Tell the Girl

by Sandra Howard

  ‘Not so bad, and she’s a little angel by day, but I don’t like all this they’re saying on the wireless, Mrs Bryant, about Cuba and nuclear missiles. My Daily Express says the Russians are sending warships, too, with more missiles. And it says – I’m just finding the place . . . President Kennedy is setting up a blockade with forty warships and twenty thousand marines. It’s a terrible thing. I don’t want them starting World War Three.’

  Nor did anyone else, I thought. ‘We just have to hope and pray, Miss Hadley, that it’s all peacefully resolved.’

  ‘The Express talks as well about Whitehall being taken by surprise. That’s very rude of Mr Kennedy, isn’t it, not telling the Prime Minister? I don’t approve of that.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll have been in touch.’ I smiled at the idea of Miss Hadley as cheerleader for the Prime Minister. ‘And the UN is meeting, the wheels are turning. Tell me more about Bella,’ I pressed. ‘And how you’re coping with Frankie. Is he keeping quiet when you need to get her to sleep?’

  ‘I put him in the hall, under his blackout blanket. He’s very perverse, throwing birdseed husks out onto the carpet and saying a naughty word. Mr Bryant says that’s just letting off steam! Mr Bryant takes him out of the cage a lot; I keep finding little messes . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. But Bella . . . Is she smiling much?’

  ‘Oh yes, lovely smiles – and the way she wraps those tiny fingers of hers round mine!’

  ‘I’m longing to see her. I’m so grateful for everything, Miss Hadley. Must rush or I’ll be late at work. Give her lots of kisses and I’ll call again soon.’

  I had some toast, packed my tote bag and set off for work feeling doubly tense; my first booking of the day was with Gil, a moody advertisement for a pearl jewellery company.

  It went well. He made the work easy and we did good pictures, but in the studio as with everywhere else, a sense of crisis ruled. Gil played Beethoven not pop, and there was little joking around. He still managed to ask on the quiet, ‘Any news on the man front?’

  ‘Give us a break! I’m being chased by one, though; I’m on the case.’

  In the streets the city went about its working day, drivers leaned on their horns as usual, but there was a palpable feeling of hiatus. Life as we knew it was on hold.

  Joe telephoned from Washington. The dance had been cancelled in the circumstances, but a small dinner party was being given for the Jaipurs in its place, so he was still going to the White House. He was staying on till the weekend, he said, seeing a friend, and might try to write an article. Was the friend Jackie? He hadn’t asked after me or said anything friendly like wishing I were there. I worried about him in Washington at such a time, while feeling fearful, neglected and jealous.

  I’d only just put the phone down when Matt Seeley called. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

  ‘I’m fine, but how about you and Pierre with the world’s press on your back?’

  ‘There is that! The decisions on how much to say are so tricky. We can quote Adlai Stevenson at the UN today; he’s challenged Zorin, the Soviet Ambassador, about the missiles in Cuba and said he’ll “wait till hell freezes over” for an answer on the Soviet’s real intentions. And John Steinbeck’s just won the Nobel Prize in Literature; an American winner helps! I can, um, get to the city tomorrow. I’ll only have a snatched hour, if that, but can we have dinner? Please say yes.’

  ‘Possibly,’ I said, feeling friendly. Did he know Joe was in Washington? ‘I should check with the Ferrones first, though. They may have plans.’

  ‘I’ll call again, but you must. It could be my only chance to see you. I mean, it’s hard to know what’s going to happen . . .’ And he knew more than most. My pulse raced.

  I decided to involve Joan in whether or not to see Matt. She was no fool, probably sensed things were dodgy with Joe and I didn’t want any more secrets. Gil was enough.

  ‘That young man certainly took a shine to you,’ she laughed. ‘Doggy eyes from the start! I’d go – be nice for you to get out. If Matt actually makes it here, that is; they’re in the thick of it, he and Pierre, in Washington. It’s dreadful to think of the immense strain they must all be under.’

  Matt made it. He stared at me in a flattering way, squeezed my arm and suggested we walked. ‘I’ve booked at Le Veau d’Or, on Sixty-first Street,’ he said. ‘It’s just a few blocks.’ He kissed me in the elevator, awkwardly and too desperately. I wasn’t responsive. ‘Don’t be cross,’ he pleaded. ‘It was impossible not to kiss you, seeing you again when I’ve thought of nothing else.’

