by Susan Lewis
“I don’t know. Soon.” He was beginning to feel trapped, but could see no way out.
“You’ve said yourself, she doesn’t need you. It’s the horses she loves. They’re her life. She never comes up to town, never comes to see any of your plays. She has cut herself off from you. Surely she can’t expect you to be happy, living like that.”
“She doesn’t see it like you do.”
“Then just how does she see it? From where I’m sitting she doesn’t see it at all. She’s selfish. Bob. She doesn’t think about you, or care about you. You’ve told me, time over time, that that side of your marriage has been dead for years. Surely she’d be happy if you gave her the house and the stables. She would have what she wants, and you could come to live here, with me. We could be together. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Yes,” he said, twisting her hair round his fingers, “yes, that is what I want. And I know what you’re saying makes sense. But it’s not easy to just cut off more than eleven years of your life.”
“Well, can’t you start by telling her that you have found someone else? You don’t have to say that you are leaving. Give her some time to get used to the idea. And then, after a while, when she knows that you are serious, that you really are in love with someone else, she’ll let you go. She can’t want to make you stay if she knows you’re not happy. You’re not happy there, are you. Bob? It is me you want, isn’t it?”
“Oh my darling, of course it’s you that I want.”
“Then tell her, Bob. Tell her, please.”
“I’ll try.”
“No. Say you’ll do it. Please say that you will tell her.”
He was looking past her, his mind racing. What could he say? What could he do? He felt her hand on his cheek and she pulled his face round so that she could see into his eyes.
She looked like a child gazing at him, her eyes round and pleading. How could he deny her? He smiled and nodded. “OK,” he said, “if the opportunity arises, I’ll tell her,” and he felt sick inside.
She threw her arms round him. “Oh, I love you,” she cried. “You will never regret it. I promise, you will never regret it.”
“I know,” he said, but there was no warmth in his voice.
The drone of voices, accompanied by telephones and thundering typewriters, reached them through the closed door of Bill Pruitt’s office. Everyone was talking about it. Jenneen Grey had not turned up for the shoot on Thursday morning. Ambitious Jenneen Grey, who lived for her work, had simply just not shown up.
Shaking his head, Bill closed his eyes and sighed. Anyone else would have lost their temper by now. Would have been shouting and raving, even threatening, but not him. He had been the editor of this programme since its conception seven years ago, and it had always been a happy ship. He did not believe in the heavy-hand tactics of some of his colleagues. If there was a problem, then he wanted to know about it, and in his own paternal sort of way he would sort it. Having Jenneen Grey on board had never been easy. He was aware of the resentment of the others, particularly Stephen Sommers and Geoff Pentland, two reporters who believed that the kind of reporting done by Jenneen Grey should be left to a man. This series of interviews was practically the first thing that Jenneen had handled that could fit into a “woman’s category”, as they put it. At last Bill had thought that Steve and Geoff were beginning to settle down and accept her. But now she had blown it. Bill knew what they were saying out there. That Jenneen Grey thought this lightweight stuff was beneath her, that she was too grand to take on something as mundane and straightforward as these agent/client interviews, and had decided to make a stand by refusing to turn up at the location. He had heard Geoff’s remark earlier about PMT, and being at home and having babies. Bill loathed that kind of sexist attitude, but on this occasion he had not risen to it. He had to speak to Jenneen first.
But it had got him nowhere. How could he defend her if she wouldn’t even tell him where she had been yesterday morning?
He sighed again and turned away from the window. Jenneen was sitting by his desk, her head lowered, and her fingers pulling at a handkerchief in her lap. “Jenn,” he said. He saw her tense so he walked over to stand beside her. “Look at me, Jenn.” She lifted her head and he saw that her eyes were red and swollen from all the crying she had done in the past twenty-four hours. “If you won’t tell me where you were, then at least tell me something that I can tell Maurice Fellowes. Jesus Christ, make something up if you have to, but don’t keep saying you’re sorry. It might be good enough for me, but it won’t hold with Maurice.”
