by Anne Weale
There’s a divinity which shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.
Suddenly it seemed to her that the chance of their being given a room with a double bed rather than one with twin beds was like a signal from Destiny. Both common sense and generosity of spirit dictated that, in such circumstances, there could be no purpose in continuing the masquerade which their marriage had been up to now.
At eleven she murmured to Juliet, ‘We’ve had such a busy week. Would you think it rude if I slipped up to bed fairly soon?’
‘No, of course not, and you needn’t get up early, unless you wish to. On Sundays we don’t have breakfast. We have a brunch about noon. But, as you’ve probably noticed, there’s an electric kettle in your room, and tea and coffee and biscuits.’
‘Yes, I did. What a good idea. I must copy it in our house.’
‘There’s nothing worse than waking up early, away from home, and haying to wait two hours before one can have a cup of coffee. Goodnight, Antonia. I hope you sleep well. I think Cal is in the billiard room if you want to tell him you’re going up. It’s the room at the end of the hall.’
Cal was playing billiards with Harry and two other men when Antonia opened the door of a room with oak-panelled walls, unlit except for the light shining on the expanse of green baize. It was a light which threw the men’s faces into strong relief. As she stood by the door, momentarily unnoticed because one man was bent low over the table and the others were watching him intently, she saw that the other three had the thickening necks and slightly blurred features of too much rich living, making her husband’s lean face seem all the more clean-cut by contrast.
When the shot had been played, she took a few steps into the room and said, ‘I’m going to bed, Cal. I’ve said goodnight to Juliet.’
He came towards her, and the others could not see the sardonic glint in his eyes as he answered, ‘You don’t mind if I don’t come up with you?’
‘No. Will your game take long?’
‘I expect I’ll be up around midnight, but I’ll try not to wake you if you’re asleep. Goodnight, sweet.’ He bent to place a light kiss on her cheek, near her mouth.
‘Goodnight... but I don’t suppose I shall be asleep.’ She gave him a look she felt he could not fail to read.
Then she said goodnight to the others and went up the stairs, still feeling the touch of Cal’s lips, and the slight late-at-night roughness of his chin. In private he used no endearments, but sometimes in public he would call her by a loving word which, at first, she had not liked, suspecting him of sarcasm, but which tonight had given her a sudden surge of pleasure.
In bed, she tried to read but found it impossible to concentrate for thinking that, soon, Cal would be in the bed with her. She knew nothing about the game of billiards, how long it usually lasted, or whether it could be curtailed if one of the players had a reason for wanting it cut short.
The thirty minutes from half past eleven to midnight seemed to pass with interminable slowness.
Surely the fact that she had chosen to come to bed early rather than to delay as long as possible should, to a man of her husband’s shrewdness, be a clear guide to what she had in mind?
When, for the third time in ten minutes, she found herself scanning the same paragraph without making sense of it, she put the book aside and lay down to wait and watch the clock.
If you’re asleep, Cal had said, clearly thinking it unlikely that she would be genuinely asleep even though she might pretend to be.
After midnight the minutes seemed to pass as swiftly as, before, they had dragged. Antonia began to wonder if Cal had understood her unspoken message in the billiard room and was keeping her waiting deliberately, in retaliation for the frustration she had inflicted on him.
Her impatience increased until, as the hands of the clock passed half past twelve, her reconciliatory impulse had changed to a mood of hurt puzzlement verging on anger.
She must have dozed off. When, with a start, she woke up, the clock showed ten minutes past one. Oh, to blazes with him! she thought furiously, and she snapped out the bedside light and lay down simmering with mingled disappointment and relief that, having mustered her courage to make the gesture he wanted from her, it had been either missed or ignored. Which, she could not be sure.
When she woke the second time, she could not tell what time it was. She might have been asleep for minutes or hours. Now it could be three in the morning, and there could be a head on the other pillow, and a long strong frame lying inches from hers. She held her breath, straining her ears for the sound of someone else breathing, but could hear nothing. A few minutes later, still not sure if Cal was in bed with her, she heard the bedroom door being quietly opened and closed. After an interval of seconds the bathroom door was opened and closed. It was a well-fitting door and, had she been sleeping, the muffled sound of the taps running would not have roused her. She adjusted her position to make sure she would not become cramped when Cal returned to the bedroom and she had to-lie motionless until he was asleep or she was.
He seemed to take an eternity to prepare for bed. At last the door opened again but was not closed. She guessed he had left the bathroom light on, and the door ajar, in order to see his way to the bed, and to put on his pyjama trousers.
The bed had an excellent mattress on a firm base which helped him to get into it with a stealth which certainly would not have disturbed her had she been peacefully unaware of his presence. But she was intensely aware of it, and listened with sensations too complex to analyse to all the careful movements he had made as he lowered himself beside her.
How long he lay awake she had no means of telling, but it seemed to her hours before she slept. It was nine o’clock when she woke up. In the night she had turned towards the centre of the bed, and as soon as she opened her eyes she saw that she was alone. Cal was not in the bedroom or the bathroom. The door was wide open and the part she could not see was reflected in the mirrored wall of the part she could see.
