by Susan Lewis
Then one morning I received a telephone call from my father. He wanted me to meet him at his club; there was a matter of great importance he needed to discuss with me.
My heart leapt into my throat. Had he found Elizabeth? Was he going to tell me that he had made a mistake all those years ago? My obsession was such that it didn’t occur to me that my father might want to see me on an entirely different matter.
True to form, he wasted no time in coming to the point. The Pinto case. As I listened to what he was saying, I remembered all too vividly the hollow feeling I had had when I won. Now here it was again, this time stripped of its pretence, and revealed in all its horror. Ruth Pinto had been a British agent, not a Soviet one. The information she had been ‘acquiring’ for the Eastern Bloc had in fact been given her by the Minstry of Defence – and her communist masters were beginning to suspect her. The court case had been staged to allay their suspicions and to save Ruth, for once justice had been seen to be done, after a reasonable lapse of time she would have been quietly released from prison, whisked away somewhere and given a new identity. The bottom line, my father told me, was that the pseudo-trial had been engineered to save her life. As it was, due to my ‘brilliant defence’, she had been acquitted. Her body had been found the night before in an East Berlin street.
The whole thing seemed incredible. If my father hadn’t been the Lord Chancellor I would have accused him of reading too many spy thrillers. What I wanted to know most of all was why I had not been told the truth from the beginning.
‘That’s simple,’ my father answered. ‘There were agents from the KGB in court. If you had known what was going on, it would have been bound to show in your defence. These people aren’t stupid, Alexander. The whole thing had to be conducted as a bona fide case.’
‘Then why the hell didn’t the prosecution make a better job of things? They practically handed it to me on a plate.’
‘You do yourself an injustice. What no one was prepared for was just how cleverly you would conduct the defence. Now don’t flare up. You’re still an inexperienced barrister. The brief could have gone to anyone, it just so happened that you were the one who attended the Section I at Clerkenwell. You became the obvious choice.’
‘So I was set up?’
‘No need to dramatise, Alexander.’
‘I said, I was set up.’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
I drew breath to deliver my outrage, but he held up his hand to stop me. ‘The case is closed now. But there is one other thing I wanted to tell you before you read it in the press. I shall be retiring at the end of this session.’
‘Retiring!’ I echoed. ‘But you’re only sixty-four.’ Alarm bells began ringing in my head.
‘And your mother is not far past fifty.’ I was touched by his loyalty in not revealing her actual age. ‘She’s still young, Alexander, and I want to spend some time with her before it’s too late. Nothing wrong in that, is there? You should try it some time, good for the old heart.’
‘Heart? Have you had more warnings?’
‘There’s plenty of life left in this old dog yet. But yes –’ and I saw the veil drop from his eyes – ‘the doctors are insisting. And what with your mother nagging away at me too, she’ll probably do for me long before the old heart goes! I ‘ve given in. She’s won – but then women always do.’ He smiled as he spoke of my mother; they were still very much in love, even after all these years.
I swallowed hard. Though we had had our differences over the years, I loved my father.
‘Come along, old chap,’ he laughed, reaching out and clasping my arm, ‘enough of the long face, can’t have you weeping into your soup, now can we? Besides, I shan’t be going anywhere yet awhile, that I can promise you. And as for you, well, you’d better brace yourself for the public humiliation that is very likely on its way.’
Never one to pull punches was my father.
The only good thing about finding myself back in the newspapers was that it might prompt Elizabeth to get in touch with me. But the days passed, and I heard nothing.
From time to time I took the telegram out of my pocket and looked at it, vainly searching for the telephone number that wasn’t there. Henry and I met in El Vino’s every evening, ostensibly to mull over the day’s events in court, but in reality to commiserate with one another over our unfortunate marriages. Steeped in self-pity, I wasn’t backward in pointing out to him that at least he saw Caroline.
‘Not the same,’ he slurred. ‘I want her there all the time. Do you know, for the first time in my life someone else’s happiness is more important than my own. Isn’t that amazing?’
