by Emma Page
‘As a matter of fact,’ Sarah said, ‘she called in this morning, she said she’d had flu or she’d have come in before.’
‘You didn’t refund her any money?’ Zena cried. ‘You didn’t go and pay her the thirty pounds or thirty-five or whatever it was she said she paid for the dress?’
‘No,’ Sarah said soothingly, ‘I did nothing of the kind.’
‘Oh, good! For one awful moment, I thought she’d got away with it.’
‘Now, Mrs Yorke,’ Sarah said, ‘you’ve known me a very long time. Would I be likely to do such a thing without consulting you?’
‘No, I suppose not. What did you do then?’ Hardly likely that Miss Gibbs had tamely accepted a polite refusal to countenance her demands.
‘I told her that I would discuss it with you when you were fit again and that in due course we would let her know what had been decided.’
‘Oh yes,’ Zena said with pleasure, ‘that was exactly right. As a matter of fact I’ll see her about it myself when the time comes.’ She would enjoy the encounter. ‘You must be certain to look out the sales slip for the dress. I don’t know what tale she told you but she had the nerve to imply that the material—’ She plunged into an animated account of Miss Gibbs’s behaviour at the ball.
But when she rang off a few minutes later it was not Anthea Gibbs’s sinewy figure that rose up in her mind but the graceful curves of Mrs Fleming. She seized the telephone directory to look up the number of the shop–it would still be listed under the name of the previous owner, of course; her fingers trembled in agitation as she turned the pages, it was several moments before she could with certainty recall the name. At last she heard the double ring of the phone; another minute crawled by before the receiver was picked up.
It wasn’t Mrs Fleming who answered but the high, impatient, young-girl voice of her assistant.
‘Actually we’re closed,’ Iris said, glancing down at her watch, mindful of her bus. ‘It’s gone one o’clock. And Mrs Fleming isn’t here.’ The blinds were already down at the windows, Linda had gone off a few minutes before to the self-drive car she had hired for her trip.
‘Then I’ll ring again after lunch,’ Zena said.
‘There won’t be anyone here,’ Iris replied without undue courtesy. ‘We’re closed until Monday morning. Mrs Fleming’s going away for the weekend.’
‘Somewhere nice, I hope?’ Zena said, striving for a note of casual interest.
‘Depends on what you call nice,’ Iris said with a laugh. ‘Seahaven, not my idea of a gay weekend, not at this time of the year. Still, everyone to her taste, I always say. Oh, just a moment—’ She caught the sound of a distant door opening and closing, footsteps in the rear of the premises. ‘I think Mrs Fleming has come back in again, she’s probably forgotten something. If you’d like to hold on a minute, I’ll go and see if she can speak to you.’
Zena waited at the other end of the line, sitting rigid in her chair. She had a sudden clear vision of Owen at the ball, dancing with Mrs Fleming, holding her in a close embrace. Some other questing section of her mind threw up a memory of Emily’s accident–it had taken place at the intersection by Mrs Fleming’s shop; she remembered the way Emily had fenced with her about whether or not Owen had been on the spot. She was certain now that he had been there, that he had been calling on the young widow. A profound sense of astonishment mounted in her brain; it was one thing to suspect and another thing altogether to have suspicion confirmed.
‘You might run upstairs and see if I’ve left my brown gloves on the dressing table,’ Linda said as she caught sight of Iris.
There’s someone on the phone for you.’ Iris turned towards the stairs. ‘I didn’t ask the name.’
‘All right, I’ll take it.’ I hope it isn’t going to be long, Linda thought with irritation as she picked up the receiver. This is Linda Fleming,’ she said. ‘Who is that, please?’
No coherent line of conversation presented itself to Zena’s mind; she heard herself saying, ‘This is Zena Yorke. I was going to suggest that you come over to discuss the question of the stock but your assistant tells me you’re going away for the weekend.’
‘Yes.’ Just that one syllable, nothing more.
‘Somewhere pleasant, I hope?’ Zena said.