Antonia stretched and yawned, wondering where he had gone and whether she ought to get up at once and be dressed when he reappeared—if he reappeared. She might not see him until brunch. Deciding this was more than likely, she closed her eyes and relapsed into a doze, for her night’s sleep had not refreshed her, and she still felt tired.
She was woken from this second sleep by the chink of metal on china, and sat up with a start to find Cal making use of the provisions for early morning coffee. ‘Good morning,’ he said, turning to look at her.
‘Good morning.’ She saw that now it was nearly ten o’clock.
‘I’ve been out for a walk. Will you have some coffee?’
‘Yes, please, but I’ll clean my teeth first.’
She reached for the robe of double chiffon which matched her single-layer nightie, and swathed herself in its folds before she slid out of bed.
When she emerged from the bathroom, a few minutes later, he said, ‘Are you going to have your coffee in bed, or are you afraid I may be tempted to rejoin you?’
The bedroom had two easy chairs, one on either side of the leaded windows which jutted out from the room forming a wide sill. Antonia ignoring his sardonic tone, seated herself in one of these, and said, ‘I think this is really more comfortable than being propped up by pillows.’
‘Biscuit?’ He offered an air-tight glass jar of mixed biscuits to her. During her time in England, she had discovered that although English salads and sausages were not to be compared with those in Spain, the British made an extraordinary variety of excellent biscuits from crisp Bath Olivers and even crisper water biscuits to Scots oatmeal cakes and shortbread, and gingernuts and cream-filled dark chocolate bourbons. Not that she allowed herself to indulge in such titbits too often, for she was aware that most of her Spanish relations were plump to the point of obesity, and she did not want to lose her own slim figure.
So she took only one petit beurre while Cal ate four or five biscuits. But as his idea of a walk was four or five
miles of hard striding, and he also played squash or swam every day when he was in London, his appetite seemed unlikely to mar his present hard-muscled fitness.
He said, ‘We’ll leave for London about three. I’ve told Harry and Juliet that I have appointments in Rotterdam tomorrow morning, which is true except that my first one isn’t until noon when I have a working lunch. I’ll be away until Thursday. If you’re lonely, ring up Fanny and she’ll probably invite you to eat with them. I would take you with me, but I shall be too busy to look after you and I don’t think you’d enjoy trailing round strange cities on your own.’
On the second day of Cal’s absence, Laura came to call and, hearing that her sister-in-law was on her own, insisted on taking her to a party that night.
Antonia was reluctant to go, but Laura promised her that she would meet a number of interesting people.
‘You mustn’t make my brother the centre of your universe, you know. He won’t like it if you don’t have interests and friends of your own. You should have something amusing to tell him when he gets back, not merely be waiting to hear what he has to tell you.’
It made sense at the time Laura said it, and when Antonia discovered that the party was not in London as she had supposed but forty miles up the M1, her misgivings revived. But by then they were speeding north in Laura’s sports car, and it was too late to change her mind.
Laura drove very fast, several times exceeding the speed limit, and Antonia did not enjoy the journey although it was a fine summer evening and the countryside was at its best. Laura was wearing black trousers and a shirt of thin scarlet silk with no bra underneath it. The many bracelets on her thin wrists jangled as she changed gear with her left hand and smoked with her right, and Antonia could not help feeling that her chain-smoking and the high-heeled sandals she was wearing gave her insufficient control of the car for the speed at which she was hurtling it along the motorway.
Antonia herself was wearing a plain pale green linen skirt of slightly above ankle length, with a high-necked but summery blouse of white cotton with rows of pin-tucks alternating with bands of lace insertion. A broad belt of darker green kid to match her shoes was buckled round her narrow waist, and she had brought a fringed pale green shawl in case it became chilly later.
As soon as they arrived at the party, she realised that she was completely out of her element and that these were not the kind of people of whom Cal would approve. Probably many of them were interesting in the sense that they worked in television and in films, but several of the girls reminded her of Liza, the blonde they had met with Cal’s American friend; and the majority of the men were what her husband caustically described as middle-aged teenagers.
Having introduced her to one of these, a man called Barry who in spite of being bald at the front grew his back hair almost to his shoulders, and whose slack belly accorded oddly with his tight jeans and boyish shirt unbuttoned to show a chain with a medallion resting in his greying chest hair, Laura drifted away. She seemed to know everyone there, and was greeted with kisses and exaggerated cries of pleasure.
The party was centred in a courtyard surrounding a swimming pool. Barry steered Antonia to a bar and asked what she wanted to drink. She asked for a gin and tonic, and was dismayed to see that, having dropped some ice cubes into a tall glass, the barman poured in a generous double if not a triple measure of gin before adding lemon and tonic. She would have to remember to sip it slowly.
Barry was full of himself and Antonia found that he did not expect her to contribute much to the conversation. All the time he was talking, he was looking at her figure and her mouth, and she began to wonder how she could get away from him. At length, seeing no other means of escape, she said, ‘Do you know the geography of the house? Could you direct me?’
