by Gill Paul
At first there was no sound from the sitting room, then she heard a murmur of voices as he switched the TV on.
After a while she fell asleep, fully clothed, star-fished across the bed. She woke around 3 a.m. to find that Alex had covered himself with a blanket on the sofa and was out for the count.
Chapter 49
Brighton, 14 December 1997
RACHEL OPENED HER EYES FEELING PARCHED AND noticed a cup of tea by the bed with a note propped against it. The argument of the previous evening came back to her and she felt ashamed of losing her temper.
Sorry to leave unfinished business, the note read, but I’m catching an early train so I can have the whole day in the edit suite. Ring you tonight. There was no animal cartoon; that meant Alex was still cross.
She took a sip of tea but it was stone cold. The clock read 10.30 a.m. He must have left ages ago.
Rachel picked up the phone and dialled. It was time to deal with this situation.
‘It’s me,’ she said when Nicola answered. ‘Are you free for a drink tonight?’
‘OK.’ The voice was sleepy. ‘What’s up?’
‘Seven o’clock at the cocktail bar near the Pavilion,’ Rachel said. ‘Mojitos are on me.’
Next she phoned the police and told them that some of her stolen stock was being used in a film shoot. Whatever Alex thought, that was the only sensible option.
At 6.45 p.m. Rachel set off for the bar, wearing a warm olive-green wool suit with a brown fur collar, and ribbed brown tights with lace-up ankle boots. She pulled on the green velvet turban Alex had given her and her Jacquard coat with a brown fur muff.
One thing she loved about Brighton was that you could walk more or less everywhere. Although it was Sunday night, the streets were busy with revellers spilling out of pubs and clubs, and the sounds of salsa, hard rock and country merged into an undulating wave of sound. The wind had picked up and a black plastic bag flew past at head height before draping itself around a Christmas tree covered in multicoloured fairy lights. She hadn’t planned what she would say to Nicola; all she wanted was the truth.
The bar she had suggested was just a block away from the domed Indian-style Pavilion that had formerly been a royal residence, and its decor was in Mughal style, with wall paintings, canopied sofas and tiled tabletops.
Nicola arrived late and flustered. ‘I lost my keys,’ she muttered by way of explanation as she flopped down onto the low sofa.
Rachel had already ordered a jug of mojito, and she stirred it with a twizzle stick then poured a tumbler for Nicola.
‘How’s your art?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t asked in ages. Are you putting together another exhibition?’
Nicola looked downcast. ‘I’m at a crossroads. I had to give up the studio because it was too hard to find the rent on top of that for the flat.’
‘You should have said!’ Rachel exclaimed. But what could she have done? She couldn’t afford to employ Nicola in the shop any more than she already did.
‘It’s crazy to rent a studio when I’m not earning anything from my work. I’ve brought everything back to the flat and will work from there – until I become the next Paula Rego, that is.’
Rachel poured her own drink then raised her glass. ‘Here’s to you becoming Paula Rego,’ she said. ‘I hope it’s just round the corner.’
‘We should be toasting your wedding,’ Nicola replied. ‘Only four days to go.’
Rachel grunted, took a sip of her drink. ‘If it happens . . . Alex and I are still arguing constantly. I wondered if he said anything to you when you saw him on Friday?’
Nicola coloured, caught out in her lie. ‘He told you?’
‘Yes.’ Rachel furrowed her brow with what she hoped was a sympathetic expression. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been aware for ages that you and Alex were meeting on Friday evenings. I’m just surprised by the secrecy.’ She held her breath. Was this the moment when Nicola would confess to an affair and shatter all her dreams for the future?
Nicola chewed her thumbnail and didn’t answer for what seemed an impossibly long time, then she gave a massive sigh. ‘I’ve been having a bad time lately and Alex is helping me to get through it.’
Rachel was dumbfounded. ‘Do you mean because of giving up the studio?’
