“Hope the luck holds,” Rodney called.
He turned off the main street and drove back to his house. He put away the car and got upstairs to find Angela not only in, but ready for bed. She was sitting huddled by the fire, gazing into it. At his entrance, she turned, and he saw that she had been crying.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Did you . . . did you come away early?”
“No. There was no party.”
She got up slowly, and faced him.
“Why?”
He told her. She stood unmoving, listening, and as she listened, tears poured unchecked down her cheeks. When he ended, telling her that Oliver was safely on his way to Oxford, she sat on the sofa, put her head on its arm and sobbed loudly. After watching her for a few moments, he went over, sat beside her and pulled her round to face him.
“This I don’t understand,” he said. “You cry when you think he’s going to get married, and you cry still more when you learn that he isn’t. Explain.”
“S-suppose he wanted to m-marry her?”
“He didn’t. Are you listening? He didn’t. The idea, from first to last, was hers and only hers. I might be feeling sorry for her if I weren’t absolutely sure that if she’d wanted marry him, she could have brought it about by fair means, he looks clever, but nobody can say she knows anything about tactics or strategy. And if you’d seen her face when she thought Oliver had played a fool joke, you wouldn’t be sitting here howling because she didn’t get him. Will you mop up, for Pete’s sake? I want to know if there’s any message from Nicola.”
“No.”
“Didn’t she say anything about Madame Landini?”
“No.”
“Are you sure she didn’t?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me you both spent the evening mourning Oliver?”
“No. She called for me and then we went out, and then we came back and had sandwiches here, and then she went away.”
“And no message? You’re sure?”
She shook her head; she was crying again. He got up and went to his room and changed into pyjamas. The evening was over, let the night begin and it couldn’t be too soon for him. He felt hungry, but not in the mood to stand in the kitchen getting himself something to eat. He made himself a large cup of cocoa, put several large spoonfuls of sugar into it and carried it to his bedroom.
“Why don’t you go to bed?” he asked Angela from his doorway. “Tomorrow, you might be able to remember that Oliver’s been delivered. Go and get some sleep.”
Slowly, she went to her room. He put his cup on the bedside table and settled himself against the pillows. No news, they said, was good news, but why hadn’t Nicola written a brief note telling him what Madame Landini’s comments had been when she handed back the watch? It wasn’t much to ask. Perhaps she had spent the evening trying to dry Angela’s tears. He would phone first thing tomorrow, and if she couldn’t get a clear message to him over the wire, he would suggest her meeting him for lunch.
He sipped the cocoa, scalded his tongue, swore and sat wondering whether it would be worthwhile getting up and going to the kitchen to put in some cold milk. He was still debating when he heard sounds on the stairs.
He was out of bed in an instant. That wasn’t Mrs. Major’s tread—and at this hour, she was either in bed, or seated in front of the television screen. Would Nicola be coming back to see him, to bring some news from Park Lane?
Angela’s door had opened. She was wearing a nightgown that would have won more awards for warmth than for glamour.
“Did you hear someone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
He opened the door. On the landing stood Oliver. In one hand he held his suitcase; from the other dangled half a dozen packages tied with string. From his coat pockets protruded bottles.
“Well, my God!” Rodney exclaimed. “I left you at the station mouth, and—”
“No nine-forty. Let me in, will you? I’m getting cramp in his hand.”
He came in, nodded to Angela and began to unload the packages on to the table.
“No nine-forty,” he repeated in his normal slow, calm tones. “And I felt hungry, but I didn’t want to eat alone on my birthday, so I thought you might let me spend the night on your sofa, and in case you hadn’t eaten, I brought ham and tongue and salad and some rather good Jewish bread and some Boursault cheese which I know you like, and some olives ... I think those ought to be put into a dish, don’t you?” he asked Angela.
She brought, wordlessly, dishes and plates and then began mechanically to lay the table. Rodney placed on it the two bottles.
“Champagne. A nice thought,” he said.
“Birthday thought,” Oliver told him. “I felt that—”
He stopped. From the kitchen had come the sound of breaking crockery.
“Women at work,” Rodney said. “Go and investigate.”
Oliver went, and did not return. It was Rodney’s turn to investigate. He went to the door of the kitchen, looked in, stood transfixed and then withdrew. The picture, he thought, would remain with him till he died: Oliver Tallent at the sink, washing a lettuce—the first domestic task he had ever been known to engage in. Rodney carried the suitcase to Nicola’s room and put clean sheets on the bed. He probably wouldn’t stay to wash many lettuces, he mused, but here was proof of something he had always suspected: that if you did a thing badly enough, someone was certain to turn up and do the job for you.