Jenneen shook her head. “I can’t. Bill. I just can’t.”
“Then tell me the truth. If you like I’ll promise it won’t go any further, and then I’ll make something up to tell Maurice. How’s that?”
Jenneen bowed her head again. How could she tell him? How could she ever tell anyone? In sane moments even she could not believe in “Mrs Green”. She shuddered inwardly, sick with herself. It was the same feeling she had had the morning she had woken up in that seedy little hotel room in Brighton, and found the two boys, limbs intertwined with hers, asleep in the bed. She gagged as she felt the waves of self-loathing come over her again. But her own self-loathing had been nothing to what she had felt towards the boys.
“Can’t you just make something up anyway?” she asked, glancing up at Bill, hardly able to meet his eyes for more than a second. And the look of pleading – and was it pain? – he saw in her eyes forced him to agree.
“I think you’d better go home for the rest of the day,” he said. “Whatever has happened, it seems to have left you in some sort of shock, you look drained. Do you think you’ll be all right for the studio tomorrow?”
She nodded.
“Have you done your links?”
“They’re on my desk,” she answered.
“Give them to Christine so she can get them to autocue, and then go home. I’ll ring you later to see how you are.”
She stood up to leave.
“Jenneen,” he said as she reached the door. She turned back. “Nothing can be that bad.”
Her eyes were cold, and her smile edged with bitterness. “It can,” she whispered. “Oh yes, it can.”
Strolling through Harrods was one of Kate’s favourite pastimes. She often went, even when there was nothing particular she wanted to buy. It was exciting pushing through the crowds, wondering who she might be rubbing shoulders with. She was supposed to be buying Christmas presents this afternoon, but like every other year, she was buying as much for herself as she was for everyone else – probably more. She was quite laden down, what with the things she’d had to get for Mrs Adams who lived upstairs as well, and her arms were aching. That alone should have been good enough reason to leave. Her father didn’t like her shopping at Harrods so near to Christmas. It had been on the news again only last night that the IRA were planning another Christmas bomb package. Last year they had hit Harrods.
But Kate could not resist it. If she couldn’t buy her Christmas presents in Harrods, then where else was she going to get them?
She had no reason to go to the fourth floor, other than it was Christmas and she just simply had to go to the fourth floor. As she stepped out of the lift she could already hear the tinkling of Christmas carols and the excited laughter of children coming from the Kingdom of Toys. She wondered if she would see Santa, and almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of her own excitement. Suddenly a little boy, unable to contain himself a moment longer, broke free of his mother and pushed past her, almost knocking her over.
“Ben!” his mother shouted after him. “I’m so sorry,” she said, turning to Kate, and helping to pick up her bags.
“Please don’t apologise. I’d be doing the same if I were his age.”
“Mummy! Mummy!” yelled the errant Ben, who could not be seen, only heard. “Come and see this! I want one!”
“Oh dear,” said the woman, “I knew it was a mistake to come here.”
“
Good luck,” Kate laughed, and watched the woman weave her way towards the shouting voice.
Kate knew where she was heading, and after winding and pushing her way through what could only be described as an infant obstacle course, she found herself among the dolls’ houses, the dolls, and all the pretty dresses and accessories to dress them up in. It was like being in Fairyland, and her eyes sparkled like those of a five-year-old. She laughed as she played with them. Some talked, some walked, most cried, a few wet themselves, one danced, and some did nothing at all except look pretty. She wished she could buy them all. She was completely oblivious to the odd looks that people were giving her.
She was giggling to herself at a doll who was telling her it was hungry when she noticed two blue eyes peering up at her from round the side of the counter, watching her with interest. They were the prettiest blue eyes she had ever seen, framed by wisps of white hair and round pink cheeks. She was a dream child, a tiny cherub. Kate looked back at her and smiled. The blue eyes opened a fraction wider.