‘I suppose that’s part of it . . . And I was devastated about being responsible for your break-in. But it’s mostly about Tony. I didn’t tell you because I knew you would disapprove, but I’ve been an idiot and chased after him. Alex tried to talk me out of it, but I went to one of the band’s gigs in London and turned up at the stage door. Needless to say, I got what I deserved when he treated me like a groupie.’ She was mumbling, clearly ashamed.
‘What did he do?’ Rachel frowned. Why would Nicola make herself so vulnerable? Did she have no self-respect?
‘I can’t talk about it.’ She dug in the pocket of her parka and pulled out a pack of ten Silk Cut and a box of Swan Vestas. ‘I’ve even started smoking again, after three years off. What an idiot!’ She extracted a cigarette and lit it, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked in smoke.
Rachel bit back a retort. She hated smoking, hated to get the smell on her clothes.
‘I told Alex what happened, and he’s been explaining to me the way men like Tony think.’ Rachel noticed Nicola’s eyes light up when she was talking about Alex. ‘He put it very clearly: if a salesman is trying to sell you something and he keeps lowering the price, you’ll get the impression there’s something wrong with it.’ She took a determined gulp of her mojito then a drag on her cigarette, as if seeking salvation in their mood-altering chemicals.
Rachel nodded sympathetically. ‘That analogy works to an extent, but you’re not dodgy goods; you just picked a dodgy guy. We’ve all been there.’
‘Yeah, but when you found out your last one was cheating on you, you dumped him straight away. You’re a strong person, but I’m so pitiful I can’t even move on.’ She turned her head and blew the smoke away from Rachel.
Rachel hated to think of Tony getting away with his appalling behaviour. ‘I’m glad you could talk to Alex about it; really I am. You two go back a long way. I’m just hurt you didn’t feel you could tell me.’
Nicola tapped her ash into the ashtray. ‘You’re so confident, with your amazing style, you would never understand why I was being such a doormat. I just don’t want to be alone any more. I’m sick of it. And Alex has been lovely. He called every few days to check I was surviving and he met me on his way home on Friday evenings. Talking to him kept me sane.’
Rachel remembered Nicola’s odd reaction to the news of their engagement. Was she jealous of their happiness? Or worried that once Alex was married he would have less time for her? ‘I’m not as confident as you think,’ she confided. ‘You made me question our relationship when you told me that he used to run away when things got serious. It’s been a tricky few months and he’s not been a great partner by any means.’
Immediately Nicola leapt to his defence. ‘It’s no wonder he’s single-minded about this documentary: it will pull in more viewers than any other he’s made. He needs to strike a careful balance so that he pleases everyone from the Diana groupies to the conspiracy theorists while still being true to himself. It sounds to me as if he’s doing an incredible job.’
The kernel of suspicion that had been festering in Rachel’s mind came to the fore. ‘Tell me,’ she asked, scrutinising Nicola’s face. ‘Did anything ever happen between the two of you romantically?’
Nicola blushed and looked away. ‘Not really . . . Back at college when we shared a flat for a while, we occasionally slept together.’
Rachel sat back on the sofa, stunned. Neither of them had mentioned it. She might have had a no-analysis-of-exes pact with Alex, but he should have told her that.
Nicola hurried to clarify. ‘It was usually just if we were blind drunk and neither of us had anyone else. I mean, it probably only happened a handful of times.’
‘I’m
amazed I didn’t know.’ Rachel couldn’t picture them together; best not to try.
‘I don’t think Alex even remembers. If he does, he gives no hint of it.’
Rachel saw hurt flickering in Nicola’s eyes. ‘Did you mind that it was casual, or were you hoping it would turn into something more?’
Nicola shook her head as if trying to expunge the memory. ‘I loved him. He broke my heart badly, but he doesn’t know because I never told him. I managed to settle for friendship, and it’s fine now. Honestly it is.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Rachel rubbed her knee affectionately. ‘I know how much he values your friendship. He would be devastated to think he had hurt you.’
‘You won’t say anything . . .’
‘I would never breathe a word.’
