Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  I was much amused to hear the advice she gave him, Wallis wrote. She said that, as with explosives, he must handle me with care. He replied that he was well aware of my explosive possibilities and felt sure he was equal to the task.

  Ernest had to return to London on urgent business and Wallis was left in a quandary, torn between her desire to be with her mother and her duty to her husband. Although the cancer was incurable, doctors hoped Alice might live another two or three years. The upshot was that Wallis stayed an extra two weeks before following Ernest. Her letter finished by saying that she planned on visiting her mother regularly and promised they would meet on her next trip.

  Mary’s first reaction was to feel wounded that they had come to America without visiting her. Was Ernest still cross with her for opposing his relationship with Wallis? She had hoped that was water under the bridge. But she also sympathised with Wallis’s dilemma; it must have torn her apart to leave with that diagnosis hanging over her mother.

  In October, Mary received a cable: MOTHER CONDITION WORSE STOP SAILING ALONE ON MAURETANIA STOP DUE 29TH STOP CAN YOU MEET ME? STOP WALLIS.

  Wallis had obviously told her Aunt Bessie that Mary was going to meet her, because on the 28th she received a phone call: Aunt Bessie said that Alice had slipped into a coma and death could not be far away. She asked Mary to tell Wallis when she came ashore so she would be prepared for the sight that met her in Washington.

  With heavy heart, Mary made her way to the pier on the East River and waved as she saw Wallis hurrying down the gangway, a porter wheeling her luggage. She was anxious and drawn as she reached Mary and embraced her quickly.

  ‘Is there any news?’ she asked.

  Mary took her hand. ‘She’s still here, but she’s no longer conscious. I’m so sorry, Wallie.’

  Wallis gave a scream and her eyes filled with tears. ‘I must get to her.’

  Mary had a taxicab waiting and asked the porter to load Wallis’s luggage onto the roof as they climbed into the back seat. ‘Pennsylvania Station, please,’ she told the driver.

  As soon as the door closed, Wallis began to sob. Mary gave her a handkerchief and rubbed her shoulder, feeling desperately sad for her.

  ‘What shall I do, Mary? I don’t know what to do.’

  Mary spoke in a gentle voice, her heart full of compassion. ‘She will still be able to hear you. I have heard many stories in which people have revived from comas and remembered what was said to them. Go to her bedside, take her hand and tell her how much you love her. Tell her what a wonderful mother she has been. Tell her everything so that at the end you will know that nothing has been left unsaid. I promise she will hear.’

  Tears were streaming down Wallis’s face and falling unchecked, while she crushed the handkerchief in her fist. ‘I don’t know how I shall live without her. I’ve had so little stability in my life, but I could always rely on her being there if I needed her.’

  Mary put an arm around her. ‘You have Ernest, and you have me. You will always have me.’

  Wallis turned and gripped her hand fiercely. ‘Come to Washington, Mary. I can’t face this on my own.’

  Mary paused. ‘It’s a time for family. You will have Aunt Bessie, after all.’

  ‘But you are my sister. Remember? Sisters who chose each other. Please come, Mary. I need you.’

  ‘Then of course I will. I will put you on the first train, then go home and pack, and join you shortly.’

  When Mary arrived in Washington, she found Wallis, her mother’s new husband and her Aunt Bessie keeping a round-the-clock vigil by Alice’s bed. She made herself useful in briefing the cook to prepare light meals and hot drinks for them and urging them to eat or drink. When they fell asleep by Alice’s bedside, she covered them with quilts. All the while the invalid’s chest rose and fell, her face grey in colour and her eyes firmly closed. Sometimes she stirred and her lips moved as though in response to some remark, but she soon settled into deep sleep again, her withered hands motionless on the bedcover.

  ‘Does she know I am here?’ Wallis despaired. ‘She gives no sign.’

  ‘Of course she knows,’ Mary assured her.

  The end came early in the morning of 2 November. It was hard to tell at first because Alice’s breathing had become so faint, but Aunt Bessie held a mirror to her mouth and nose and there was no misting.