“Hello,” said Kate.
The little girl planted her thumb in her mouth.
“Does that taste nice?”
The child continued to stare.
“My name is Kate. Will you tell me yours?”
The little girl shook her head.
“Oh, I see. It’s a secret is it?”
The little girl nodded.
“Then you mustn’t tell me. Not if it’s a secret.”
The little girl took her other hand out of her coat pocket and reached out to touch the doll that Kate was holding. Kate bent down and handed it to her. “Do you like this one?”
Another nod.
“Would you like to hold her?”
The little face brightened, and taking the thumb from her mouth, the child wrapped her tiny, fat arms round the doll.
“I wonder if she speaks?” said Kate.
“No.” The little girl’s voice was no more than a whisper.
“I think she does,” said Kate.
The little girl shook her head.
“She’s still just a baby, is she?”
“Mmm.”
“Will she be able to speak when she’s as old as you?”
“Yes.”
“And how old are you?”
“Four. How old are you?”
“Me? I’m thirty.”
“My mummy is older than you,” the girl announced with pride, suddenly talkative.
“Is she?”
“Yes. My mummy is twenty-six.”
Kate laughed. “Oh, very old. Have you got any brothers and sisters?”
“A brother.”
“And how old is he?”
“Six.”
“Is he nice?”
“Sometimes. But mostly he’s horrible! He hits my dolls.”
“That isn’t very nice, is it?”
“But I knock his soldiers over, and he gets cross with me, and shouts.”
Kate had to fight with herself to keep from hugging the little girl. “I had a brother once,” she said. “He was just the same. Boys can be awful sometimes, can’t they? Tell you what, would you like to look at some more dolls?”
The little girl nodded, and so together, lost in a land of make-believe, they went from one doll to another, pulling strings, combing hair, laughing and giggling, and having a perfectly wonderful time. The child wouldn’t be parted from the doll that Kate had first given her, so they were set upon trying to find a sister for it, no brothers allowed, when suddenly they were brought tumbling back to reality.
“Elizabeth! What are you doing?”
Elizabeth spun round, and Kate, on her knees, looked up to see a woman staring down at her, her face red and her eyes brimming with relief.
“Hello,” said Kate, standing up. “I’m sorry, I know children shouldn’t speak to strangers, but she’s so pretty I couldn’t help speaking to her. I meant no harm.”
The woman smiled. “It’s all right. It’s just that I thought I’d lost her. Should have known that she would find her way back here, though.”
“Mummy, can I have this dolly for Christmas?” Elizabeth held the doll up for her mother to see.
“No, Lizzie. You’ve got quite enough already.”
“Oh please, Mummy. I promise I’ll be a good girl.”
“That’s a promise I’ve yet to see kept.”
Kate laughed. “She looks far too angelic to be naughty.”
“That’s what everyone thinks,” said the woman. “You should see her at home.”
“Please, Mummy,” Elizabeth begged.
“I said no. Now let go so that I can put it back.”
Kate looked down at Elizabeth’s face and saw that she was about to cry. “If it’s all right with you,” she said to the woman, “I’d like to buy it for her.” It was out before she could stop herself, and she was almost as surprised by her offer as the woman appeared to be.
“Oh no, no. You couldn’t possibly.”
“No, please, I’d like to.”
“But it’s far too expensive.”
“Not really. And I’d like to.”
Elizabeth was looking up, listening to the exchange going on far above her head. “Please, Mummy.”
“But you don’t even know us,” said the woman, unable to think of any other objection.
“I know, but . . . Please, it would make me very happy.”
An assistant appeared, and Kate seized the opportunity. “Could you wrap this doll please,” she said. “I’d like to buy it.”
The woman beside her seemed unsure of what to do. She waited until the doll was handed back, nicely wrapped in a pink box, then made to offer Kate the money.