Barry looked blank. Clearly he had no idea what she meant. She had to say, ‘I’d like to go and powder my nose.’
He touched the arm of a girl on the fringe of a group standing close by. ‘Hey, Janie, you know your way around this place. Toni here wants the loo. Show her wherever the girls go, will you?’
‘Sure, I’ll take you, Toni,’ the other girl agreed, smiling.
‘Actually my name’s not Toni.’ said Antonia, when they had left him. ‘It’s Antonia.’
‘Mine’s really Janine, but Barry always shortens everyone’s name. Did you come with him?’
‘No, definitely not. I’m with my sister-in-law, Laura Carter. Do you know her?’
Janine shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
The interior of the house was extremely luxurious. Antonia knew that it belonged to Roddy Lancaster, the racing driver, whom she had watched once or twice on television, but had not as yet seen in person.
When Janine had shown her to a bathroom, Antonia said, ‘Please don’t wait. I can find my way back again. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. See you later.’
Locked in the bathroom, Antonia fished the ice and lemon out of her glass and poured the rest away, replacing it with tap water. Then she pondered what to do for the best. The house seemed to be too isolated for it to be likely that, if she claimed to be feeling unwell, a taxi could be called to drive her home. She was not confident that Laura would feel obliged to do so and, if she did, she would be extremely annoyed and might drive even faster and more carelessly than she had on the outward journey. The only alternative was to stick it out for several hours, and then to ask Laura if she would mind leaving early. Perhaps, in so large a house, there was somewhere a room in which she could secrete herself with a magazine or a book. Laura and Barry were the only people who might notice her absence, and she doubted if either of them would come looking for her.
Returning to the ground floor, she did not follow the way which led to the courtyard, but turned in the opposite direction along a wide passage where one half-open door gave a glimpse of what appeared to be the drawing-room, and another showed part of a room with bookshelves and a comfortable sofa. Hesitatingly, she pushed the door a little wider and, peering round it, found to her relief that there was no one inside. Closing the door behind her, she crossed to the shelves, one of which was set at an angle to display the current issues of most of the better known magazines.
She had been there about half an hour, looking at Country Life and House & Garden, when she was startled by the sudden opening of the door, and the entrance of a man whom she knew at once to be her host.
‘Hello, who are you?’ he enquired, raising his eyebrows while at the same time smiling at her.
Antonia had slipped off her shoes, and was sitting with her feet tucked beneath the fullness of her skirt. She began to unwind herself, but he said, ‘No, no—don’t move.’
Nevertheless as he closed the door and crossed the room to sit beside her, quickly she put her feet to the floor and slid them back into her shoes.
‘I’m Antonia Barnard, Mr. Lancaster. I must apologise for coming in here without permission, but you see—’ She hesitated, not quite knowing how to explain herself without sounding rude.
‘But the party bored you,’ he supplied. ‘I’m not surprised. It bores me. Who brought you?’
‘Laura ... Laura Carter.’
‘Oh, Laura?’ He sounded surprised.
He was not tall like Cal, but of medium height, lightly built and still in his twenties so that trendy clothes did not look ridiculous on him as they had on the man called Barry.
‘So you’re a friend of Laura’s. I shouldn’t have guessed it. You don’t look as if you’d have much in common.’
‘We have her brother in common.’
‘He’s your boy-friend?’
‘No, my husband.’
Again his eyebrows lifted. They were dark like his hair, and his eyes were hazel. He could have passed for a Spaniard.
‘What does he do with himself while you’re going to parties with Laura?’ he asked.
‘He’s abroad on business at the moment, and this is the first party I’ve been to with her—
and the last,’ she added, deciding to be frank with him. ‘I don’t mean to sound rude, but this isn’t my milieu.’
‘Nor mine, as a matter of fact. Sometimes I wonder where all these free-loaders come from, and why I put up with them: Have you had any supper?’
‘No, but I’m not hungry, thank you.’
‘Nonsense, you must have something to eat.’ He rose and went to press a bell push. ‘Where do you live? In London?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll eat, and then I’ll run you home—or wherever else you’d like to go.’
‘But what about your other guests?’
‘They’re here for the food and the booze, not for the pleasure of my company. They won’t miss me, I assure you.’
A short man whose features were a mixture of Malay and Chinese heredities came into the room.
‘Would you bring us a bottle of champagne and something from the buffet,’ Roddy instructed him.
The little man bowed and withdrew.
‘If you were my wife, I’d take you with me on my business trips,’ said Roddy, returning to the sofa. ‘You’re too pretty to be left on your own, even for a few days.’
‘Are you married, Mr. Lancaster?’
‘Call me Roddy. No, I’m not married, and shan’t be until I’ve retired, which won’t be for some time yet. I’ve seen too many other drivers’ wives fall apart from tension and anxiety. Meanwhile I have impermanent relationships based on mutual attraction. Do you love your husband?’
When she hesitated, he said, ‘No, or you wouldn’t be here. You may not be seeking the casual sex in which that lot out there indulge, but you’re seeking something. Maybe I can supply it.’