  ‘Mother!’ Wallis shook her shoulders, trying to force her to breathe again. ‘Mother!’ she screamed, growing hysterical.

  ‘Come along, Wallie.’ Mary put an arm around her. ‘You need to rest. Everything will seem manageable if you have some sleep.’

  ‘How can I sleep?’ Wallis wailed. ‘I’ve lost the person who loved me most in the world.’

  Her legs almost gave way beneath her as Mary led her out of the room, and she leant heavily on her arm.

  ‘Lots of people love you,’ Mary whispered. ‘More than I could ever count.’

  Wallis shook her head. ‘Not love. I entertain and amuse people but they don’t love me, not the way they love you. You’ve always been the lovable one of the two of us.’

  ‘That’s silly,’ Mary chided her.

  ‘Ernest doesn’t even love me; at least not in the all-consuming way Jackie loves you.’

  ‘Of course he does,’ Mary soothed, leading her into her own bedroom. ‘And my marriage is not as perfect as you might imagine.’

  ‘Really? What’s the problem?’ Wallis sat on top of the bedcover and swung her feet up, lying back on the pillows, her eyes red and swollen. Mary unfastened her shoes and pulled them off.

  ‘Oh . . .’ She felt disloyal to talk of it, but decided that perhaps it might distract Wallis from her grief. ‘The usual thing: he drinks too much. It seems to me that Prohibition has had the opposite to its desired effect, making alcohol more alluring than ever.’

  ‘Does he hit you?’ Wallis was wide-eyed.

  ‘No, never. Nothing like that. But it’s rather lonely trying to converse with a drunk, as I’m sure you remember from your first marriage.’

  ‘Have you threatened to leave him if he doesn’t stop?’

  ‘No. I still love him.’ Mary didn’t like to admit that thoughts of divorce had sometimes drifted to mind, but she always pushed them away. She couldn’t bear to be a divorcee in a city where that status reduced women to second- or third-class citizens. She remembered how people had gossiped about Wallis behind her back and stopped inviting her to society events.

  ‘Come back to London with me after the funeral,’ Wallis pleaded. ‘I need a friend there and it will give Jacques time to buck up his ideas. Either that or we’ll find you a new English husband. Please come.’

  Mary put her arms round her and hugged her tight. She realised she had got over the hurt she felt about Wallis marrying Ernest and she longed to see him – to spend time with them both. And she felt enormously protective of poor, orphaned Wallis, who needed her more than ever.

  ‘I’d love to,’ she agreed. A change of scene, a holiday with two close friends in a country that had long fascinated her: she couldn’t think of anything she would enjoy more.

  Chapter 24

  Brighton, 11 September 1997

  RACHEL GOT BACK TO BRIGHTON AT LUNCHTIME on Thursday, her neck stiff from sleeping hunched awkwardly on the overnight flight. Her flat looked tiny and cluttered compared to Richard’s loft, but she preferred her decor: the gilt-framed turquoise-velvet chairs and sofa, the chaise longue at the foot of her canopied bed, the chandelier and the groupings of sepia photographs in mother-of-pearl frames. She felt energised by the trip: at least now she could tell her regular customers there was new stock on the way. Maybe this would mark a change in her fortunes. Good old Richard: they didn’t see each other often because of the amount of travelling he did, but he had proved a true friend in her time of need.

  The answer machine was blinking so she played the messages: her mum’s cheerful voice told her that the registry office was booked for 5 p.m. on 18 December, a Thursday
; it was the only time they had available in December, she said. The next message was from Nicola, who sounded upset that the shop was shut and hoped it wasn’t closing down because of her. And then there was a call from Alex in Paris and she could hear from his tone that he was stressed so she called him on his mobile, wondering if he was still cross with her.

  ‘I’m back,’ she said. ‘How did your awards ceremony go?’

  ‘Brilliant!’ he exclaimed. ‘I won an award for “rising star”. Ironic that I’m only “rising” now when I’ve had my company for eight years, but it’s good to feel appreciated.’

  Rachel gasped. ‘Alex, that’s wonderful news. I’m so proud of you. But I feel awful I wasn’t there to see you collect the award.’