“No, please don’t,” said Kate, and she looked down at Elizabeth and smiled.
“Really, I don’t know what to say,” said the woman. “It’s so kind of you. Say thank you to the lady, Elizabeth,” she added as Kate handed the parcel to the little girl.
“Thank you,” said Elizabeth, smiling all over her face.
“You’re very welcome,” said Kate, and suddenly Elizabeth dropped the parcel and threw her arms round Kate’s knees.
Kate stooped to hug the tiny figure. “You really are a very special little girl.”
“I must say, you are extremely honoured,” said Elizabeth’s mother, smiling. “Even I don’t get that sort of treatment. At least, not often.”
Kate let the little girl go, picked up the parcel and handed it to her. “I really must be going now.”
Elizabeth’s mother looked at her watch. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked.
“No thanks,” said Kate, picking up her bags. “I’m late already. But thank you for the offer.” She was already walking away.
“And thank you for the doll,” the woman called after her.
Kate ran down the stairs and out into the cold air, trying to blink back the tears. Holding the child in her arms had made her acutely aware of the emptiness in her life, the loneliness that she tried to pretend wasn’t there. She longed to have a child of her own, but she had no idea that the longing could be so overpowering. She told herself that it was Christmas, and people always get over-emotional at Christmas.
But the feel of the tiny body, so fragile, and so trusting in her arms, was to haunt her for some time to come.
EIGHT
Julian sat at his desk, tapping a pen against his fingers, one foot resting on an open drawer. Everyone had gone home, it was past seven o’clock, and though there was always something to do here at the office, today there was nothing that couldn’t wait. The last-minute rush for Christmas was well in hand, and he had time now to sit back and reflect on the past week.
Getting the Newslink account was one of the best things that had ever happened to his agency. Conrad had been vociferous in his congratulations when Julian had rung to tell him. And it wasn’t often that Conrad could be moved in such a way. Julian knew that he had a good team working for him now, one that could easily compet
e with Conrad’s people in New York. He was able to call upon some of the biggest and best directors to make the TV commercials, as well as some of the most talented art directors. The ideas that Ashley and her team had come up with for Newslink were not far short of brilliant, and after the stress and anguish of the creative review they had just undergone, Julian was in a position now to sit back and feel satisfied, contented.
So why wasn’t he?
Blanche had come home on Wednesday, and he had been genuinely delighted to see her. Though she must have been tired and suffering from jet-lag she had insisted that they go out for a late supper, where they could be alone, and talk.
As usual, she had been full of fun, and had made him laugh about the things she had got up to in Sydney. But she said that she was glad to be back and with him again, she really had missed him.
He was quite taken aback when she told him that she had had an affair with someone in Sydney. He couldn’t think why he was so surprised, he had suspected it all along. But nevertheless, it was a shock to hear her admit to it. She explained that she wanted no secrets between them, and that though she enjoyed the affair very much, it had only been an affair, and that he, Julian, was the only man that she truly loved.
“Of course, I expect you have had affairs too,” she said. “And don’t tell me you haven’t. I’ve seen the way women look at you. You’d be more than a saint if you hadn’t succumbed. But don’t worry, I don’t mind. I think it’s right, don’t you? To sow your wild oats before you marry. That way neither of us will look back and have regrets.”
He said he supposed she was right.
“So,” she prompted. “What were their names? Or was there only one?”
He dismissed it by laughing and saying that they were too numerous to mention, and that he was glad she was back, so that he no longer had to fight off the hungry masses. He didn’t want to tell her about Ashley. It would somehow cheapen what he felt for her if he were to tell Blanche, in an offhand way. So he kept it to himself.
Then they talked about the letter Blanche had written him several weeks before, when she had asked him if he had any objection to announcing their wedding date at a small, intimate party at her father’s house on Christmas Eve. He smiled at her, and taking her hand told her that of course he had no objection. And so, over the last couple of days, they had started to make plans for their wedding.
