by Emma Page
‘I can’t quite place her.’ Zena’s fingers continued to beat time on the table. ‘Do you remember her name?’
‘Fleming,’ Turner said. ‘Mrs Fleming, I didn’t get her first name. She’s a good dancer, moves very lightly.’
How airily she floats in my arms, Owen thought with pleasure, pressing his hand into the back of Linda’s waist. ‘You’re looking very beautiful this evening,’ he murmured, putting his cheek against hers. ‘You’re by far the prettiest woman in the room.’
Linda laughed. ‘You mustn’t exaggerate. Actually, I’m beginning to feel a little jaded, I always find this time of year rather wearing, the cold, the fog, everyone coughing and sneezing. Now that the sale’s over I’m going to take a couple of days off shortly.’
‘What about the shop? Can you leave it to your assistant? She’s very young, isn’t she?’
‘Oh I couldn’t leave her on her own for long, I’ll just take a weekend, I can close the shop at lunchtime on Saturday and come back early on the Monday morning. I’m not planning to go very far away–Seahaven, I expect you know it.’
‘Yes, of course I do.’ Thirty miles away, on the coast, a pleasant enough place in the summer though probably a little bleak in the middle of winter; he had often been there on business. ‘Is it this coming weekend you’re taking off?’ he asked casually. He felt a tingle of excitement begin to prickle along his nerves. He could quite easily slip down to Seahaven himself; always some business to be drummed up in that area. He normally went and returned in the course of one day but there would be nothing to prevent him staying overnight, even a couple of nights. The break would do him good; a man couldn’t be too careful with all this flu about.
‘No, not this weekend,’ she said, ‘the next one.’
‘And have you found yourself a good hotel?’ he asked in a light impersonal tone. ‘If not, I can recommend one or two.’
‘I’ve already found one,’ she said with equal casualness, ‘One of my customers told me about it. Cliff View, apparently it’s not too expensive out of season.’
‘Yes, I know it, I’ve called in there for lunch once or twice, the food’s very good, I think you’ll be comfortable there.’ If I went down on the Friday morning, he thought, or even the Friday afternoon, that would give me plenty of time to fit in a little business. His imagination conjured up an intriguing picture of Linda coming down the hotel stairs after her unpacking and himself rising to greet her from a seat in the lounge, seeing the expression on her face as she recognized him. His attention wandered briefly from the dance and he missed the beat, stumbling awkwardly and catching his foot against the leg of a chair set a little too close to the circling couples.
‘Oh–I’m sorry, do forgive me—’ He steadied himself, glanced down with an apologetic smile and saw Dr Gethin’s eyes looking back at him. ‘Clumsy of me,’ he said. ‘I hope I didn’t—’
‘That’s all right,’ Gethin said. He stood up and moved his chair back a few paces. ‘Serves me right for sitting so far forward.’ He seemed anxious to offer amends for his discourteous behaviour earlier on. ‘The evening’s going very well.’ He gave Owen a little smile. ‘You must be feeling very satisfied with yourself.’
‘Indeed I am.’ Owen’s voice was warmly emphatic. ‘You must have a drink with me later.’ He was pleased to see Gethin nod and he swung Linda back into the dance.
As he negotiated a tricky turn he caught sight of Zena still seated at her table, chatting to Turner, who was staring out at the dancers with a look that even at this distance seemed to Owen to be eloquent of boredom. A surge of pity rose inside him; only ten or fifteen years ago any man who sat beside Zena at a ball would have given her his full and undivided attention. His arm closed round Linda a little more tightly; he felt as if he could turn and circle with her for ever to the dip and lift of the music, under the glittering brilliance of the chandeliers.
At the small table Maurice Turner shifted in his seat and did his best to suppress a sigh.
‘I don’t believe you’re listening!’ Zena leaned over and tapped him coquettishly on the arm.
‘I’m sorry.’ He managed a look of friendly apology. ‘What was it you were saying?’
‘I was asking if you remembered Arnold Pierson. He was in your regiment during the war.’
‘Pierson?’ Yes, he remembered him; and he’d read a little piece about him in the paper the other day, some accident in the street. ‘We were taken prisoner together,’ he said, looking back at those incredible days.
‘He works for Owen now, has done ever since the war.’