  ‘I thanked you in my speech anyway. You weren’t forgotten.’

  ‘Now I feel even worse. You’ll have to tell me how I can make it up to you.’

  He continued, his tone becoming subdued: ‘But meanwhile, the Diana programme is turning into a fiasco. Remember I told you about the witness who saw the motorbike pillion passenger flashing a light in Henri Paul’s eyes? Well, it seems his wife, who was sitting beside him, has a completely different story. Every lead I uncover turns to dust when I look more closely . . .’

  ‘That’s frustrating.’ She wished she was there to give him a hug; she felt guilty about missing his awards ceremony, guilty about her lack of enthusiasm for his Diana documentary. ‘Can’t you present the contradictions and leave the viewer to draw their own conclusions?’

  He sighed. ‘It would be nice if at least some of the witness stories were corroborated. Beats me how twenty people can watch the same event and all give a different account of it.’

  ‘You sound knackered,’ she soothed.

  ‘That’s an understatement.’ He laughed half-heartedly. ‘How about you? How was New York?’

  ‘Good. I picked up some wonderful pieces. Mum’s booked the registry office for the eighteenth of December, by the way, so stick that in your diary.’

  There was a pause and she heard the tapping of his fingernail as he checked his Psion organiser. ‘Yeah, that’s fine for me. I’ll take the day off.’

  ‘Just a day?’ she laughed. ‘Actually, I can’t afford to take any more than that right before Christmas. We can honeymoon in the spring.’

  ‘Got to go,’ he said, and she heard another voice in the background. ‘See you tomorrow night.’

  Alex never stayed on the phone long when he called from overseas because the charges on his mobile were prohibitive, even for receiving calls.

  Rachel called her mum next and ran through her list of requests for the wedding. It felt awkward since she was not paying, and she tried to think of ways of cutting costs. ‘One of Alex’s production team can make the video,’ she suggested. ‘And I’ll ask Wendy to make the cake. She said she wanted to help.’

  ‘I’ll call this morning and see if I can book the Bonne Auberge,’ her mum said. ‘Fingers crossed.’

  Next Rachel sat down to open some post that had arrived. There was a notification about an increase in business rates for the shop, a credit card bill and a letter from the bank confirming her revised overdraft facility. Her stomach clenched. The business was still in a deep black hole. Once she had paid the rent, the VAT and the costs of the New York trip, she would have spent up to the new overdraft limit and there would be nothing left in either her personal or her business account. Meanwhile she would not be able to start selling her Van der Heyden stock until mid November. Something else was needed to get her through the next eight weeks, and at that precise moment she couldn’t think what.

  After changing and grabbing an apple, Rachel headed to Forgotten Dreams. As she walked past the modern shops of Churchill Square, she saw ‘Sale’ signs in several windows and that gave her an idea: she had never held a sale at the shop before, but perhaps she could have a limited one, just offering twenty per cent off the old stock. She stopped at a print shop and asked them to make her a banner.

  On entering Forgotten Dreams, she paused and surveyed her empire. It was heartbreaking to think of all she had lost. The interior no longer had that cluttered ‘flapper’s boudoir’ look, and the shop window still looked sparse, even with her own dresses and jewellery. A note had been pushed under the door: a local craftsman whom she had asked to repair the art deco lamp said it was ready for collection. That was good news at least.

  The holdall of charity-shop goods she’d bought in London was at the back of the shop. The clothes were being dry-cleaned, but she had also picked up a range of accessories and trinkets and Rachel brought them to the counter to sort through. A 1920s black-sequinned evening bag was shedding its sequins, so she threaded a needle and began reattaching them.

  Nicola’s head popped round the door. ‘Thank goodness you’re open. I was beginning to think . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘I’ve been away. How are you?’

  ‘I still feel awful about the robbery and wish there was something I could do. Can I help you today? No charge, just so we can spend time together?’

  ‘There’s an offer I can’t refuse,’ Rachel said with a smile. She reached into the holdall. ‘Fancy polishing these silver photo frames? There’s some liquid polish in the cupboard.’