‘Nowhere very exciting.’
‘My husband is also away for the weekend.’ A distinctly sharp edge now to Mrs Yorke’s voice.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,’ Linda said. ‘I really must go.’
‘Quite a coincidence, don’t you think, my husband choosing this particular weekend to go away?’
Linda looked at her watch. ‘If it isn’t anything special, I must—’
‘Stealing my husband’s special,’ Zena said with force.
‘I really can’t engage in this kind of conversation. You must excuse me.’ Linda laid the receiver on its rest with an abrupt movement. She stood for a moment frowning down with concentrated thought. There was a sound of hurrying footsteps as Iris came back holding out the gloves.
‘Here you are, they were on the bed.’
‘Oh–thank you. You will be sure to lock up carefully, won’t you?’ Linda took the gloves and went rapidly out to the car.
I knew it! Zena thought, they’re spending the weekend together! She still could not quite credit it. She clasped her hands together and tried to steady the turmoil in her brain. The hotel–Owen had said something yesterday morning–yes, he’d said he’d left the name and phone number of the hotel on the table. She looked down for a memo pad or a piece of paper but there was nothing there. She went into Owen’s bedroom and then back to her own room, searching rapidly, pulling open drawers, running her eye over the carpet in case a scrap of paper had slipped to the floor. But there was no note.
She sat down again by the phone, consumed by the sense that she must take some kind of action. Arnold, she thought suddenly, I’ll ring Arnold. She almost smiled with relief.
‘Owen’s gone off for the weekend,’ she said as soon as she heard his voice.
‘Yes, I know,’ he said guardedly. ‘His secretary told me.’
‘Did she tell you exactly where? He said he’d leave a note of his number but it isn’t here. All he told me was that he was going down to the coast.’
‘No, I don’t know where he’s gone.’ Instinct warned Arnold to keep his mouth shut. Seahaven, his mind recorded, the Cliff View Hotel.
‘I’m absolutely certain he’s meeting Mrs Fleming,’ Zena said. ‘She’s going to Seahaven for the weekend, I’m sure that’s where Owen is too. I want you to go down there, you can easily find him.’ Only three or four hotels in Seahaven that might tempt Owen by their size and comfort.
‘Look here,’ Arnold said with protest. ‘You don’t expect me to go—’
‘It wouldn’t take you long in the car,’ she broke in. ‘You could call in to the big hotels, ask if he’s there, you’ll soon find him.’
‘I’ll do nothing of the kind.’ Is it possible? he was thinking with a disturbing sense of shock. Linda and Owen together. He put up a hand to his face.
‘You will go,’ Zena said with a mixture of command and pleading. ‘You must. You wouldn’t need to spend the night there. Just get hold of Owen and make him phone me. Tell him I’m ill.’ She was certain that if only she could get in touch with him, let him know she was aware of what was going on, it would be all right, she could still snatch him back.
‘It’s no use, I won’t go,’ Arnold said with deep distaste. ‘I’m not going to get mixed up in this kind of situation. And in any case,’ he added with inspiration, ‘I have work to do this weekend. I’ve had to bring papers home from the office—’
‘Oh yes,’ Zena said with a significant inflection, ‘it’s coming up to the audit, isn’t it?’ There was a brief pause. ‘I think you’ll find you’ll be able to spare the time after all,’ she said with authority. ‘You’ll be back in plenty of time to work on your accounts.’
When
she rang off a few minutes later she remained for some time seated in her chair by the phone. Her brain felt clear and active, she was full of a sense that events were in her grasp again. She levelled a cool, assessing glance at the rest of the day, at tomorrow. Neil had said he wouldn’t be able to look in at all today, he was attending a one-day course for local government officers; it was being held in a neighbouring town and there was to be a supper afterwards at some hotel, he wouldn’t be home till about ten. But he’d asked Ruth to call in on her during the afternoon, to see that she was all right. I’ll tell Ruth that Neil must come over for a few minutes, however late he gets back, Zena decided; she was beginning to experience a surge of elation at the plan forming in her mind.