She watched as Nicola ground her cigarette into the ashtray, ashamed that she had been such a bad friend. She’d been judgemental about Tony, judgemental about Alex’s documentary. Somehow the mojitos had given her a clarity she’d been lacking before. She apologised to Nicola for her sanctimonious attitude and they talked till closing time: about the film company who were using her stolen clothes, about the difficulties of working together, and about men and sex and the innate trickiness of relationships. It was a proper heart-to-heart that reaffirmed all the reasons why they had become close in the first place.
Rachel was looking forward to calling Alex when she got home and telling him about her evening, but he had left a message saying he was going to bed and that he would catch up with her the following evening when he returned from Paris.
Chapter 50
London, 28 March 1936
MARY DREADED SEEING ERNEST AND WALLIS together. Would some subconscious look or gesture betray the fact that she and Ernest were lovers? Would she squirm with jealousy as he embraced her oldest friend?
She need not have worried because they were bickering as soon as Ernest came in the front door, neither caring that Mary was in earshot.
‘Why didn’t you let me know Mary had arrived early?’ Wallis snapped. ‘I’ve made plans for the weekend and it’s too late to ask hostesses to change their table arrangements to include her.’
‘I shall entertain Mary if you are not available,’ he said. ‘I don’t see the problem.’
‘The problem is that you are expected at the Wigrams’ this evening at seven thirty prompt. Are we to leave Mary to dine on her own?’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ Mary interjected, but neither was listening.
‘I would rather have my teeth pulled than go to the Wigrams’. I can picture the scene now: you drooling over Peter Pan at the far end of the table, while everyone else gossips discreetly with their neighbours and casts pitying glances in my direction. I’m not going, Wallis.’
Mary had never heard Ernest speak in anger before. He was invariably mild-mannered and accommodating. Wallis’s eyes flashed with anger. She walked towards him, fist clenched as if she might strike him.
‘Your king requires you to attend,’ she hissed, ‘so you will attend.’
Ernest gave a harsh laugh. ‘Now you speak for him? How convenient. Tell His Majesty that I am indisposed, or whatever falsehood you care to invent.’
He turned and left the room. Wallis gave Mary a quick glance then followed him, and Mary heard the argument continue in the hallway then behind their closed bedroom door. She was glad Ernest was standing up for himself, and wondered if he was doing so because of her presence.
His defiance won the day and Wallis left alone, wearing a ravishing ruby and diamond necklace and matching bracelet, set off by a simple black satin dress. Ernest and Mary ate a quiet supper together.
‘I’m sorry you had to witness that,’ he said. ‘The atmosphere between my wife and me has been fractious for some time. I often spend the night at the Guards’ Club if she is home, solely to avoid such confrontations.’
‘I had no idea things were so bad.’ Mary risked placing her hand on his, after first checking the dining-room door was closed. ‘It must be intolerable.’
‘It certainly can’t continue much longer,’ he agreed. ‘One way or another, something has to give.’
Wallis returned the following day with news that they had all – including Mary – been invited to Windsor Castle the following weekend. The King would like to show them around.
Mary glanced at Ernest before replying. ‘I should very much like to see the castle.’ More than the architecture, she was eager to observe the relationship between Wallis and the King, and to see how they behaved when Ernest was around. She wanted some clue as to the direction things were heading.
‘If Mary wants to go, then I will come too,’ Ernest agreed, making it clear from his tone that that was the only reason for his acquiescence.
The three of them drove to Windsor on Saturday morning, arriving in time for luncheon. Footmen hurried to open the car doors and collect their luggage, while Mary stood back to gawp at the sheer size of the building, hardly noticing the light shower of rain.
Ernest joined her. ‘William the Conqueror chose to position a castle here sometime around 1080. The location on a cliff made it the only defensible position along the Thames.’
‘Is it really so old?’ Mary was surprised. She’d thought buildings from that era would be in ruins.
‘It has been much changed and modernised over the years, notably by Georges III and IV in the early nineteenth century. Much of the current appearance dates from then.’
Wallis was already heading inside. ‘Don’t dawdle, you two,’ she called. ‘Your king awaits.’