‘Yes, I gathered that, I saw his photograph in the local paper, there were a couple of paragraphs about him, he’d saved some old woman’s life.’
‘Oh yes,’ Zena said with significant emphasis. ‘Quite the hero, dear Arnold.’
Turner frowned. ‘He was decorated in the war, you know,’ he said shortly. ‘And he deserved it.’
‘Did he indeed? I wonder.’ Her voice held an odd note of pleasure.
‘Just what are you getting at?’ Turner asked, all his instincts springing up in defence of one of his own men against the sneer of this useless civilian for whom the war had probably been little more than an annoying interruption to her butterfly days.
‘I believe I know considerably more than you do about Arnold Pierson’s war record.’ All the subtle shades of tone had left Zena’s voice, she spoke now with ruthless directness. ‘And what happened to one of your precious companies as a result of his—’ She was interrupted by someone halting by her chair, trying to edge a way past her; she uttered a sound of irritation, glanced up and saw a woman looking down at her with apology.
‘If you could just move your chair a little,’ the woman said with quiet persistence. Turner sprang to his feet, glad of the interruption; in another moment he might have said something to Zena that he would later regret.
‘Why, it’s Miss Gibbs!’ A member of his department at British Foods, a little unfamiliar now in an elaborate gown of dull gold silk that did little for her sallow complexion. ‘I hope you’re enjoying the ball?’ He addressed her with considerably more interest than he would normally have employed and her expression brightened with remarkable swiftness.
‘Oh yes, thank you,’ she said effusively. ‘It’s a very good band, isn’t it?’ The music ceased and the dancers began to make their way back to the tables. It struck Turner with dismal certainty that he was going to have to ask Miss Gibbs for the next dance; a sense of mounting exasperation rose inside him, he seemed to be surrounded by astonishingly unattractive females.
‘I don’t know if you’ve met Mrs Yorke,’ he said desperately.
‘No, we’ve never met,’ Anthea said, fishing about in her bag and giving vent to a shattering sneeze before she managed to snatch up a handkerchief. ‘Oh, do excuse me! I believe I’ve caught a cold.’ She exploded into another sneeze, this time mercifully into a square of lace-edged lawn. ‘Of course I know you by sight,’ she said to Zena with determined friendliness as soon as she had finished dabbing at her nose. ‘I suppose everyone in Milbourne does.’
Zena gave a little grunt, her eyes slid over Anthea’s face, her bony shoulders, pausing with a faint increase of interest at the sweeping folds of her dress which struck her as very probably coming from her own shop, there being no other establishment in the town supplying quite such expensive gowns cut in so intricate a style.
‘I work with your sister-in-law, Ruth Underwood,’ Anthea said, trying to ignore the coolness of Zena’s manner.
‘Is that so?’ Zena tilted back her chair, put up a hand to her mouth and yawned. A flush rose in Anthea’s cheeks, her eyes began to shine brightly. And then Neil came up with Ruth and the moment dissolved into a general exchange of remarks. The music struck up again and Turner’s face assumed a look of cheerfulness.
‘Ah, a waltz!’ he said gaily. He took a step forward, smiling, one hand stretched out; Anthea’s mouth lifted in pleasure, she moved to jo
in him but something impeded her, she gave an impatient tug at her skirt and saw in the same moment that Turner was looking past her at Ruth. There was a ripping sound as the threads of the gold silk parted; she glanced down to where the hem of her dress was pinned under the foot of Zena’s chair.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Anthea said in a low trembling voice. A yard or two away Turner was already moving expertly to the music, his arm round Ruth’s waist. Neil stooped and took hold of the torn skirt. ‘Move your chair,’ he said to his sister who got grudgingly to her feet.
‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ Zena said. ‘You should look where you’re going.’
Neil released the strip of material. ‘I’m afraid it’s well and truly torn,’ he said, looking up at Anthea. Her cheeks were a fiery red, she looked as if at any moment she might burst into tears. ‘If you went to the cloakroom,’ he said with an attempt at kindliness, sorry for the wretched woman, ‘someone might be able to sew it up.’
Anthea jerked the folds to her side, clutched her bag to her thin bosom and plunged off without a word towards the haven of the ladies’ room. Neil got to his feet and stood looking after her.