  ‘That’s a bit hard to believe at a time like this,’ I smiled and we set off at a pace.

  The restaurant was very French, small and intimate; square tables with white tablecloths as well as red-plush banquette booths. Good cooking smells pervaded with a sort of typical Gallic confidence. ‘It’s very swish,’ I said, as we were shown to one of the booths.

  ‘It’s far from that. I worried you’d prefer somewhere more in. And it’s a bit empty tonight,’ he said, looking round. ‘People are glued to their televisions, I expect.’

  We ordered celery remoulade and veal escalopes. Matt chose a bottle of red wine that came quickly, as did some crusty French bread. He was beside me on the banquette and seemed to take shortage of time as an excuse for bodily contact, edging near enough to have touching thighs and pressing his calf against mine.

  He gave me a look that was half-soulful, half-swaggerish. ‘You can’t only have ten days left in the city. It’s a disaster. How soon can you come back?’

  ‘Not soon. I’m booked up at home and want time with my baby. I’ll possibly come in the autumn of next year, even bring her too and stay longer.’

  ‘Next fall? You’re not serious! Look,’ he touched my cheek, ‘I have a plan. I want you to come to the South of France and meet there – just a little break, a long weekend?’

  ‘I’m married, Matt! It’s good of you to take me out while Joe’s in Washington . . .’

  ‘Why is he? What’s he doing there? Doesn’t he want to be with you at this time?’

  That got to me. ‘He’s writing an article,’ I muttered.

  ‘I want to be with you very much,’ Matt said. ‘Is that such a terrible thing?’ He hesitated, then couldn’t resist adding, ‘In the circumstances.’

  He held out those three words, the circumstances of Joe, like dangling keys on a ring, offering them as a way in, a pardon, a weaselly excuse to jump into bed with him.

  ‘It is fairly terrible,’ I said, softening it, probably too much with my hand on his arm.

  We got on with our food, Matt with his body pressed to my side; he murmured lavish compliments. His physical need of me was glaring, quite oppressively so. I was attracted, but with nowhere near the urgent intensity and sense of connection I’d felt with Gil. Casual sex? Would I get too close to Matt if I slept with him? Or would he with me? I thought he was more into making conquests than love matches, but he could prove me wrong.

  ‘I stay at a friend’s apartment when I’m here,’ he said, as if reading my next thought before it was fully formed. ‘He’s a fun guy, you must meet him.’ Matt picked up my hand, stroking each finger, squeezing them and holding on tight. ‘God, it’s hell being so up against it tonight. I’ve got local radio, a press conference . . .’ He called to an elderly waiter for the check then tilted and turned my face to him. ‘You will let me see you again? I’d do anything for the chance.’

  ‘Not many of those, I’m afraid. I’d love to see Washington again, and the Ormsby-Gores have said any time, but that’s a long way down the line. Joe will be here next week, why not come and have a drink with us if you are, too – come and say hello.’

  The waiter was hovering and Matt dealt with the check. ‘And the South of France?’ he said, lifting his eyes. ‘I have a place to stay, you see. A rich old lady in Boston who’s my fan has a villa there – well, more of a roadside cottage. It’s up in the
hills near Saint Paul de Vence. She only goes there for six weeks in the summer and I can use it at other times. I did once, covering the Cannes Film Festival. It’s heaven.’

  I’d never been to the South of France, but didn’t volunteer that. Matt was waiting for a reaction. ‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘Maybe our paths will cross – here, London, even Cannes! We’re about to move house, back home, but you could reach us through the Ferrones.’

  The waiter brought our coats. Matt helped me into mine, my white Mongolian-lamb-lined leather coat, and we left the restaurant.

  It was cold out and he hugged me close. Crossing Lexington Avenue, the wind lashed and whipped itself into a whirlpool round us and I was glad of his protective arm and the snug coat, though it reminded me of Gil. We walked a block and turned down a dark, more sheltered side street, where Matt slowed to a stop in the shadows. He was more cautious about kissing me this time, but I let him and there was no caution about his searching tongue. My coat had easy fastenings, he found his way in, and I could feel every craving contour of his body against mine. I let the sensation flow into me, his hungry passion; it was gratifying and brought desires of my own. He’d have got me into bed probably, but for the constraints of time. I was well aware, though, that they weren’t self-imposed. Gil was a bad influence.

