A Class Apart

by Susan Lewis

  “You didn’t, though, did you?” said Jenneen.

  “No, I picked up my pen, wrote asshole in large letters across the notes I had taken, and smiled at him sweetly. Then I picked up my coat, told him it had been an experience, and left.”

  “He would take that as a compliment,” said Ashley.

  “I’m sure he would,” said Kate, “he’s stupid enough to. I’d like to knock that pipe of his right down his, patronising throat.”

  “Well, I think you’re going to get the chance,” said Jenneen.

  Kate looked at her with alarm. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s coming here for dinner, tonight.”

  “What! Giles Creddesley is coming here? Why? How? Oh Jenneen, how could you?”

  “I invited him, I’m afraid,” said Ashley.

  “Are you mad?”

  “Probably. But he’d been behaving so well lately, I thought it would be all right.”

  “Just don’t sit him anywhere near me,” said Kate. “I won’t be responsible for my actions. Any wine going? I could do with something to calm me down.”

  “Help yourself,” said Jenneen. “I’d better go and see how the dinner is coming along.”

  FOURTEEN

  The evening was going well. Jenneen’s natural talent for the unexpected ingredient went a long way towards making her dinner parties a success and even Maggie had managed to slurp her way through the soup. As Matthew cleared the table, Jenneen glanced in Maggie’s direction and saw that her chin was still resting comfortably on her collar bone and for the moment, thank God, she was too drunk to speak.

  The men, Giles in particular, had dominated the conversation for most of the evening. Where was it, Jenneen mused, that she had read those statistics about men talking eighty per cent of the time when in mixed company? She turned with relief to listen to Ellamarie as she demanded that Kate tell her how much she had lost at the casino in Monte Carlo. Ellamarie gasped when Kate told her. But had Kate seen anyone when she was there, you know, anyone famous? Jenneen shifted in her chair, and leaned forward to say something to Bob. Kate answered that she had only seen Prince Albert, darling, and she thought Stephanie too, but she hadn’t been too sure.

  “But hey, hang on a minute,” she cried suddenly. “I thought I saw you, Jenn. Do you remember?” she said, turning to Joel. “There was this woman in the casino, she was with an Arab, disgustingly wealthy-looking he was too. But anyway, this woman, she looked just like you, Jenn. So much so I even called out to her. God it was weird. They say everyone has a double somewhere, and I could have sworn it was you at first. Don’t know any rich Arabs, do you, by any chance? Not hiding him from us are you?”

  Jenneen caught Matthew’s eye across the table and could do nothing to stop the rush of blood to her face.

  “She’s blushing!” Kate cried. “So you do have a guilty secret. Come along now, out with it!”

  Jenneen’s eyes were riveted to Matthew’s as he smiled and picked up a bottle of wine to refill the glasses. “No, Jenneen doesn’t have a double, do you, Jenn?” he said, smoothly. “No, what Jenneen has is a Doppelgänger.”

  “Oh Matthew!” Kate shuddered. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  Jenneen’s eyes flashed, but she was smiling as she said: “Which is no more than one can expect from the likes of him,” and the others started up a barrage of lighthearted abuse in her defence. Matthew took it goodnaturedly and Jenneen felt almost sick with relief as the moment passed.

  Ellamarie was watching the way Kate was behaving with Joel. It made her mad as hell sometimes to see the way Kate hung onto his every word. The man was no good, Ellamarie was certain of that. She put a lot of store by a person’s eyes, and Joel Martin’s were cruel. Catching Ellamarie looking at him, Joel smirked and raised his glass. Ellamarie returned the smile. She hadn’t got his measure yet, but even if she had, she knew it would make no difference. Kate would have to find out for herself what he was like – there was nothing the rest of them could do. She turned away as she felt Bob reaching for her hand. Joel Martin left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  Bob was enjoying Giles Creddesley’s company immensely. The more drunk Giles became, the more pompous and self-congratulatory he was. He seemed blissfully unaware of the surpressed guffaws of the others. He knew everything there was to know about absolutely everything, and his opinion, which was blasted into the conversation with voluminous regularity, was unmitigated and indisputable.

