'I'm killing myself down there.'
'You're killing me too.' The muscles of his cheek tightened. She lay down beside him again, blonde hair spreading out over the pillow like a great golden halo.
'Perhaps it would be better ... if you did it to me,' she suggested tentatively. 'I'm not very good at this sort of thing yet, but you can teach me.'
Gritting his teeth, Samuel tried. And tried again...
It was much later when he rose on to an elbow and stared across the width of the bed at Connie's straight, motionless form. Edging nearer, he looked down at her profile lying rigid on the pillow. She seemed to be staring into space, but he couldn't make out her expression or tell what she was thinking.
'I'm sorry, darling,' he said slowly. 'Maybe it'll be better next time.'
'Will it?' Her voice was cold, unreachable. 'Why should the next time be any different?'
'Listen, Constance, I... '
She turned sharply and looked at him, her violet eyes blazed. 'No, Samuel, you listen, I'll do the talking!I want you to tell me the truth. Are you impotent?'
'It's just nerves!' The words seemed to tear out from the back of his throat. 'It's just a temporary ... malady, Constance ...'
'Why?' She stared at him in disbelief. 'It couldn't just be that you're nervous: you've got a reputation as quite a stallion. It can't be my fault, it's not possible. Christ, you couldn't begin to imagine how frustrated I've been lately ... '
'I could, you know.'
'Just how long is temporary, anyway? Don't lie ...
He lowered his eyes uneasily. 'Maybe it would've been better... to have told you before, but I thought everything would be all right between us, that i ... '
Her eyes slitted. 'Go on ... '
'I can't, I've never been able to ... get an erection,' he said hoarsely, adding hastily, 'but that doesn't mean it's not possible.
It doesn't rule out our having kids of our own but ... it might just take a bit of time, some patience on your part ... '
'It's never happened and it might not ever happen?' Her mouth was tight, expression grim.
'I don't know.' he said honestly.
She sat up abruptly. 'Yes, you should've told me before. Why didn't you? What were you afraid of? Why the hell did you marry me in the first place... unless... ' Her mouth opened slowly as understanding dawned, and she stared at him, incredulity turning into acid bitterness. 'Because J was pregnant, not in spite of it, as I'd thought! No, don't pretend any more, I can see it in your face that it's so! Why, you rotten, cheating bastard. You said you loved me – is having a Jessop junior all you cared about?'
'No, believe me, Constance, we can still make a go of it. Keep trying. I wanted... I want... '
'Huh!' She cut him short, glared at him. Her mouth was sneering contemptuously, her lovely eyes suddenly full of hatred. 'You told me you'd give me everything I'd ever wanted. What a laugh! Money, furs, diamonds – everything: except a husband, a lover and a sex life! Did you think I'd be satisfied with things!' Her voice rose hysterically and he reached out to touch her, but Connie jumped out of bed in one swift, fluid motion.
'Where are you going?'
'To my own room, where else?' She turned back to look at him again, the loathing and disgust apparent on her face cut into his very being. 'I'm going to have to teach myself the art of masturbation! And I'm going to start practising right now! You go your way from now on, and I'll go mine.'
'Constance, I ... '
'Oh, go to the devil, I don't want you!'
Sleepless nights; mornings when they avoided each other; evenings with friends when they pretended that all was well – a mockery of marriage. Polite when necessary, silent when not. Finding solace in friends and possessions during the long hours of each day: sleeping with the help of pills. She felt nothing would ever heal the bitterness inside.
Divorce? It occurred to her often during the bleak emptiness of the following years, but what could she do and where would she go? She could try to start from scratch again, make a new life somewhere else – but wealth and luxury had spoilt her, made her reluctant and weak-willed even to attempt a fresh beginning. She wouldn.'t give it all up and go down again to rock bottom. Besides, why should she get out of his life anyway? Stay – make his life a misery, as he had made hers. Make him regret everything he'd done. Leave the field clear for him? Not likely. And there were compensations. He would turn a blind eye to what she did, so long as she didn't create a scandal, and Connie had grown subtle and wily. He had never mentioned a divorce either: in any case, what good would it do him? What other woman in her right mind would consider living with a half-man? If Samuel Jessop was prepared to tolerate her being around, she'd make sure she got everything she was entitled to. Which included sex.
