by Meg’s assumption that she was referring to herself, and not to Meg. It confirmed Sonia’s suspicion that her niece had no idea that Paul had, as Sonia had divined during the August house party, set his sights on Meg.
She was about to say something along those lines but Meg forestalled her by asking, ‘Have you made any headway finding a new nanny for Avril?’
‘Why, yes, I think I may have found someone. She came to see me yesterday. She’s been nanny for a family in London for the past twenty-five years, and now she is looking for employment in the country. Her name is – let me see…’ Sonia laid down her sewing and cast around among the letters on her work-table to find the one she wanted. ‘Irene Bissett. She’s rather older than I had in mind, but she’s very experienced and has quite a no-nonsense air about her. I think Avril needs someone with a firm hand.’
Amen to that, thought Meg. ‘When will she start?’
‘She’s free to start in a week. It’s j
ust a matter of taking up her references.’
That meant, by Meg’s calculation, that she would be back in London by the end of the month, and her heart rose at the thought.
‘So you may tell your mother the glad news,’ said Sonia, smiling and folding up Miss Bissett’s letter. ‘I’m sure she’ll be pleased to have you back, though I shall miss you.’
*
On the day that Meg was due to leave Woodbourne, Sonia found her consulting the railway timetable.
‘Why is it that there are no fast trains on Thursdays?’ asked Meg, frowning.
‘You won’t need to take a train,’ said Sonia. ‘Paul is coming down to pick up those manuscripts Henry left him – I daren’t trust them to the post – and he’s offered to drive you back.’
‘Oh.’ Meg gave her aunt a glance. ‘Well, that’s very convenient.’
‘Isn’t it? So much nicer than the stopping train. Now, I have a few letters to write, so I shall see you at luncheon.’
Meg spent the morning finishing her packing. When she came downstairs, she spied a bulky letter addressed to her among the post on the hall table. She didn’t recognise the handwriting. She ripped open the envelope, and when she saw that it was from Dan, her heart lifted with surprise and pleasure. She had assumed he’d completely forgotten his promise to write.
She took the letter through to the morning room, where she knew there would be a fire, and curled up on the window seat to read it. It was long and breezy and full of news. He gave Meg accounts of exhibitions he had been to, and of a ghastly dinner party, and of an evening spent with some of Diana’s friends in Soho, all of which Meg hugely enjoyed. He described for her his rooms in Bloomsbury, the view from his window, the comings and goings of fellow tenants, and painted a deft and funny portrait of his landlady. The letter was so good she read it twice. She was faintly disappointed that the tone was no more than friendly. But what had she expected? Clearly stolen kisses and bedroom visits in the middle of the night were to be expected at a house party. She shouldn’t attach any particular significance to them. Dan evidently didn’t. She couldn’t help recalling with some wistfulness that kiss in the woods. But then, one’s first proper kiss would always be unforgettable, she supposed.
As she folded up the letter, she glanced across at the writing desk and wondered if she should try to answer it now. No, such an excellent letter deserved a better reply than she could give in the short interval between now and Paul’s arrival. She put it back in its envelope and tucked it into her bag, resolving to write when she got back to London.
‘You must come and visit often,’ Sonia said to Meg, as she got ready to go. ‘The house is going to be very dull without you.’
‘I shall, but you must come up to town as well, Aunt Sonia. It won’t do you any good to stay here all alone.’
‘You’re right. I feel much stronger in myself now. And that’s largely thanks to you, my dear.’ She embraced Meg and kissed her. ‘Give my fondest love to your mother, and tell her I will come up to London before Christmas.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ said Paul. He slapped his driving gloves against his palm. ‘Come on, we’d better get going if we want to get back to London before dark.’
It was like Paul to stick to the thirty mile an hour speed limit, thought Meg, as they made their way diligently along the country roads. Had it been Diana at the wheel, no doubt they would have been flying along. But Paul only ever channelled his adventurous spirit in legitimate ways. She liked that about him, his dependability, his reliable goodness, but she sometimes wished he could be a bit more unpredictable, reckless even. At twenty-seven, he seemed wise beyond his years. Even his attractiveness owed more to maturity than youthfulness. How refreshing it would be if Paul were to behave occasionally as though he hadn’t a clue what he was doing. But that was hard to imagine. It was Paul’s nature always to know exactly what he was doing, which was comfortable, if not exciting.
They chatted all the way back to London, Meg carefully steering Paul away from political and economic topics on which he might become too ponderous. They discussed the scandalous rumours of the King and Mrs Simpson, speculating on how it would all end, and by the time they reached London they had developed an intimacy which Meg had never felt with Paul before. For the first time, she felt on a level with him. All her life she had been accustomed to Paul treating her with brotherly condescension and amused tolerance, but now she felt he was treating her as properly grown-up. The realisation led her thoughts in unexpected directions.
Paul stopped the car outside the mansion block in Kensington where he and Diana shared a flat.
