by Lilian Peake
She was a nurse, Rosalind reasoned silently, nursing Sister, in fact. She must surely know what she was doing. Adopting a ‘talk about it’ therapy to get the sadness she might have discerned in his eyes out of his system, forcing him to face reality and accept the inevitable at last?
Rosalind left them talking as she went to the kitchen to serve the meal. In Emma’s honour she had set the table in the dining-room. In Emma’s honour they drank wine, and it was in Rosalind’s honour that Emma suggested a toast, to Slade’s and Rosalind’s lasting happiness. To this Patrick gladly drank, clinking his glass with Emma’s and looking at her as they lifted their glasses.
To Rosalind’s delight and amusement, Emma and Patrick conversed almost non-stop throughout the meal. Rosalind reflected that her old friend’s therapy must indeed have worked, because she had never seen Patrick so alive and responsive since he had met and married Jeanie.
Emma insisted on helping Rosalind with washing the dishes while Patrick relaxed in the armchair and read the newspaper. As she dried each item carefully, Emma said, ‘Happy, Rosa?’ She rushed on, to Rosalind’s relief, giving her no chance to reply, ‘When I heard about you and Slade, I was so pleased. I know how infatuated he was with you when he was younger and now it’s turned to love—you can just imagine how my parents took the news! They thought he was never going to find the right girl and settle down.’
‘Did he— Rosalind added more hot water, ‘did he have many girlfriends in America?’
‘Well,’ Emma laughed, ‘judging by his letters, quite a few. That doesn’t fit in with the Slade you knew years ago, does it?’
Trying to digest the new information about Slade’s past love life, Rosalind could only shrug.
‘Pity there isn’t going to be a honeymoon,’ Emma went on.
‘I think Slade’s—well, anxious to get back to work.’
‘Yes, that fits,’ said Slade’s sister. ‘He puts work before everything—even, it seems, his new wife!’
‘I’ll tell you here and now,’ said Patrick from the doorway, his eyes appreciative of Emma’s fair colouring, her tapered face and clear, honest eyes, ‘there’s a new species of male walking this earth—Computer Man! He’s usually a self-contained individual who retains a youthful and enthusiastic interest in life—like kids do. He enjoys his work and often carries on a prolonged love affair—with a computer !’
Emma laughed, enjoying the joke, but Rosalind said, ‘It’s true, Emma. It somehow gets their interest and holds it. I should know. I’ve got a computer as a brother, and—’
‘This time tomorrow you’ll be married to a man who’s one, too! Poor Rosa. I’m glad there’s no chance of my becoming mate of a Computer Man!’
Patrick turned and went away.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Emma, ‘I do hope I haven’t hurt Patrick’s feelings.’ She flung the drying-up towel over a rail. ‘Should I go and say I’m sorry? I didn’t mean there was anything wrong with men who spend their working lives coping with computers. I meant—oh, dear, I don’t know what I did mean. He’s had so much sadness in his life …’ She ran off saying, ‘I really must try to cheer him up.’
Ten minutes later, when Rosalind had tidied the kitchen, she put her head round the sitting-room door. ‘I’m off upstairs to pack a few things,’ she said, and found Patrick and Emma sitting side by side and laughing. It seemed that once again Emma’s efforts to ‘cheer Patrick up’ had succeeded.
Rosalind, sitting on her bed with the suitcase side open on the floor, thought, Emma makes everyone happy. Nothing seems to get her down. She knows exactly what path she’s going to take. She lives so positively …
The door opened and Emma entered. ‘Hi. Thinking about Slade?’
‘N—yes, yes,’ she corrected herself quickly. ‘All the time.’
‘That’s wonderful. Happy, Rosa?’ Rosalind nodded slowly. She thought, but did not add, I could be so very much happier, if only … She could not finish the sentence even to herself.
They talked for some time about personal matters, about Emma’s work and Emma’s parents. Rosalind said how much she was looking forward to seeing them again—and promptly yawned. Emma laughed and said she would leave the happy bride to her own thoughts and to her beauty sleep.