‘Isn’t that love?’
‘Don’t let’s get shlushy, old chap.’ And he got up to get more drinks.
‘Do you think Elizabeth’s happy?’ I asked him when he returned.
‘Can’t be. Wouldn’t have sent the telegram if she was.’ I knew I hadn’t wanted him to reply in the affirmative, but thinking of her, maybe alone somewhere, and unhappy, was unbearable. ‘I’m going to find her, Henry. If it kills me, I’m going to find her.’
– 18 –
Jessica was preparing the house for the big send-off we were giving Robert Lyttleton. At last he had attained his overseas posting, and would be flying to Baghdad at the beginning of the following week. It had been Jessica’s idea that we hold the party – as much, I guessed, to avail herself of another opportunity of flaunting a ‘real man’ in my face, as to say good-bye to Robert.
At various intervals during the morning she bumped open the door of my study to regale me with yet another problem that had cropped up, and enquire whether I didn’t think I should do something about it. My refusal was unvarying, and she would slam out again, hissing obscenities – under her breath so the hired help wouldn’t hear. After lunch, which was a sandwich behind the now locked door of my study, Lizzie and the florist arrived. Unable to think why it hadn’t occurred to me before, I snatched up my coat and went off to play a round of golf with Henry.
Later, when we returned to Belgrave Square with Henry boasting his victory, Jessica and Lizzie were nowhere to be found. ‘Gone shopping,’ Mrs Dixon informed us. So Henry and I decided to make a start on the champagne. By five o’clock they still weren’t back, and Henry sauntered off to Eaton Square to get his head down for an hour.
I was in my study when I heard Jessica and Lizzie come in, but didn’t bother to get up. I was going over a file that a private investigator had delivered to my chambers the day before. Not that there was anything much to read – all I’d been able to give him to go on was the telegram, and that, he discovered, had been sent from a post office in Chelsea. It heightened my frustration no end to think that she could be so close. I picked up the telegram and read it again. Then angrily I crumpled it into a tiny ball. Damn her! Why was she doing this to me?’
A snigger from the doorway brought me round sharp. Jessica was holding two glasses while Lizzie filled them with champagne. ‘Poor Alexander,’ she sighed. ‘Is he dreaming about his long lost lover again, do you think?’
Lizzie tutted and giggled. ‘Would you like some champagne, Alexander darling?’ She held the bottle towards me, but I ignored it and glared at Jessica.
‘I don’t think Alexander wants any champagne, Jess.’
‘No, I guess not.’ Jessica clinked her glass against Lizzie’s. ‘Let’s drink to my darling husband. Should we tell him our little secret, Lizzie? What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. Shall we?’
Jessica looked at me. ‘No, I don’t think so. He’ll only get cross.’ And, giggling, they started to walk out of the room.
‘Tell me what?’ I demanded.
‘Nothing,’ Jessica threw over her shoulder. ‘Come along, Lizzie, let’s go and see how Mrs Dixon is getting on in the kitchen.’
‘Have you been holding something back from me, you bitch! What is it? A letter? Where have you hidden it?’
‘Oh, he think
s he’s had a letter,’ Jessica said. She turned back to me. ‘No darling, not a letter.’
‘Then what?’
‘I’ll tell him, Jess, shall I?’ said Lizzie.
‘Yes, you tell him.’
‘Alexander. What’s my name?’ She smiled and nodded her head. ‘I think he’s beginning to get it already, Jess. That’s right, Alexander, my name’s Lizzie. And what is Lizzie a derivative of? That’s right, Elizabeth. Congratulations, Alexander.’ And shrieking with laughter, they walked out of the room.
After they’d left my study I sat staring into space, not daring to move, afraid of what I might do if I did. Eventually I picked up the phone and rang Henry. Briefly I told him what had happened. He swore he would beat Lizzie to within an inch of her life, but by that time my temper had abated, and a feeling of defeat had set in. I told him not to mention it, saying that it would be better if from now on we just forgot it had ever happened.