  Bob, and then Matthew, did all they could to encourage him. Joel sat back to listen, sometimes remembering a little too late to straighten his face whenever Giles addressed him. Ashley was sinking deeper into her chair, suffering all the embarrassment Giles should have been suffering, had he had the sensitivity. At one point she heard Kate whisper to Jenneen that Giles must be the absolute ultimate in “Hooray”, which was promptly confirmed by Giles himself, as he began the hunt for a “window” in his Filofax, saying that he simply had to go and see Twelfth Night, old chap. And Don Giovanni too, of course. Oh hell, Don Giovanni clashed with Badminton, that was just too bad. He had to go to Badminton, naturally, – though he didn’t say why. But then everyone went to Badminton, didn’t they?

  Unlike the men round the table, Jenneen soon became bored by Giles and turned to Kate to ask her how the novel was coming along. It was a mistake. Giles, who appeared to have ears any self-respecting bat would envy, was writing a book too. Joel caught Bob’s eye, and Matthew replenished the glasses.

  Bob listened with awe-inspired interest as Giles unfolded his less than intricate plot, and Ashley gritted her teeth as Bob, leaning back in his chair and draping an arm round Ellamarie, asked if the book was in any way autobiographical.

  “Autobiographal?” Giles repeated.

  “Well, what exactly is it that you yourself do in advertising?” Bob asked.

  Giles sucked noisily on his pipe. “Me!” he said, failing in his attempt to sound modest. “Well, where to begin?” Ashley winced as with the greatest of ease Giles found his starting point, and, encouraged in the main by Bob, went on to discard all “false modesty” and admit how outstandingly accomplished he was in his field, and how actually . . .

  Jenneen regarded him with increasing antipathy. He was not one of the world’s most attractive men when he had his mouth shut, but with it open . . . words failed her. It was a shame they didn’t fail him too. She yawned, and allowed her mind to wander, until several minutes later she noticed that Bob was speaking. Bringing herself back to the present, she turned to listen to what he was saying.

  “Oh, I agree with everything you say, Bob,” Giles interrupted as Bob paused to draw breath, “our class system is indeed archaic.” At what point had the subject changed? Jenneen wondered. “But nonetheless,” Giles went on, “one has to admit that it still exists, and indeed does have its merits. I mean, we couldn’t have just any old chap, or,” he chuckled, “chapess, sauntering into the boardroom, could we? One simply shudders to think what might happen if the peasants found their way in.” He grinned through a fallen halo of pipe smoke, creating such a disturbing image that Jenneen found herself wondering where he spent Hallowe’en.

  “Giles, shut up,” Ashley groaned.

  “No,” said Ellamarie, “no, I’m interested. Go on, Giles. Just what do you think would happen if the peasants did find their way in, or,” she shot a glance at Ashley and shuddered, “God forbid, chapesses!”

  “Oh, chapesses, er, women, belong just as much as men to the class structure,” Giles answered, managing to sidestep the question. “And if their background is right, if they are of the right stock, then they can be well suited, and actually surprisingly efficient in the positions they hold.”

  “And if they are not from the right class, the right stock,” said Jenneen, who was by now utterly sick of the sound of him, “and yet they hold a good job, what then?”

  Giles shrugged. “Oh, hysterics, sickness, I don’t know, you name it . . .”

  “Shit,
I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” said Ellamarie.

  “Personally speaking,” said Jenneen, “I’m both a chapess and a peasant, and although I can’t claim to be on the board, I don’t generally regard myself as a failure, so where would you say that I fit in? Perhaps you would like to call me an hysterical success?”

  Giles shrugged and sucked on his pipe.

  “Well, she must be something,” Kate prompted. “So must we all. Just where do women like us fit into your class structure, Giles? We’re all from different backgrounds, and yet we all lead the same lives now. Successful lives. So, where do we fit in? Exactly what are we?”