‘You must look especially good tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Pity about Slade being too busy for a honeymoon.’
As Emma left, saying she would join Patrick for a few minutes’ chat before retiring, Rosalind did her best to persuade herself that a honeymoon with Slade would be something to be dreaded. But as she drifted into sleep, she realised that despite the wedding ceremony she would, at exactly that time tomorrow, still be sleeping alone in her single bed. The sensation of sadness that momentarily constricted her breathing told her with painful clarity that her efforts to persuade herself that this would be preferable to sharing a bed with Slade had failed.
The ceremony was over, the reception halfway through. Rosalind felt with her fingers for the wedding ring that had only an hour or so before been pushed on to her hand and wondered dazedly how it had happened that she had joined her life to Slade’s.
He stood beside her, drinking and talking. The meal had been buffet-type, the service excellent, the wines of the best vintage. He had, in fact, spared no expense in order to provide the best.
Rosalind gazed up at the man who was now her lawful wedded husband and saw the handsomeness of his profile, the strong, broad shoulders, the security and happiness she would be able to find in his arms—if he were ever to decide to open them to her.
Unexpectedly he broke off his conversation and gazed down at her. Playing the adoring husband, he smiled and her heart leapt with joy—only to subside when she realised that he, like she, was play-acting. Except, she told herself secretly, that she was not acting the joyful bride, since at that moment she was the joyful bride, confetti, radiance— the lot.
From nowhere wedding gifts had sprung, even at such short notice. They were displayed on a table across the room. Every corner was filled with flowers giving out their scents. Drink flowed, food was consumed until each dish was whisked away, empty.
Mrs Anderson, slightly-built and white-haired, emerged from the crowd, her eyes telling of her pleasure in their union. Mr Anderson joined her, even more jovial, Rosalind thought, than when the two families long ago had lived side by side. His round face a bright pink from the unaccustomed amount of alcohol he had consumed, Mr Anderson said, ‘Pity that your mum and dad couldn’t be here.’
‘Never mind,’ commented his wife, ‘they’re here in spirit, I’m sure they are.’
‘They’ll enjoy their cruise,’ Mr Anderson remarked. ‘We went on one a couple of years ago. We went for a rest—but found there was so much going on on board ship we hardly had a moment to ourselves!’
‘There was general laughter and Mrs Anderson said to her son, ‘Look after Rosa, Slade. Keep her as happy as she is now.’ To Rosalind, ‘Marriage isn’t easy, dear, but then nothing worthwhile ever is, is it? You have to try hard, both of you, to keep it new and shining, harder, if anything, as the years pass, than when you’re young.’
‘She speaks from experience,’ said her husband, nudging her gently. ‘It comes as a result of having had to put up with me for thirty-three years!’
Slade bent and kissed his mother’s cheek. ‘Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll make her happy and having got her happy, I’ll make darned sure she stays that way.’ There was laughter again and sighs and applause as Slade lifted his wife’s chin and kissed her lips lingeringly.
Emma emerged from the milling crowd. ‘I accuse you, brother Slade, of depriving your beautiful wife of a honeymoon because of your stupid old work.’ She said over her shoulder, ‘Patrick, you wouldn’t put your work before the woman you m—’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Sorry, Patrick. Blame the drink. I wouldn’t for the world have mentioned the subject if I’d been in my right mind.’ Patrick’s arm went round Emma’s shoulders. ‘Don’t apologise. I’ll never
forget Jeanie, but I know she wouldn’t have wished me to live the rest of my life with my soul in constant mourning for her. Understand, Emma?’ There was a curious light in his eyes. ‘You know, you’re very like your brother. You’re so beautiful.’
There was a shout of laughter from the guests who had gathered round and Patrick, having just realised what he had said, turned pink.
‘He’s drunk,’ said Emma delightedly. ‘Rosa, your brother’s had too much—’
‘I have not!’ he exclaimed indignantly. ‘I can hold my drink as well as the next man.’
‘Yes, love,’ said Emma, giving Rosalind a large wink. ‘Come with me, Patrick, me old friend. We’ll find a seat and we can both sit and hold hands. How’s that?’