  Nicola pulled up a chair and before long the shop had the sweet chemical scent of a well-kept stately home. Rachel told her about the New York trip, then mentioned the date of the wedding.

  ‘Are you bringing Tony?’ she asked. He was Nicola’s latest. ‘I’ve got you down on the list as a plus-one.’

  Nicola lowered her head. ‘What a creep Tony turned out to be. The band are going on tour for a couple of months and he said I’m not allowed to contact him. What happens on tour stays on tour.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m sorry.’ Rachel wasn’t surprised. Whenever they’d met, Tony had given her lecherous looks and too-intimate hugs of greeting, and had clearly not seen Nicola as any more than a pit stop.

  ‘I need to stop picking musicians. I’ve always been a sucker for a man who sings to me in bed.’

  Nicola was a year older than Rachel, but her love life was a series of disastrous flings with musicians she met in pubs and clubs round Brighton, none of whom had any intention of settling down.

  ‘Why not get an Eric Clapton CD,’ Rachel suggested, ‘and date grown-ups instead of perennial teenagers?’

  ‘Good idea,’ Nicola agreed. ‘Alex says I need to retune my antennae because I have an unerring knack for picking the bastard in the room.’

  ‘Did he suggest how you should do that? Aversion therapy? Maybe listening to your friends for a change?’ She rubbed Nicola’s shoulder in sympathy.

  Nicola concentrated on her polishing, rubbing so hard Rachel worried she might wear away the silver. ‘I hear you and Alex aren’t going to manage a honeymoon until spring. He says he’ll have to work through Christmas Day now the programme is airing in January.’

  Rachel frowned. ‘Is it January? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘He mentioned it when he rang the other day, and I thought that would make timing tight for a Christmas wedding because he’ll be in the middle of editing.’

  ‘I wonder why he didn’t mention January to me?’ Rachel mused. ‘Maybe he did and I wasn’t listening properly.’

  ‘Must have been while you were away. He got a call from the channel a couple of days ago.’

  The bell rang as a customer came in looking for a necklace to match a gown she had bought a few weeks earlier. Rachel only had a few necklaces in stock – her own ones, brought from home. She helped the customer to try them on, fastening the catches as she lifted her long hair out of the way, but none were quite right. There had been dozens of necklaces before the break-in, and Rachel could picture one that would have been perfect.

  All afternoon she watched browsers, noticed what they picked up and willed them to buy, but she only sold one angora cardigan. It felt as if her luck had changed, like the wind blowing f
rom the north instead of the south. The thought crossed her mind that it might be something to do with that broken mirror, and she murmured, ‘Idiot!’

  ‘What was that?’ Nicola looked up.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I stabbed my finger with a needle.’ She couldn’t tell Nicola how stressed she was about the shop because it was clear she was already consumed with guilt. She couldn’t tell Alex because he had his own stress. It was something she would deal with on her own.

  As she cashed up and prepared to close for the night, her thoughts returned to the earlier conversation with Nicola and she realised that Alex must have rung her from Paris. Why would he do that when he was careful about his phone bill?

  She was about to ask Nicola but stopped herself. Their friendship was their business. And she had always believed that men who had female friends were more trustworthy than those who didn’t.

  Chapter 25

  Brighton, 4 October 1997

  RACHEL STARTED A SALE IN THE SHOP AND advertised it in the local paper, but it was that post-summer lull when the weather was still mild so no one was buying winter clothes yet, but they weren’t thinking of topping up their summer wardrobes either. Trade was slow, even with the discounts, and every afternoon when she closed the door after taking only a fraction of what she would have turned over before the break-in, she felt the iron band tighten around her chest. She had no idea how she was going to pay the rent at the end of October.

  One day her hopes were raised when an intern arrived from Gazelle Films with a list of 1920s dresses they needed for a period drama. The girl looked like a college leaver, wearing a Radiohead T-shirt and ripped jeans, with a long strand of maroon hair hanging over one eye. Rachel scanned her list with mounting excitement.