  I broke away and kept charge of Matt’s hands. ‘You have to go. I do, too.’

  ‘That’s cruel, very heartless, but true,’ he conceded, and we hurried on. He held onto my shoulders at the apartment door, staring into my eyes. ‘I will come by next week. I’ll make it somehow. I have to see you, even if it means a last resort of being civil to Joe.’

  Walter and Joan heard the door and came out to the hall like anxious parents. Joan asked if I’d had a fun time, while Walter wanted to know if Matt had had any more news.

  I grimaced. ‘It’s worse, if anything, as far as I can gather. No let-up yet. Matt said the White House is releasing an intelligence report tomorrow, about the missile bases nearing completion, close to full operational capability already.’

  Walter looked grave; even his jowls were stilled. ‘Oh dear, I’d felt more hopeful today with U Thant at the UN doing his best. Dear, dear, what a world we live in.’

  My mind was on Bella. Calling Miss Hadley, hearing her anxiety, realising how Britain and the rest of the world were holding their breath, made me even more acutely aware of the wretchedness of being so far from home. I’d phoned the Embassy Residence yesterday, needing to talk to Joe, not even bothering to think about his White House dinner the previous night when we could be radiated or blown up any minute. He hadn’t returned my call. People were sombrely getting on with life, their minds tight shut; mine had been too, working, seeing Matt, but Walter’s gloom had brought a rush of renewed panic. Should I try to book a flight home? Give it two more days? I felt numb, frozen with indecision.

  Two days later, a U-2 reconnaissance plane was shot down over Cuba. It felt like a tipping point with the loss of life; the pilot, Major Rudy Anderson, who had a young family and a baby on the way. Walter learned that Khrushchev had toughened his stance, belligerent and defiant in the face of all demands. It was a very black Saturday. I resolved to call Eileen the next day and tell her I needed to get home.

  We’d had a flurry of snow on Friday, then Saturday’s grimness, but Sunday brought cautious rays of hope. The Times headline was encouraging: CAPITAL IS READY TO LIFT BLOCKADE. KENNEDY ASKS FOR QUICK ACTION TO END TENSION AND PRESS FOR WORLD PEACE.

  We pored over the papers. The Ferrones took me out to lunch; we walked in the park and, returning to the apartment, heard the phone. Joan ran in to answer it. She was listening with a spreading smile as we came in. ‘It’s Matt,’ she said, cupping the mouthpiece. ‘Khrushchev’s ordered the withdrawal of missiles. Matt’s saying we can exhale, at least, if not quite yet spray the walls with champagne. Have a quick word, Susannah. I’m sure he’d like one.’

  ‘More than a word,’ he muttered, overhearing. ‘God, it’s such a relief! I’d been worried enough to make a will, and guys in the office have been writing “in the event of” letters to their wives . . .’

  That really brought home how close we’d been. I returned the phone, touched that he’d taken the trouble to call and feeling quite wobbly with emotion. Walter and Joan hugged each other – and me. Walter even had tears in his eyes.

  It was too late to phone home. I slipped away to my room to write down a few thoughts and a letter to my brother, but sitting at the desk the sheet of blue airmail paper became a blur. The world might have teetered and righted itself, but things were no better with Joe.

  He had phoned on Friday, finally, yet had done so when he must have known I’d be at work. He’d told Joan he was staying the weekend and would get the shuttle on Monday, be with us by noon. I imagined him being charming to Joan, apologising entertainingly. But he hadn’t called again when I’d be in, to explain or say sorry, not once, nor had he asked me to come to Washington.

  Joe could hurt me cruelly, which must mean there was still a spark, and most important of all, he was Bella’s father. I wasn’t sin-free either, far from it now; it was a more level playing-field, although I felt, absurdly, ever so slightly more in the right and virtuous, having done my best to give up Gil. It felt a bit like giving up atheism in an attempt to keep the faith. I didn’t hold out much hope for my chances.

  On Monday I phoned at lunchtime, between bookings, and spoke to Joan, but Joe hadn’t yet arrived. In the afternoon, I worked with Lillian Bassman who was a brilliant if exacting photographer. It was an ad for a fruit juice. A small child was in the picture, too. Inevitably, we overran and I was late away, which meant battling with the evening rush. I pushed through the crowds, laddering a stocking on a woman’s shopping basket and fending off a nice-looking man who tried to pick me up.