She stood up and walked briskly into the bathroom, took from the cabinet the box of ampoules Owen had brought her on Thursday evening, unopened, still in its chemist’s neat white wrapping. Three ampoules had remained in the old box which now lay empty and discarded in the waste-bin beside the wash-basin. She had used the three for her evening injection on Thursday and the morning and evening injections on Friday. She should already have taken an ampoule from the new box for this morning’s injection but with so much to occupy her thoughts she had forgotten all about it, in spite of old Gethin’s angry lecture last week.
She stared down at the box, weighing the degree of risk she was running. If she omitted the injection this evening as well . . . She conjured up a dramatic picture of Neil letting himself into The Sycamores at half past ten or eleven, calling out as he came up the stairs, getting no reply . . . She smiled and put the trim white parcel back into the cabinet.
With any luck Arnold would get hold of Owen some time during the afternoon or early evening. If Owen phoned her, if she was able to prevail on him to return, would there be any point then in ‘forgetting’ the evening injection, in letting the little drama run its full course? On the whole she was inclined to think there would; Owen might put down the phone with the best intentions, ready to pack his bag, and on the staircase he might run into Mrs Fleming dressed and coiffured for the evening, he might very well change his mind, might decide to postpone his return till the morning . . . And even if he didn’t, if he got into his car and drove home, it wouldn’t do him any harm at all to find his wife in a state of semi-collapse . . .
She made her way slowly back towards the bed. Time enough to make a final decision about the injection after Owen–or Arnold–telephoned; in any case she must be sure to write down the name and number of Owen’s hotel as soon as she knew them, leave the sheet of paper prominently displayed by the receiver. Then, if Owen failed to appear, if she was alone and possibly comatose when Neil bounded up the stairs, he would be able to put through an urgent call to Seahaven, disturbing Owen at what might be a very interesting moment . . .
‘But it could be quite late by the time Neil gets back.’ Ruth set down a cup of tea on the bedside table, close to Zena’s hand. ‘Don’t you think it would be better if either Jane or I stayed the night with you?’
‘No, that isn’t in the least necessary.’ Zena picked up the knife and fork from the tray Ruth had prepared for her. ‘I don’t care if it is late. I won’t be asleep. He needn’t stay long, he can just see I’m all right for the night, have a little chat and then go back home. He won’t object to that.’
‘Very well, if that’s what you want,’ Ruth said reluctantly. ‘He’s going to give me a ring at seven, to let me know what time he’ll be back, I’ll tell him what you said, I suppose it will be all right.’ And really Zena did appear well on the road to recovery now. Her face wore a reasonably healthy colour and she was certainly tucking into the food with a good appetite.
Zena buttered a piece of toast. ‘You must make it quite clear to him that he’s to call in, however late it is.’ She gave Ruth a commanding glance. ‘Then I’ll be able to settle down quite happily to sleep, I won’t mind being on my own.’
‘Yes, I’ll make sure he understands.’
Zena gave a satisfied nod. ‘Tell him I’ll leave the front door on the latch.’
‘Is there anything I can get you in Milbourne on Monday?’ Ruth asked in a friendly fashion. ‘I don’t suppose Owen will have much time for shopping.’
‘Well now, there are one or two things. Let me see.’ Zena wrinkled her brows in thought. ‘I’ll need some more cigarettes. And some bath essence—’
‘Just a moment, I’ll jot it down.’ Ruth opened her bag and took out a notebook. ‘Cigarettes–what brand do you want?’
‘By the way,’ Zena said when the list was completed, ‘your Miss Gibbs marched into the shop this morning and demanded her money back for that dress.’ She recounted with energy the confrontation between Anthea and Sarah Pierson.
‘I must say I’m a little surprised,’ Ruth said. ‘I was sure she’d have thought better of it when she got home. And she’s been away from work with flu, I imagined that wouldn’t have done much for her nerve.’