Sheila was the only one who understood and sympathised. Hell, why shouldn't she? Connie had soon cottoned on that it was Sam whom Sheila was crazy about. In return for her confidence Sheila had eventually admitted her secret. Connie had admired that in her. Jealous? Why should she be? Sheila wasn't getting it from him either, so what was there to be jealous of? No, old Sheila had had the right idea all along. Being in love with one man hadn't stopped her making love with others. It was natural enough, the woman wasn't a nun. Connie wasn't either. Sam was a fool if he thought she behaved like one, but who cared how he felt? It was all his own fault. Connie's lack of real maturity led her to lack sympathy and understanding for a man she professed to love.
Connie reached for the bottle and poured herself another generous slug of gin. Elbows on the dressing table, she nursed the glass in cupped hands as she stared drowsily across the rim at her face in the mirror. She frowned when she saw fine, tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and hastily opened them wider. The lines disappeared.
Connie was a very beautiful young woman and only the most observant would be likely to notice a look of disillusionment that occasionally crept across the lovely face. She was poised and outwardly presented a picture of confidence. She had matured and seemed older than her years, for she felt she had lived a lifetime. She didn't really need the sleeping pills and other draughts she took every night, but it had become a force of habit. She took them the same time she automatically swallowed her Pill. She didn't want to get pregnant again. She wouldn't give Jessop the satisfaction of knowing that everyone would think it his. More than once the suspicion had crossed her mind that one reason he wouldn't divorce her was because he wanted it to happen. He wouldn't care if it was another man's brat, as long as the world was fooled. If any man could live such a lie, Samuel certainly could, she had no illusions about that. Perhaps that was another reason why he'd chosen her to marry in the first place, because with her looks she'd always attracted men . . . Difficult to live with him? Christ, it was probably harder for him to live with himself! At least she was ill woman, while he wasn't even a man!
Yawning hugely, she scratched her head, disturbing the already rumpled gold curls that had been closely cropped to fit her small head like a shining cap. Connie picked up her watch and squinted at it. Twelve o'clock, and she was supposed to be meeting Sheila for lunch at one in Mason's. She didn't feel like doing anything today ... still, she'd promised, and Sheila was the one person whom Connie didn't like to let down. She knew Sheila was concerned about the amount of drink she was knocking back, not only at parties, and Connie didn't want her to think she was turning into some kind of lush. Even for her oldest friend, she had to put on a good front. Regretfully Connie left the rest of her glass untouched and lit a cigarette, then grimaced at the sour taste it left in her mouth.
She proceeded to go through the ritual of cleansing her face. Her skin was still a little grimy from the remnants of yesterday's make-up. After five minutes of rubbing in assorted lotions, creams, tonics and astringents, her complexion was once again youthful and glowing. Standing up, she slipped off the robe she was wearing and goose-bumps rose on her flesh. She shivered, in spite of the central heating, and knew it was partly due to
a hangover. She looked at her figure critically. There was still a slight flabbiness around her midriff – it came and went since her pregnancy – but a few weeks at a health farm would soon remove it.
Her skin was still tanned from the last vacation, and only around her hips was white: a tiny girdle of whipped cream on coffee. Her breasts, high and firm, were as bronzed as the rest of her. Nobody wore a bra on the beaches of St Tropez. She smiled to herself, remembering the weeks spent there. It had been good to get away by herself again. And that man, what had his name been? Enrico something or other ... it didn't matter. He'd been a charming companion and escort. His luck had been in that day she'd arrived at the airport. He didn't usually find them so young and lovely. It had been fun for them both, and she'd suspected he'd been genuinely upset when she'd left. He'd got what he wanted, however, but so had Connie. He'd said he'd performed better with her than anyone he'd ever met. She could believe him, seeing that the majority of glances he got were from middle-aged women with too much money and spare flesh. Oh, he'd been eyed by young women like herself, too, but one look at her – and they had usually looked her over – and they hadn't bothered. Connie had never needed to worry about competition or rivalry: she had it all. Looks. personality, clothes, furs, jewellery. Enrico what's-his-name had gotten his money's worth. She always gave as good as she got.