  My good intentions were wearing thin, and arriving back to find Joe lounging in an armchair, legs outstretched, sipping one of Walter’s well-shaken martinis, didn’t help my mood.

  He craned his neck round. ‘Hey, it’s the worker returned! Hello, the wifey.’ He stirred himself and came to give me a peck. On his best behaviour, I thought irritably. ‘I was just telling Joan and Walter all about Tuesday’s White House dinner,’ Joe said, resuming his seat, ‘and about to describe Jack’s little duty speech to the Jaipurs, which was in his own inimitable style. The Maharanee’s newly elected to the Indian Congress, it seems, and – you’ll like this, Walter – he called her “India’s answer to Barry Goldwater”! She looked as chuffed as anything, had no problems at all with being compared to a loony right-wing extremist like Goldwater. And I’m sure she knew who he was!

  ‘Bobby appeared after dinner, looking very ragged and hollow-eyed. He and Jack went into a huddle; they sat up at the far end of that long centre-room and they were still there after midnight when we left.’

  Walter had chuckled away over Barry Goldwater, but Joan had seemed less amused. I wondered if her eyes were wider open now where Joe was concerned; she knew he hadn’t phoned. I was perched very stiffly on the arm of a chair and I thought she’d guess how jealous, sore and neglected I was feeling. ‘We gotta go now, Walter dear,’ she said, curling a beckoning finger, cosily and bossily his way. ‘Forgive us, you two, we’re out to dinner, but I guess you’ve plenty catching up to do. Mary-Lou’s left you a scratch meal. Don’t feel stuck on it, you go on out, do just as you want.’

  Joan smiled at me. ‘You look so lovely, Susannah, and with all the strain, and long days in front of the cameras, too.’ That was all said for Joe’s benefit, she was a brick.

  She hustled Walter, bustled about, and they were soon out of the door.

  Joe went to refill his glass from the cocktail shaker. ‘Drink?’ he said, as an afterthought, glancing back.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Campari and soda. How was Washington?’ I queried, when he returned with it. I’d sat down opposite and reached out a foot to make contact. ‘Have you written anything? You couldn’t tal
k to David Ormsby-Gore much, I suppose; he can hardly have come up for air.’

  ‘No one was talking. I met Pierre Salinger, but he only gave me the press spiel.’

  ‘He and his junior called by the evening I arrived and stayed to supper,’ I said, eyeing Joe over my glass. ‘They seemed very on the ball, as you’d expect. I liked them.’

  ‘Pierre didn’t mention meeting you,’ Joe grumbled, with a peevish, disbelieving air.

  I ploughed on doggedly. ‘What did you do? Who did you see and meet?’

  ‘People were in and out of the Residence. I hung out with Sylvia and her kids, saw a bit of Jackie.’ Joe yawned and went to pour himself another drink, switching to vodka.

  ‘Where, at the White House? Did you go again then, after the dinner?’

  ‘God, what an inquisition! Yes, I had lunch with her, helped her cut a face in a huge Halloween pumpkin.’ He glared. ‘I get on with her, okay? Is that it?’

  ‘Not really. It’s been a terrible week. I spoke to Miss Hadley, who was stressed out about Cuba. I worried about you in Washington, needed to hear from you – and I’d been looking forward to the weekend.’

  The look on Joe’s face, his lightly raised eyebrows said he wasn’t so sure about that. It was a cold, supercilious look. ‘Were you really?’ it implied sardonically. ‘Pull the other one.’

  I shrank inside. Had I been cooler since Gil? Was I as much to blame? ‘I could have come to Washington,’ I mumbled. ‘You could at least have phoned and suggested it.’

  ‘Could I? And drag you away from your modelling? That always comes first.’ God, he could be infuriating, always touching just the nerve to make me feel on the back foot.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, you know that’s not true – and we’re talking about a weekend. I’m hardly working then.’ But there was that germ of truth, that raw nerve. I felt small.

  Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go again, nag, nag! Look, you’re my wife; we live together. But you go off working in New York and I have a weekend in Washington – on my own. That’s how it is in the big wide world. You need to wise up a bit, old girl.’