They took their places round the table. Angela had scarcely spoken. But when she took her glass from Oliver, she addressed him in a tone of regret.
“If only...”
“If only what?” Oliver asked.
“If I’d known you were coming,” she told him, “I’d have—”
“—burnt a cake,” said Rodney.
Chapter 11
Waking early the next morning, Rodney followed his usual Saturday-morning practice of taking an extra half hour in bed and then breakfasting in his dressing-gown. This morning, he had company: Angela, also in a dressing-gown, and Oliver fully dressed. Old home week, Rodney thought, as they sat down at table, and inwardly saluted his sister for not having made the smallest change in her normal early-morning appearance—which, now he came to look at it, wasn’t unattractive.
When the telephone rang some time later, they were still seated round the table. Angela took the call, put her hand over the mouthpiece and signalled to Rodney. He got up and took the receiver from her.
“Potsy,” she said in an undertone.
At the same moment, Signor Piozzi spoke.
“Mr. Laird? Madame has wished me to ask you to make her a visit—today, Monday, whichever you will. She has to speak with you. This is all right?”
Rodney, on the point of saying that he would go on Monday, hesitated. There would be time before Monday to find out something from Nicola. On the other hand, it might be better...
“I’ll be round about midday,” he told Signor Piozzi. “Will that time suit Madame?”
“One moment, please.” After a pause: “Madame begs that you will take lunch with her.”
“I’m very grateful, but I’m not free for lunch, I’m afraid, please make my excuses. I’ll be there at twelve. Goodbye.”
“Is she going back to work?” Oliver asked, as Rodney went back to the table.
“No idea. Why couldn’t she have asked Nicola to do the telephoning, instead of Piozzi?”
Nobody could answer this. Rodney finished his coffee, had a bath and when he was dressed came into the living room to find that Angela had made her plans for the morning.
“I’m going to the station with Oliver. I’ll come back by bus. I won’t want lunch; we’re going to have an early lunch before Oliver gets his train.”
They left within the hour. Rodney, standing on the landing, called down his final instructions to Oliver.
“Don’t come back until you’ve got in touch with me and I’ve told you it’s all right,” he ordered. “
Keep in touch anyway.”
When he rang the bell at Madame Landini’s house, no questions were asked; he was admitted, and led not to the office nor to Madame’s sitting room, but to the drawing room. She was alone, seated at a desk near one of the long windows, writing; on his entrance she turned and offered a hand.
“It was good of you to come, Rodney. I shall call you this now; we are friends, isn’t that true? We have known each other quite a long time.”
She rose and walked to a more comfortable chair, and motioned him to seat himself close by.
“This is Saturday, so you shouldn’t be working,” she said. “On that account, I am not going to keep you long. I want to say only this: that I am better. I have spoken to my doctor, and he is willing to let me make the experiment of going back to my memoirs. He has warned me that I must be careful; I am to do a little at a time, with intervals for rest. In that case, you can understand that it would be useless for me to keep a secretary. Miss Baird would find it very trying to her patience to have to work in—how shall we say it?—in fits and starts. I spoke with Signor Piozzi, and between us we had a very good idea: I shall not have a secretary; I shall have a dictaphone. At any time of the day, I can speak into it; there will be no feeling of having to make an effort to work because a secretary is waiting. I will send the results to your office, where they can be typed by one of your staff.” She leaned back and spread her still-beautiful hands. “Now tell me, do you like this idea?”
He answered unhesitatingly. “Very much indeed.”
“Good. That makes me very happy. It distressed me very much, Rodney, to break off in the middle, as I was forced to do. When I begin something, something which is worthwhile and I hope we can agree that my memoirs are worthwhile—then I like to finish to the very end.”
“I hope you’ll be careful not to overwork.”
“Certainly I will be careful. I will not only have intervals of rest, I will make time in which to enjoy myself. I think you know that His Highness is staying with me? His two little grandsons are going very soon to an English school; their parents are not here to arrange this, so His Highness is doing it all. Of course, Guido is helping him, and they both like to give my advice, so you see that I shall have much to amuse me at the times that I am not writing. And now, there is one her little matter. But first, let me offer you something to drink.”
“Thank you, no. I’m afraid I haven’t much time, if I’m to be punctual for my appointment.”
“Are you going out of town?”