Connie applied make-up and thought about all the men she'd met. Poor Samuel, she could almost have pitied him if she hadn't despised him so. It was quite pathetic, his attempts to appear manly. The outrage in his voice when he realised that she locked her bedroom door at nights had been comical. His last effort to enter her room had been only last week. He'd almost persuaded her to open up, pleading, almost crying aloud in his frustration, saying he was sure he could make it that night. But she'd remembered the previous time, a month before, when she'd actually admitted him into her room. She'd taunted him, half hoping that something might actually happen. God, how embarrassing it had been, for both, and she'd sworn it wouldn't happen again. He'd humiliated her enough and, since the last episode, he hadn't bothered knocking again. But she still kept the door locked as an added insult.
As the cigarette burned out in the ashtray, there came a knock at the door.
'Your breakfast is ready, Madam.'
'Thanks, Marie, but I only want a cup of coffee. I'm meeting Miss Delaney for lunch, so tell Mrs Bloom not to cook anything for me, please.'
The maid's footsteps tapped away and Connie dressed hurriedly. She cursed the fact that she hadn't even allowed herself time for a quick shower to wash off the last evening's assault on her body.
Connie hurried through the restaurant to where Sheila was already seated at the reserved table overlooking the muddy bank of the river.
'Sorry if I kept you waiting, Sheila,' she apologised as she took her place and unfolded a napkin across her lap. 'I couldn't seem to drag myself from my slumbers this morning.'
'Don't worry, but I have to leave at two, love.' Sheila smiled, thinking that even when in a hurry, Connie always managed to look groomed and dewy fresh, whatever the hour.
'You're looking well,' Sheila added as the waiter took their order.
'I'm OK.' She shrugged. 'Bored, as usual. I think I need another holiday.'
'What you need is a job, my girl, some useful therapy and discipline to stop you from loafing your life away.'
'I don't need to work,' Connie said briefly. She knew Sheila meant well and only said these things for her own good, but it annoyed her all the same. 'Besides, I'm a lazy slob, you know that.'
'I still think you'd enjoy being useful again, all the same.'
'I'll think it over,' Connie said, and knew that Sheila knew she wouldn't.
They ate for a while in silence, then Sheila said, 'How's Sam?'
'You should know better than I how he is. You see him more often than I do.'
Sheila took that without comment and finished her Trout Meuniere. 'He's very unhappy, Connie,' she said slowly.
'Still? So am I, but what do you want me to do about it? I can't work miracles, and that's what it would take to save our marriage, if save is the right word. We've been over this ground before, Sheila. I've resigned myself, same as him.'
The waiter removed their plates and served coffee. 'You care so much about him,' Connie went on after a pause. 'Why don't you help him?' She wasn't being bitchy, she meant it.
'Because you're his wife.'
Connie laughed shortly. 'How old-fashioned can one get?'
'It's Sam who cares about proprieties, not me.'
'Well, that's honest of you.' Connie sipped her coffee, then added more cream.
'If you weren't around I'd try to help him.'
'What is this? Confession week? That's what I always liked about you, Sheila. Straightforward and to the point. The point is, my friend, would he want you?'
'I don't know ...I think so. He doesn't like being alone, and I'm the closest friend he has. I'd live with him if he asked me ... but this is being hypothetical. You're his wife, it won't happen.'
Connie eyed her curiously. 'Do... do you discuss things with him, the way we do?'
'We talk.'
'About me?' she asked sharply.
'Not about you, not directly. I value our friendship. )"ou know that whatever you do or say to me is strictly confidential. Connie. I wouldn't want to hurt you, or Sam.'
Connie laughed dryly. 'Poor Sheila, stuck fast in the tangled web of our lives.'
'It does get a bit hard sometimes,' Sheila admitted ruefully.