As soon as they entered, Mary was stunned into silence by the grandeur. Never-ending corridors and impossibly high ceilings were covered in ornate wood carvings and positively dripping with gilt. Huge oil portraits lined the walls, and the carpet underfoot was sumptuous. A footman opened the door to a reception room so vast that Mary’s entire Manhattan apartment would have fitted comfortably inside. Gold and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the furniture looked priceless. The King was standing by a window at the far end; he beckoned them over.
‘Rotten weather,’ he said. ‘I’d been hoping to take the dogs for a walk. Perhaps it will let up later.’
Wallis hurried over and kissed him on the cheek, then slid her arm through his, whispering something in his ear. Ernest bowed and Mary curtseyed.
‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you could join us. One rather rattles around this place on one’s own. Wallis thought you might be interested in the art collection.’
‘Indeed I am, Your Majesty,’ Ernest replied.
‘Are you fond of art, Mrs Raffray?’ asked the King.
‘Very much so,’ she replied, sneaking a glance at Ernest, giving him a quick smile as she thought of their trips to galleries the previous summer.
Pre-lunch drinks were brought and they sat round the gigantic fireplace. Mary kept glancing about, wondering when the other guests would arrive. It was only when they walked through to the vast dining room and sat at one end of the table that she realised it was just to be the four of them. How very odd.
She felt shy talking to the King, but Wallis kept the conversation flowing and was not afraid to touch on controversial topics.
‘I hear the international committee has come to its senses and Berlin is to be allowed to keep its Olympics after all,’ she began. ‘It would have been lunacy to move it at this late stage, as no other city would have the infrastructure in place. I’m sure the Germans will do an excellent job.’
‘Indeed, they are exemplary when it comes to planning and building,’ the King agreed. ‘Herr Hitler knows how to motivate workers and get everyone performing at their best.’
Ernest cleared his throat. ‘I believe the controversy was over the exclusion of athletes of the Jewish persuasion from the Games. It is my understanding that the Reich has backed down, but I will be most surprised if they have any Jews in the German team. This is not a good time to be Jewish in that country.’
/> ‘They have the right to rebalance their population,’ the King argued. ‘The percentage of Jewish to Aryan citizens had got quite out of hand. At least Hitler has been fair in allowing Jewish citizens the right to move overseas, to countries where they will be welcomed.’
Mary had read criticism of the harshness of Hitler’s policies in the US press and she ventured to comment. ‘It seems hard that Jewish families must leave behind their homes and possessions. I hear even the wealthiest are able to take very little.’
‘Von Ribbentrop assures us that the policies are strict but fair,’ Wallis said. ‘Doesn’t he, darling?’ She smiled at the King.
Mary was astonished that she would call him ‘darling’ in front of Ernest. Was it a slip of the tongue? And when had Wallis’s political views become so hard-line? She wondered if someone had been influencing her. Perhaps von Ribbentrop?
Ernest concentrated on his soup and the conversation moved along.
After luncheon, the King signalled to one of his waiting staff, who brought a bolt of cloth balanced across his arms.
‘A gift for you, Mrs Raffray,’ he said.
Mary stared, speechless. The fine wool cloth was patterned in vivid shades of violet, warm pink and apricot, and it felt soft to the touch. ‘Oh my . . .’ she began.
‘It comes from India. I thought it would complement your spectacular hair colour. Wallis tells me her dressmaker can turn it into any style of your choice.’
‘Your Majesty, I’m overwhelmed,’ she said. ‘That is extraordinarily generous of you.’
‘Not at all.’ He smiled, pleased with the reaction. ‘Any friend of Wallis’s is also a friend of mine. Now, who would like to come to the screening room to watch the Grand National?’
The annual horse race had taken place just over a week earlier, but he had a copy of the Movietone footage for them to watch. They were led down a corridor and up a flight of stairs to a room with velvet seats arranged in four rows in front of a screen. Mary watched with fascination as a servant lifted a reel of film and slotted it into the projector, feeding the end of the film through onto another reel. There were lots of crackling noises, then a jerky image appeared of horses and their trainers milling around the starting gate.