  Giles shrugged again, as if the question were of no importance. “Call yourselves what you like.”

  With delight Bob saw Jenneen’s eyes narrow. “I’ll tell you what we are, Giles,” she said, trying not to slam her hand on the table, but failing, “we are something that the likes of you will probably never understand. Something way beyond your pomposity and powers of comprehension. There’s another class now, Giles, and you and your type don’t even know it, and are too stupid to be a part of it. It is a class of awareness, Giles; without discrimination or prejudice, that nurtures the seeds of ambition and ultimate success, regardless of background or birth. It does not belong to the dried up, retrogressive class system that you, I am sorry to say, are so ignorantly and laughably proud to be a part of. It is an elite, Giles, deserving of its merits and superiority, and above, below and independent of your system; it is, and we are, a class apart.”

  Ashley, Kate and Ellamarie gave her a round of applause. Giles looked at her, then let go of a cloud of smoke.

  “I think you’re in a bit too deep, old man,” said Joel.

  Giles clutched at the barrel of his pipe.

  At the unexpected lurch of a hiccup everyone turned to look at Maggie. She hiccuped again as her eyes reluctantly gave up on the task of trying to outstare one another and fixed themselves on Giles. “That stuff stinks,” she slurred, after deciding that the aroma was coming from him. It was the first thing she had managed to say all evening, and she looked now as though she were going to be sick. Bob, unable to contain himself, roared with laughter.

  An hour later Joel looked at his watch and announced that it was time he was going. “Got to be up early in the morning,” he grumbled. Seeing Kate reach out to pick up her handbag he caught her by the arm. “No,” he said, “you stay. No need for you to leave now.”

  “It’s all right,” said Kate, blushing as she became aware of everyone watching her, “I don’t mind.”

  “No, I insist. Stay, and enjoy yourself. You don’t have to be up early.”

  Jenneen came to the rescue. “Why don’t we all go and sit down a little more comfortably to drink our brandy,” she said, getting to her feet.

  Kate and Joel stayed by the table. “Why are you going now?” she whispered.

  “I told you, I’ve got to be up early in the morning.”

  “Then I’ll come home with you.”

  “There’s no need. I have to get a good night’s sleep tonight, so I thought I’d go home to my place.”

  “Then I’ll come with you.”

  “No. Stay here, with your friends. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

  Kate caught his hand as he turned away. “I thought we could, you know . . .”

  “That’s what I mean,” he said. “I have to get some sleep. I’ll ring you tomorrow, OK?”

  “Will I see you tomorrow night?” she said, hating herself for asking.

  “I don’t know. Yes, probably.”

  “I’ll walk to the door with you.”

  Out in the hall, Joel took her in his arms. “Don’t look so miserable,” he said. “It’s only for one night. But honestly, Kate, I have to sleep sometime. You’re insatiable, you know.”

  “I thought we might start using the cane again,” she whispered, as he started to put on his coat.

  He stopped, and turned to look at her. She noticed that his eyes were suddenly bright, and waited for him to speak. Taking her face in his hands, he pressed himself against her. She could feel the bulge thickening in his trousers.

  “Will you come home with me now?” she said.

  “Darling,” he groaned, “I want to. More than anything, I want to. But I have to get home tonight. I’ve such a lot to do before I leave in the morning. But I will be round tomorrow night. Promise. Have it waiting, eh?”

  “I love you, Joel.”

  “Mmm,” he said, as he kissed her again. He pulled his coat together, and reached out to open the door.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me you love me?” said Kate.

  He turned back. “You know I do.”

  “I wonder sometimes.”

  “Then don’t. You haven’t told anyone, have you?”

  “That you love me?”

  “No, about our little secret.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good girl.” He tweaked her nose, and gave her a smile. “Be in touch,” he said, and left.