Connie fiddled with her coffee spoon. Her eyes were thoughtful. 'Do you ever wish I was out of the way?' She didn't look at Sheila as she spoke. .
'When I'm feeling a bit low... yes, I suppose so, sometimes, but,' she added disarmingly, 'who would either of. us talk with if the other weren't here?'
'You'd have Sam.' Then she gave a bright, artificial smile.
'How tragic I sound,' she said mockingly. 'Yet, it's true that you're the only person I have ... '
'Do you ever think about your daughter, Connie?' The question was unexpected, and Connie looked startled. Then she frowned.
'I ... not often. Now and again I wonder how she's making out, what she looks like, that kind of thing, but I don't think I'd ever actively pursue what little curiosity I have about her ... I don't really know.' She looked down at her hands, the beautifully manicured nails varnished palest pink. 'She'd be a little girl, now, probably very happy where she is, wherever that may be. I'd like to think she was happy and sometimes I wish I knew what they've told her about me, if anything; what she thinks of her mother. Whether she wonders about her at all. I wouldn't like to feel I was hated.'
'Did you hate your mother?'
She pursed her lips, and sighed. 'The thought of her used to make me cry, I remember. I hated her for not being with me when I needed her, not wanting me, but I don't think I actually hated her.' She looked at Sheila sulkily. 'Now you're making me feel guilty,' she said, a little petulantly.
'I'm sorry, I don't mean to.'
Connie was silent. Sheila paid the bill and they went outside into the bright sunshine. Sheila flagged down a passing cab and as it waited by traffic lights, Sheila turned to her. 'Are you still seeing Howard Fletcher?' she asked casually.
Connie stiffened. 'What if I am?'
'Nothing. It's just that he's married, with two kids, and old enough to be your father.'
'What of it?' Connie's tone was suddenly aggressive, her eyes accusing.
Sheila shrugged. 'People are talking, that's all.'
'Let them, I don't give a damn.'
'Sam doesn't like to hear rumours.'
'Doesn't like being made a fool of, you mean. He hasn't seemed to care before. OK as long as his wife keeps everything discreet and secret, hub?' She sneered. 'He's such a hypocrite, Sheila. I've never been able to understand why you love the man.'
Sheila let that pass, and said instead: 'Fletcher's lasted longer than the o
thers, hasn't he?'
'Since when have you been so prudish? Is it because you're such a close friend of his wife's ... has she been on at you?'
'I don't like to interfere,' Sheila said slowly. 'I just said that you've been seeing him for a long time, and it's unusual. I'm sure you don't want to break up his marriage ... '
'If his marriage breaks up, it won't be because of me,' Connie snapped.
'Come on now,' Sheila scoffed, but Connie had started to walk away. 'Connie!'
She watched as the girl disappeared into the crowd.
Connie was fuming. What right had Sheila to talk the way she did? OK, they were friends, but that didn't give her cause to sound so patronising, or the right to tell her how she was to live her life. She marched into a department store, head held high, and mingled with the throng of shoppers. Her cheeks cooled slowly until she was almost sorry she'd walked off like that but, no, she wasn't going to be the one to apologise. Let Sheila. She'd show her she didn't need her, or anyone!
She bumped into someone and mechanically apologised. Then, 'Tilly?'
'What?' The girl turned round and stared. 'Connie?'
'It is you!'
'Gawd, I 'ardly recognised you, kid. Wot you done to yer hair?'
'Had it cut.' She fingered her head.
'I can see that. Suits you.' Tilly wound her arm through Connie's and she found herself being propelled out into the street. 'What you bin doin' with yerself all this time, girl? What 'appened to you?'
'I got married.' She didn't think she'd tell about the rest.
Tilly looked down at her ringless hand and Connie shook her head.
'I don't wear one.'
They found themselves a tea shop and Tilly ordered a pot of tea for two and a plate of cakes and scones.
'But I've just had lunch,' Connie protested, laughing.
'I ain't.' She stared enviously at Connie's expensive clothes. 'I must say, you're looking very well.'
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