‘Don’t you think perhaps you ought to go with her and see what you can do?’ he said to Zena.
‘Why on earth should I?’ she said loudly. ‘It was no fault of mine. Clumsy creature!’
‘Poor Anthea!’ Ruth murmured, glancing over Maurice’s shoulder at her colleague’s departing back. ‘It’s probably ruined her whole evening.’ She had glimpsed the little episode as she turned to the beat of the waltz.
‘I shouldn’t worry about Miss Gibbs,’ Maurice said lightly. ‘Shall we go and have something to eat? I’m beginning to feel hungry.’
‘Yes, I would like an ice, it’s so warm in here.’
He kept his arm round her waist as he piloted her in the direction of the buffet. At the other side of the room Neil watched them with a frown. He turned to Zena. ‘Do you want something more to eat?’ he demanded abruptly. ‘Would you like to come along to the buffet?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t feel like anything.’
‘Shall we dance then?’ He could steer her down to that end of the room, keep an eye on Ruth and Turner.
Again Zena shook her head. ‘No, I’ll stay here.’ So he was compelled to stay beside her; he remained standing, doing his best to look between the heads of the crowd but unable to catch a glimpse of his wife. Zena made no attempt at conversation; she was beginning to feel a little unwell, she had eaten and drunk too much, the room was very warm, and the exchange with Anthea Gibbs had brought an unpleasant sensation of fullness to her temples.
The waltz ended but Ruth and Turner didn’t reappear; after a brief interval the music began again and Neil’s eyes searched among the swirling throng without finding them. At last the dancing came to another stop but still there was no sign of them. He felt unable to remain rooted to Zena’s side for another moment.
‘Do come and have a drink,’ he said urgently. She made no reply and he bent his head to look at her. She was leaning back in her chair with her eyes closed. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked with a trace of anxiety, irritated that she should choose this moment to play the invalid.
She opened her eyes and gave him a weary glance, she passed a hand across her forehead. ‘I feel a little faint.’ She drew a long breath. ‘A touch of giddiness. It’s so hot in here.’
‘I’ll find Ruth,’ he said at once, I’ll get her to take you to the rest room, I won’t be a minute.’ He made his way briskly between the chairs and tables, down to the end of the room, scanning the clusters of people at the buffet. Neither Ruth nor Turner were anywhere to be seen. He forced a passage to the bar and stared round at the laughing and chatting groups but nowhere could he catch sight of Ruth’s blonde head.
He left the bar and began a resolute circuit of the dance-floor, until his feet brought him at last before a little alcove and there they were, smiling at each other, talking with careless enjoyment, never a thought of himself.
‘So this is where you’ve got to!’ he said in a low fierce tone. Ruth glanced up in surprise, taken aback by his intent, accusing gaze. She had finished eating and was just about to raise a glass to her lips. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ Neil said on the same note of outrage. ‘I’d no idea you’d hidden yourselves away in here.’ Turner’s face took on a veiled, withdrawn look; he closed his eyes in a moment’s resignation. Milbourne society seemed to offer a variety of emotional encounters, each a little more wearing than the last.
‘Did you want me for any particular reason?’ Ruth asked with detached courtesy.
‘I certainly did!’ Neil said. ‘Zena isn’t feeling very well, I want you to come and look after her, take her off somewhere quiet for a while.’ His manner implied some huge and unnamed fault in Ruth for not being constantly at hand to watch over Zena’s welfare.
‘I don’t suppose it’s anything very much,’ Ruth said in an unconcerned fashion. ‘You know what Zena is, she’s always fancying she feels ill.’ She gave Maurice a smiling look. ‘I’m sorry, I’d better go and take a look at her, do excuse me.’
‘Of course, I quite understand.’ Maurice stood up as Ruth rose to her feet; he watched the two of them go, Neil with his hand firmly on Ruth’s arm. He picked up his glass and drained it, then he set off towards the bar for another, stronger drink; he felt very definitely that he needed it.