‘Fine,’ said Patrick. ‘Excellent.’ His voice was fading. ‘But I meant it, Emma, you really are beautiful…’
The two senior Andersons watched their daughter lead Patrick away.
‘You can see the nurse in her coming out,’ said her father.
‘Is that what it is?’ said her mother with seeming innocence.
The reception was over and the ‘goodbyes’ and ‘thank yous’ had all been said. The speeches had been made, the toasts drunk, the good wishes showered upon the happy couple like autumn-tinted leaves in a strong breeze.
They might have saved their breath, Rosalind thought, easing herself out of her wedding outfit and stepping into a filmy blue dress which a persuasive shop assistant had encouraged her to buy. Slade had told her that he had booked a table for two in the hotel dining-room. He owed her that at least, he had said, since it would be the only celebration of their marriage the two of them would share.
Rosalind was packing her suitcase when Slade came in. ‘Don’t bother to tidy up,’ he said. ‘We’re staying the night.’
Rosalind’s gasp caught in her throat. ‘But you said ‘
‘I know what I said.’ The smiling had gone, the warmth in the eyes, the proudly possessive hand around her waist. ‘I said we’re staying the night. It’s all arranged. It was meant,’ his mouth twisted in a smile, ‘to be a surprise. It will hardly take the place of a honeymoon, but it’s better than nothing. Or don’t you agree?’
What could she say except, ‘I—I agree. And—thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For letting me down lightly, for keeping the reality of cooking, dish-washing and—and everything at bay for a few more hours.’
He looked at her searchingly. ‘Would you prefer it if I asked for a twin-bedded room? The management might think it a little strange, but would no doubt take it entirely in their stride.’ He moved towards the door.
‘No, no—’ Her hand extended to stop him. ‘Leave it. If—if you don’t mind, I don’t.’
‘Spoken like a loving wife!’
At once she retaliated. ‘After all you’ve said about remaining free of a clinging wife, what else did you expect me to say? Darling, I’m longing to sleep beside you tonight?’ As the words came out, she realised how much she really meant them, but the bitter curve to his mouth showed that he had not heard the sincerity buried deep within the irony.
She went to the mirror and picked up a comb, running it through her dark hair. As usual the curls sprung softly to cluster round her neck and chin. ‘The dress suits you.’ Slade had come to stand beside her and their two reflections looked back at each other.
‘Thank you,’ Rosalind murmured. ‘You—’ her eyes inspected him in the mirror. ‘You look good yourself.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ His smile was faint. ‘If our reflections,’ he said, ‘exchanged a kiss, do you think our real selves would object?’
Rosalind’s reflection laughed, showing her shining eyes, cheeks painted pink with bridal happiness. ‘I don’t think so.’
His hands caught her shoulders, turning her. His lips, the touch of which were growing so familiar, found hers, teasing them apart and stirring her emotions like a faint breeze through meadow-grass. If that breeze were ever to become a gale, forcing her to struggle against its strength …
He eased his mouth away and pulled her against his side. There,’ he said to the mirror, ‘they look pleased with themselves. Do the owners of those reflections object? Speaking for myself, I can feel only pleasure, no censure at all.’
‘Me, too,’ she murmured, then he let her go. ‘What—’ she cleared her throat, ‘what about toilet things, nightdress …?’
‘Patrick collaborated, explaining the situation to the management.’ Slade opened a wardrobe, took out a suitcase. ‘Everything we’ll need is here.’
‘So Patrick knew?’
There was in answer a toneless, ‘Yes.’ Slade went to the radio fixed to the bedhead, switching it on and off. He tried the television, going abstractedly from one channel to the other. While Rosalind applied a layer of lipstick, Slade looked at his watch. ‘Time for a drink before dinner.’
Rosalind nodded and asked, ‘Slade, do I look all right?’ It meant, Do I look attractive to you? Do I look as you would like the woman you loved to look?
There were to be no answers to her unasked questions. His eyes skimmed her dress. Then he found her eyes. ‘You look like a bride,’ he said.