‘Here we are,’ he said, pulling on the handbrake. ‘Why don’t you come up to the flat and have a drink before I take you home? You might like to see the results of Di’s interior decorating enthusiasms.’
The flat was on the second floor, and when Paul opened the door with his key he called out, ‘Hello? Anyone home?’ But he was met with silence.
‘Di must be out with her friends,’ he said, shrugging off his coat and then helping Meg out of hers. ‘I’ll just take these manuscripts through to my study. You go into the drawing room, and I’ll be through in a tick to mix those drinks.’
Meg was impressed by Diana’s redecoration of the flat. No expense seemed to have been spared. The drawing-room walls were painted a delicate shade of eau-de-nil, and a large art deco mirror set above the fireplace reflected the long windows opposite, which were swagged with curtains of dark green velvet to match the cushions on the sofas. Meg paced the room, admiring objects and furniture, musing on what fun it would be to have so much money you could furnish a home any way you liked, without worrying about the expense.
‘The room is lovely,’ she told Paul when he arrived. ‘Di has such exquisite taste.’
‘An exquisite taste for spending, you mean.’ Paul went to the drinks trolley and unstoppered a decanter of Scotch. ‘Whisky do? Or would you prefer something else? Gin and bitters, perhaps?’
‘Gin is fine. Just a small one, thanks.’
‘Of course, I haven’t let her near my study,’ went on Paul, as he poured their drinks. ‘My private domain remains strictly masculine. No cushions or glass ornaments allowed.’
They settled themselves on a sofa, and Paul lifted his glass. ‘Cheers. Here’s to your long-awaited return to London.’
‘Cheers. It’s lovely to be back.’ Meg rarely drank spirits, and the first sip sent a pleasant fire fizzing through her limbs.
‘Seriously,’ said Paul, gazing at her, ‘I’m looking forward to being able to see more of you.’ Meg couldn’t look at him, aware of the atmosphere having shifted subtly. ‘If you want to, that is.’
Meg realised with astonishment that Paul was nervous. She turned to him. ‘Of course I do. It’s always lovely, being with you.’
Paul took another hard swallow of his whisky, then set the glass down. ‘The fact is, all these months since the house party, I’ve been missing you like hell.’ He moved closer, his expression earnest, vulnerable. ‘And having you here to myself is heaven. Ever since we took that walk in the woods a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been longing to tell you.’ He put out a hand to touch her hair, then her face. ‘Dearest Meg.’ He leaned forward and kissed her.
When he drew away, Meg gave a light, trembling laugh. ‘Oh, Paul—’
‘Hush,’ he said, and kissed her again. ‘I know you’ve only ever thought of me as Diana’s big brother, but I wonder if you can begin to think of me in another way. Because the fact is, I think I’m more than a little in love with you.’
‘Paul… I don’t know what to say. I didn’t realise…’ Meg was truly lost for words.
‘Really? You didn’t know? I should have thought it was rather obvious.’ He caressed her face gently, and kissed her again. There was silence between them, then he said, ‘Do you think you could learn to care for me, Meg? To love me?’
The question opened such a world of possibilities for Meg that she fe
lt dazzled. Following her instincts, she said carefully, ‘I don’t know, Paul. This is very sudden.’
‘You’re right. The last thing I want to do is to rush you into anything.’
The conversation moved hesitantly to other things, and after a while Paul said, ‘Come on, finish your drink and I’ll take you home.’
‘Thank you,’ murmured Meg, and swallowed the remains of her gin, feeling it burn its way down her throat and into the pit of her stomach. ‘Yes, I think perhaps I ought to go home.’ She truly wanted to be able to think, to reflect, to examine this new and unexpected change in their relationship. It was too much to take in at this moment.
Paul dropped Meg off in Chelsea, and came in for a few moments to say hello to her mother. When he left he threw Meg a meaningful smile, and promised to telephone soon.
‘Dear Paul, he doesn’t change,’ remarked Helen Slater, as she and Meg went through to the drawing room. ‘His manners are so impeccable they positively wear one out. I’ve known him since he was a small boy, but he’s still so formal with me. I wish he would call me Helen, and not Mrs Slater. It makes me feel quite geriatric.’
Helen was younger than Sonia by three years, and though not so tall, shared her sister’s graceful, imperious manner and good looks. If Sonia, with her narrow face and flowing dresses, had something of a look of elongation, Helen was altogether more compact, her lightly made-up features neater and more vivid, her hair fashionably shingled and curled. At forty-three she still had a very good figure, of which she was justly proud, and she dressed expensively and well. She had been widowed for ten years, but showed no inclination to remarry, leading a busy London social life, and holidaying abroad on a regular basis.
‘No one could accuse you of being that,’ said Meg with a smile. Her mind was still a little dazed by the events of the past half-hour.
Helen gave the fire a brisk poke and said, ‘I’m sure you’d like a drink after that long drive. A sherry, perhaps?’
‘No, thanks. I had a drink at Paul’s flat.’
‘Oh, you stopped off?’ Helen gave her daughter a glance.