‘She’ll need all her nerve before the matter’s settled,’ Zena said with enjoyment. ‘I’m going to deal with her myself.’ But the memory of her encounter with Anthea at the ball brought with it more disagreeable recollections. She did her best to blink away the picture of Owen holding Mrs Fleming in the close embrace of a waltz but it remained obstinately etched into the forefront of her mind.
‘Would you mind taking the tray and putting it over there?’ she said at random, and then, to her dismay she heard herself add as Ruth stood up and bent over the bed, ‘Owen’s gone off for the weekend with that wretched Fleming woman, what do you think about that?’
There was a brief pause. Ruth stood arrested with her hands just about to clutch the tray, then she flashed Zena a little disbelieving smile, straightened up and carried her burden across the room, setting it down on top of the chest of drawers.
‘I’m sure you’re wrong,’ she said easily. ‘Whatever put such a foolish notion into your head?’ But in that moment before she picked up the tray a look had flashed over her face; Zena had seen it clearly. And the look had said as plainly as words, ‘So! I’m not in the least surprised! And I can’t say I blame him!’
‘You knew all about it!’ Zena cried accusingly. ‘You knew he was running after her! You probably encouraged him!’
Ruth halted by the chest of drawers, she turned to face Zena. ‘Oh, come now!’ she said calmly. ‘You know that isn’t true. Why should I wish—’
‘Your own morals aren’t very much to boast about.’ All the resentments of the day gathered themselves up inside Zena, she felt a fierce compulsion to strike at someone. ‘Maurice Turner hasn’t been a widower all that long.’ A jumble of facts, conjectures and deductions swam up before her. ‘You thought nothing of carrying on with a married man. It means nothing to you if a marriage is going to break up, you probably think it very amusing.’
With an effort Ruth steadied her voice. ‘I don’t think we’d better continue this conversation,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re not well, you don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘I know what I’m saying all right,’ Zena said with venom. ‘Do you think everyone doesn’t realize how you got your precious job? Everyone except Neil, that is. And the sooner he knows, the better.’
Ruth couldn’t restrain herself any longer. ‘How dare you talk such stupid nonsense!’ she said, approaching the bed. ‘You deliberately go and make yourself ill, to draw attention to yourself or for some other devious reason of your own, then you lie there in bed inventing mischief about everyone concerned with you, you won’t be satisfied till you’ve set everyone at each other’s throats.’ She broke off abruptly. Oh dear, she thought with a thrust of remorse, that was a mistake, I should never have let fly like that.
She opened her mouth to say she was sorry but it was more than she could do actually to frame an apology, so she merely said, ‘I’d better go.’ She took a couple of steps towards the door and then paused, a little surprised that Zena had made no reply to her outburst.
When she reached home she put away her car and let herself into the house. She switched on the light in the hall and saw a note speared on one of the hooks of the coatstand. She unfolded it; a couple of sentences from Jane to say she’d gone out with Kevin, wouldn’t be back till late, not to wait up for her. Ruth stood for a moment with her head tilted back in thought, then she went to the phone and dialled Maurice’s number.
Quite a long time later Zena awoke from an uneasy doze. The radio was still on; a disc-jockey was laughing loudly at his own jokes.
Downstairs the front door opened and closed. She cocked her head, listening. The sound of unhurried footsteps reached her ears.
‘Who’s that?’ she called out. ‘Is that you, Ruth?’ She threw back the covers and pulled on her dressing gown. ‘Neil, is that you?’ The footsteps advanced without haste towards the bedroom door. She stood up and thrust her feet into her slippers. ‘Who’s there?’ she cried. ‘Owen! Is it you?’
‘Hope I didn’t alarm you,’ said a familiar voice from the head of the stairs. ‘It’s only me.’
It was well after eleven when Neil got home. The house was in darkness; there was no sound either upstairs or down. It had been an agreeable evening, a very good supper, excellent wine, cheerful company. A picture of Ruth began to float into his mind; she would be lying peacefully upstairs, wrapped in sweet dreams, her blonde hair spread out over the pillows. He smiled as he went silently towards the staircase.