Dinner was over. Their empty coffee cups stood on the low table in front of them as they reclined on a couch in the lounge bar. After talking generalities over dinner, there did not seem much left to say.
Anything, Rosalind thought, rather than this silence, through which she could hear the thudding of her heart. She could not plead tiredness partly because she felt more alive than in her entire life before and partly because it would bring so much nearer the sharing of that double bed.
Two men came in and it seemed that Slade recognised them. He called their names, which Rosalind did not catch, and invited them to share their table. It seemed he had met the two men during his years in the United States.
After the introductions—Slade had introduced her as his wife, without adding that their marriage was only a few hours old—the three men settled down to a discussion of mutual acquaintances and their present and future activities in the world of computers. The talk was interspersed with the buying of drinks, the occasional polite enquiry directed to her, and an apology now and then for their neglect of her.
Since she hastened to tell them that she did not mind at all—which was only the partial truth—they continued to talk work and more work until she suppressed a genuine yawn and excused herself from their company. She cast an uncertain smile in Slade’s direction and he responded by telling her that he would be coming up to bed soon.
In the bedroom she opened the suitcase, raking inside it for her belongings. With astonishment, she extracted a filmy white nightgown and opened her eyes at its transparency. She resisted the urge to push it back, realising that if she did so she would have nothing at all to sleep in. Slade, she guessed, was responsible for its presence there. Who, she wondered, had he asked to purchase such a garment?
Since the need for speed was paramount, she seized the gown, found her bath cap which Patrick must thoughtfully have added and fled to the bathroom, taking care to lock the door. For quickness she showered, dried herself and pulled on the gown, watching it float over her to her ankles.. The mirror showed her a bright-eyed, beautiful woman, keyed up to an unbearable state of tension—and all for no reason. Slade, she told herself, would not even bother to look at her when he eventually pulled back the bedclothes and got in beside her.
It was nearing midnight when Slade finally entered the bedroom. He closed the door and stood against it as though listening for the steadiness of her breathing. Since the tension that had gripped her from the moment she had emerged from the bathroom could not be maintained any longer, she found her traitorous limbs relaxing. The rustle she made told him that she was awake and the room was illuminated with subdued lighting.
The plunging from darkness to light brought a squeal from the occupant of the bed and she pulled the blankets to cover her eyes.
There was low laughter from Slade, the sound of which had her heart hammering. In a moment he was beside her and tugging the covers from her clutching hands. He pulled them away from her to reveal the nightgown and everything beneath.
‘I guessed your size,’ he said, ‘and it looks as though I was correct. Anyway, the shop assistant said it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d guessed wrong.’ His eyes seemed unable to tear themselves from the reclining figure whose enticements were revealed more than hidden by the transparency of the gown.
‘You mean,’ said Rosalind, ‘you went into a shop—’
‘A department store.’
‘And bought this yourself?’
‘Why not? I explained it was for my wife, which by then you nearly were.’
‘Slade,’ her long white arm reached upwards, ‘you have confetti buried in your hair.’
Before she could remove it he bent his head and brushed the floating flakes of paper over her. ‘No!’ she squealed, and lifted her hand protectively to her head. When she peeped out, she found him gazing down at her and she felt herself begin to tremble inwardly at the look in his eyes.
A hand grasped her hair, holding her head and stilling her body. ‘Slade,’ she whispered, ‘no …’
He let her go. ‘Not with a man you’ll “hate till the day you die”?’ he said harshly.
Her eyes were large in a pale face. ‘When I said that you told me you were pleased because it left you free to take out any woman you liked.’
‘Not quite accurate. I said I’d never wanted to be tied down by a wife.’
Indignant, deeply hurt by such a reminder on such a day, she swung her legs to the floor—and realised how much of herself she was revealing to his gaze. But she went on steadily, ‘I’ll get out now, then, shall I? Then you can consult your little book and select a more amenable sleeping partner for the night. Forget it’s our wedding night. Forget you’ve got a wife.’
Slade looked at her coldly and pulled off his jacket. His shirt followed. He took from the suitcase his toilet articles and other belongings and locked himself in the bathroom.