The evening didn’t go with the swing we had hoped it would. Jessica and I could barely be civil to each other, and matters weren’t helped by the presence of Robert’s mother. Naturally, neither Jessica nor Lizzie could resist the odd oblique, barbed reference to our affair. I was past caring, but there were twelve others present, mostly old friends of Robert’s; they, and Rachel, were clearly embarrassed. Robert got roaring drunk, so did Lizzie. Jessica disappeared for half an hour at one stage, and then I noticed Robert was missing too. I felt sick. My only hope was that she would get pregnant. It would be good enough grounds for a quick and uncomplicated divorce.
Around eleven several people drifted off, and I walked Rachel to the door.
‘I couldn’t help but notice how bad things are between you and Jessica,’ she remarked, as I held out her coat for her.
‘An understatement, Rachel.’
‘You look tired, and you’ve lost weight.’
‘That’s what a bad marriage does for you.’
‘Then get out of it. You’re young, you don’t have any children to consider. Get out now, while you still can.’
‘I’m seriously thinking about it.’
‘Do it. I know things didn’t work out well for us in the end, but I cared about you, Alexander. I still do. And despite everything I said that day, I know that behind that handsome façade of yours there’s a good and decent man. The trouble is, between you, you and Jessica are suffocating him.’
I gave a sad smile, and drew her into my arms. ‘Did I really treat you so badly, Rachel?’
‘One way or another you’ve treated everyone badly. Time to stop, eh?’ She opened the door.
‘Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Lizzie Roseman.’
Rachel and I turned to find a tall blond man standing on the pavement outside, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other as if he were more than ready to move on. The collar of a purplish check shirt appeared above the neck of his fur-lined leather jacket, and his jeans, which had seen better days, were stuffed inside the legs of what looked like size fourteen cowboy boots. All he needed to complete his appearance was a cork-dangled hat and a can of lager.
‘Er, maybe you know her better as Lizzie Poynter,’ he said, when neither Rachel nor I answered him. ‘I’m told her sister, Jessica, lives here.’
‘I think I’ll be on my way,’ Rachel said. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Think about what I said.’ And she ran off down the steps. The man smiled pleasantly as she passed him, and doffed the invisible hat. I followed her down the steps and asked what he might want with Lizzie. He hooked his thumbs through his jean loops, as if trying to give himself a confidence he was clearly far from feeling, and leaned against the pillar of the porch. I listened in stupefied silence as this stranger, who had appeared out of the darkness on a cold and windy March night, told me who he was, and why he was looking for my sister-in-law. In the end I asked him to wait, and went inside to fetch Henry.
I let him take a good look at the man standing at the door before I made the introduction. ‘Henry Clive, meet John Roseman. Or should I put it another way. Henry, meet Lizzie’s husband.’
After the shock had worn off, a rather cosy little party developed. Lizzie had been horrified when John followed Henry and me in through the drawing-room door, but her horror soon changed to delight as the Australian turned on all the charm that had probably made her marry him in the first place. Henry, I noticed, sat back and watched the proceedings with detached interest.
We learned that Lizzie had married John some four years ago, while she had been travelling round Australia. By all accounts it had been something of a whirlwind romance; they’d known each other a total of three months before she walked out and left him. Quite why she walked out we were never told, but I suppose that was their business. She seemed wholly unconcerned that she had committed bigamy, and so too did Henry and John. Jessica, I noticed, said nothing, and I soon realised that she had known about John all along. It was decided that as Henry was a lawyer he should sort the whole thing out – John would do anything he had to do to help – and with that, Lizzie and her new-found husband left. To go where? Heaven only knew, and Henry didn’t care.
I was dumbfounded. Between the time of John’s arrival and his departure, I don’t think I’d uttered more than a dozen words.
‘Always did like the Aussies,’ Henry said, putting on his overcoat to go. ‘Get in touch with their embassy, old chap. See if they can’t rustle up a little something for you too.’