Zena was still sitting with closed eyes when Neil returned with his captive wife. She really looks far from well, Ruth thought with a blend of exasperation and pity; she took her sister-in-law gently by the arm. ‘Come along,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ll feel a lot better as soon as you get out of this stuffy atmosphere.’ Zena allowed herself to be urged to her feet, she followed Ruth obediently round the edge of the dance-floor, past the musicians’ dais out into a passage where at once the air was cooler and fresher, into a pleasant rest-room with a row of wash-basins along one side, comfortable chairs dotted about and an archway leading to a smaller room.
‘Oh dear!’ Ruth said under her breath as she caught sight of Anthea Gibbs standing with her back to them, facing a long mirror set in the wall by the archway. An elderly woman was sitting on a stool at Anthea’s side, diligently stitching the long rip in the hem of her dress. She glanced up with a look of enquiry as Ruth settled Zena into a chair. ‘It’s all right,’ Ruth said quietly, ‘we just want to sit here for a while,’ and the woman returned to her task. Ruth was pleased to see that Zena paid no attention to Anthea but sank back against the cushions, exhaling a long breath of relief. ‘That’s better!’ she said, ‘I shall be all right in a few minutes.’
At the sound of their voices Anthea moved her head and studied their reflections in the mirror. She stood up a little straighter and flexed her shoulder muscles as if nerving herself for a fresh encounter; she drew in a steadying lungful of air.
‘I shall take this dress back to Underwood’s next week,’ she said to the attendant in a loud defiant voice. ‘I shall demand every penny of my money back.’
Zena jerked herself upright in her chair, flashed a glance at Anthea’s back and then addressed herself to Ruth. ‘People can’t expect a refund,’ she said clearly, ‘for goods they have damaged by their own stupid clumsiness.’ Oh dear, Ruth thought in dismay, casting about for some way to put an end to the exchange but finding no immediate solution.
In the mirror Anthea saw her own face, glowing cheeks and shining eyes; exhilaration rose inside her. It was astonishing how much better and bolder you felt once you snatched at courage and stood up for your rights. ‘Damaged articles ought not to be sold at full price,’ she said, still shafting her words at the attendant who plied her needle with exaggerated care, removing herself spiritually if not physically from the scene. ‘I’m positive it’s against the law,’ Anthea added, growing braver every moment. ‘False pretences or misrepresentation.’
Zena gave Ruth a brilliant smile; s
he looked well and energetic again. ‘No imperfect garments are ever sold at full price in my shop.’ She enunciated every syllable distinctly and precisely. ‘They are put twice a year into sales and disposed of at a fraction of their cost. If people wish to pay five pounds for a ball gown—’
‘I gave thirty-five pounds for this dress,’ Anthea broke in; her voice took on a ringing quality as if she were standing on the platform at a meeting of the Ladies’ Guild. ‘This is only the second time I’ve worn it. And for thirty-five pounds I do not tolerate flawed material.’
Perhaps there could have been a flaw in the cloth, Ruth thought; Zena had paid very little attention to the running of her business for some considerable time. It was quite possible for a substandard garment to be overlooked. She laid a hand on Zena’s arm. ‘Don’t you think perhaps—’ But Zena shook away her touch with a brusque movement.
‘Women who indulge in slanderous statements,’ she said, with enjoyment edging her tone, ‘must expect the full rigour of the law.’ A middle-aged woman in evening dress came out of the archway and walked towards the wash-basins; she glanced with curiosity from Anthea to Zena. Neither of them gave her so much as a look.
‘I’m sure if Anthea calls into the shop next week,’ Ruth said desperately, feeling things had gone far enough, ‘the matter can easily be settled. Perhaps another dress, part exchange–Miss Pierson could see to it.’
Anthea whirled round from the mirror, dragging her skirt out of the attendant’s grasp; there was a crisp sound as the tear lengthened. ‘Oh dear!’ the attendant said. ‘You’ve gone and made it worse.’
Zena threw back her head and laughed out loud. ‘One can hardly credit such natural clumsiness,’ she said in between spasms of mirth. At the wash-basin the middle-aged woman ran the taps and soaped her hands with care.
‘If you take the dress into the shop,’ Ruth persisted, ‘I feel quite certain—’
‘You keep out of this!’ Anthea cried, levelling at her a look bright with anger. All the accumulated resentment she felt at her years of unrewarded service at British Foods, her failure to secure promotion, her position now actually as a subordinate to Ruth Underwood, bubbled up inside her. ‘What business is it of yours?’