  Kate closed the door behind him, and leaned against it. Everything had been so perfect when they had been in France, but now, since they had returned, he had become cool and aloof again. She wished she knew what it was that made him tick. She heard the others burst out laughing at something in the other room, but made no move to join them. She was so obsessed by Joel now that it was hard even to think about anything else.

  Jenneen woke very early in the morning. She had been careful not to drink too much the night before, but her head still felt heavy. She tried for a while to go back to sleep, but finally she gave up, and got out of bed. Matthew was still sleeping peacefully, and she made sure not to make any noise as she left the room.

  Rain was beating against the windows and every now and again she could hear the swish of a car passing by. The heating had not long been on, and it was still chilly in the flat. She wrapped her robe tightly round her while she waited for the kettle to boil.

  The kitchen was tidier than she had expected it to be, Matthew must have done it before he came to bed last night. The washing up was still in the sink, however, and the dining area of the lounge looked as though a bomb had hit it.

  Ignoring the mess, she settled herself down on the settee with her coffee and picked up one of Matthew’s ski-ing magazines. In truth, the idea rather appealed to her, but she was angry that he had broached the subject in the way he had, as if she couldn’t see through him and know what he was up to.

  Sooner or later they were going to have to face facts. It was not working out for them. Or, more to the point, it was not working out for her. She knew that he had been trying hard since Christmas, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. But more of what? In the main Matthew was kind and considerate, did everything he could think of to make her happy, yet still she didn’t trust him, still she wanted more.

  She had hoped that once things had settled down a little with Matthew, the burning obsession of her alter ego would cease to exist, but she had only to look at what had happened in the south of France to know that Mrs Green was still with her, and perhaps more now than ever. That there was something seriously wrong with her was now an almost constant fear. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that it wasn’t normal to assume another identity, and for that identity to make her behave in a way that was so completely alien to her true nature. Why, when she had Matthew, did she still need to satisfy Mrs Green? She had no answer to the question. A macabre pattern was beginning to emerge. By day she was Jenneen Grey, television personality, and by night – almost every night – Mrs Green, alter ego and nymphomaniac!

  There! She had said it. Nymphomaniac. She was a nymphomaniac. But what was nymphomania? The dictionary definition was a morbid and uncontrollable sexual desire in women. But Jenneen wasn’t even sure it was a sexual desire; she got no pleasure from it. Ah, but Mrs Green did, therefore Jenneen did surely. But she hated it. She hated herself, and she hated the men. And most of all she hated the act itself
, the shameless violation of her own body, taken over by the sinister character of Mrs Green.

  She had toyed with the idea of trying to get help, but how could she? If the press were to get hold of it they would have a field day. She could see the headlines now. ‘Jenneen Grey, hospitalised for sex problems.’ ‘TV double personality.’ ‘Mrs Green or Ms Grey?’ And then there was the night that she had spent with a woman, feeding her insatiable appetite again – it would all come out and it would mean the end for her. She would never be able to hold up her head in public again. No TV company in their right mind would give her a job, no employer would be prepared to take the risk of such a scandal. And, perhaps even worse than that, was what it would do to her parents.

  But surely she could son this out. If only she could discover, somewhere deep inside herself, what the real problem was, then she would be able to deal with it. Was it that she couldn’t cope with her success? Was there something inside that was trying to push her into destroying herself? Dear God, why was she doing it? If only there was someone she could talk to, but there was no one.

  The bitter tears of frustration, pain and confusion were stinging her eyes as she looked up and saw that Matthew was standing in the doorway, watching her.

  She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes and sniffed. “Morning,” she said. “I didn’t see you standing there.”

  “You’re up early.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  He picked up the packet of cigarettes lying on the table and lit one. “You were miles away.”

  “Was I?” she said. “I’ve been trying to get together a commentary for the films we shot in Europe. For some reason the words seem to be evading me.”

  “Well, you won’t find them in there.”

  Jenneen looked down at the brochure she had forgotten she was holding, and saw that it was torn and twisted.