‘I might just do that,’ I laughed. ‘Something’s got to be done. Robert Lyttleton had her tonight. D’you think he could be persuaded to take her with him?’
‘Not a chance.’
As I turned back inside I saw Jessica standing at the drawing-room door. From the look on her face there was no doubt she had heard every word. I walked towards her, heading for my study, and as I brushed past, her voice snaked over me.
‘I’ll never let you go, Alexander, so don’t even think it’.
In the early hours of the morning she crept into my bed and cried as though her heart might break. Understanding her pain, I held her in my arms and wondered what the hell was to become of us.
When Henry and Caroline announced the date of their wedding it was impossible not to share in their long-delayed happiness, though I had to admit to more than an occasional stab of envy. After that one night of tenderness Jessica and I had, yet again, talked long and hard about our relationship, but this time there was no point in fooling myself: I would never be able to trust her again, and whatever love I’d had for her had been killed the day I found out about the telegram. I was as faithful to her now as she could have wished but my fidelity was born of my impotency, not of love, and she knew it. She tormented and ridiculed me for what she called my ‘defective organ’, but if I threatened to leave her, she threatened in return to tell the world how ‘the great Alexander Belmayne couldn’t get it up’. She even went so far as to hang a plaque over my bed quoting William Congreve’s words: Heav’n has no rage, like love to hatred turn’d, Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn’d. These two lines epitomised our relationship so perfectly it would have been laughable had it not been so tragic.
No longer able to prove myself in the bedroom, I threw myself into work. My professional reputation was growing, and I took on more than it was humanly possible to cope with. In the end Henry took me to task and tried to persuade me to seek psychiatric help before I killed myself with overwork. I told him to mind his own business, and that I was perfectly capable of sorting out my own life. But the dilemma grew. I wanted children, now more than ever. I wanted them so badly, I would find myself smiling at them in shops, or walking the parks in order to watch them play. I felt sick at myself for such a display of weakness, but my yearning was too strong to be denied.
It was on one such day, while I was walking in Hyde Park, that I felt something knock against my legs. I looked down to see a girl’s small face gazing up at me – she was laughing despite her fall. She had been running away
from a hot air balloon that had rolled towards her while someone was trying to inflate it. I bent down to put her back on her feet, expecting her to run away, but she lingered, looking me over in the curious way children have, until a woman appeared beside us.
‘There you are, I thought I’d lost you under the balloon.’
I could see the woman was nervous at finding the child with a stranger, so I stood up and smiled, wanting to reassure her. ‘No harm done,’ I said, and ruffled the girl’s hair. ‘Definitely all in one piece.’
The girl’s face broke into a smile that turned my heart over, then allowing the woman to take her by the hand, she walked off. I watched them go, the thin legs of the girl skipping along beside the elegant, though stiff figure in canary yellow.
That night was one of the rare occasions on which Jessica and I sat down for dinner together. I was relieved to see that she was moderately sober and in a better mood than usual – the following week she was to have an exhibition of her own in a Bayswater gallery. She chattered gaily on in her excitement, not really interested in what I might have to say, but obviously glad to have someone to talk to. After a time I found myself telling her about the little girl, and how I often walked alone in the park. To my surprise she seemed genuinely touched. Despite the turbulence of our relationship, there were still rare moments of tenderness between us, and when she came to sit beside me I slipped an arm around her and sighed wearily.
‘What are we going to do about us, Jess? We can’t go on hurting each other the way we do.’
She turned to face me, and brushed the hair away from my face. ‘Do you want a divorce, is that what you’re saying?’
Was that what I was saying? The truth was, I didn’t think I did want a divorce. If Jessica so despised me for my infertility, how could I be sure that that wasn’t the way all women felt about men like me? And despite all she, said, Jessica still stayed with me. Perhaps that counted for something. In the end I said: ‘I don’t know, Jess. I just don’t know. But you’ve got to admit we do seem to bring out the worst in each other.’