“No.”
“I won’t keep you.” She rose and pulled the bell cord. “I only want to tell you that this morning, Miss Baird went away. It is not her fault that I’m changing to a dictaphone; she has worked for me very well, and I decided to give her a little present—Guido has arranged it. I also gave her my promise to recommend her to other employers; this will help her to get a good post, which she deserves. She is quite efficient, though I think there is a little lack of what I call deportment. Do you agree?”
He smiled. “No, I don’t think I do.”
She studied him, her glance maternal.
“Ah! Let me give you some advice,” she said. “Do not, I beg you, involve yourself with the pretty Nicola.” She laid a kindly hand on his arm. “You are going to be a man of some importance one day, of this I’m sure, and you must look for a wife who is not only pretty, but of good antecedents. A pastry-cook is very useful, but not—ah no! —not as a father-in-law. Try to remember this. You must find a woman like Miss Gould, who was introduced to me at a reception the other day. She told me that she is engaged to Mr. Tallent.”
“Not any more.”
“But surely... They’ve quarrelled?”
“You could call it that. She didn’t like the flowers he sent her, so she threw them at him in front of a room full of guests.”
“Poor Mr. Tallent. Tell him that I have had flowers thrown at me, many times—but if flowers are to be thrown, they must be thrown in a proper spirit. He—”
She paused; the door had opened. But it was not, as Rodney expected, a footman to show him out. Coming into the room was the Maharajah, dressed in a conventional suit but not looking as much like everybody else as he had claimed to do. Anywhere, in any clothes, Rodney thought that he would be outstanding.
“It’s Mr. Laird,” he said at once. “Anna, you’re not allowing him to go away?”
“Yes, he must. He has an appointment. Goodbye, Rodney.”
Conducted to the hall and ushered out, he found his mind busy. Madame had said it wouldn’t do, which was kind of her, because she had brought home to him the fact that it would do very well indeed. He and the pastrycook’s daughter had worked together, plotted together, lived together; all that was now required was to change the angle: from brother-sister to husband-wife. She hadn’t shown any sign of singling him out from his fellows, but then, he hadn’t asked her to. He wondered uneasily if he ought to have given his feelings more rein; perhaps a man’s dreams of a future with a particular girl, however vague they might be, should be shared with the particular girl.
On the way home, he stopped at a sandwich bar. He ate slowly; either he had a touch of indigestion, he thought, or there was too much excitement crowding into his life. Or perhaps he was going to get an ulcer worrying about Angela; had Oliver had a lesson that would send him back to old and tried friends, or would he lick his wounds down at Oxford and return to pick up a successor to Pauline and Cynthia and Henrietta?
He got to the house just before three. Mrs. Major’s dustbin was once again placed squarely outside the Grelby’s door. Once again, he carried it back. Remembering the flower boxes still in the back of his car, he took them out and raised the dustbin lid to deposit them on top of the litter. Going up the stairs, he heard voices—Angela’s, and Nicola’s. Nicola was back—he almost said home.
Home or not, the voices, he realised as he put his key in the door, were raised—one in anger, one in protest. He paused and unashamedly listened.
“But suppose”—Angela spoke through tears—“suppose he never asks me again?”
“You’ll be no worse off.”
“All I said was that I’d go down tomorrow and spend the day with him and—”
“You’ll ring him up and tell him you’re sorry, but you forgot you had a date.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to go, just this once.”
“It would be fatal. For Pete’s sake, Angela, use your head if you’ve got one. Go to that phone and call it off.”
“He’s terribly lonely.”
“Good. Can’t you learn sense? You’ve got him ... if you keep your head. He was humiliated in front of a lot of Henrietta’s friends, and he came here to cheer himself up, and through the champagne bubbles he suddenly saw you as desirable. If you accept this, the first invitation he’s thrown at you in all the time you’ve been living under his nose in London, it’ll be what I said: fatal. He’ll ask you once or twice more, he’ll enjoy your company, and then he’ll get involved with someone else, and this time he mightn’t get away. Your one chance, your only chance, is to pin him down while you’ve got him—which is now.”
“But if I don’t go down to Oxford for the day, he’ll—”
“He’ll be surprised. Then he’ll be sorry. Then he’ll wonder whether you’ve got over your passion for him, which’ll make him wonder whether he’s losing his magnetism, which will make him anxious to see you again and try to make an impression. Go to that phone and tell him you can’t go, because you made a date with someone else.”
“But I didn’t!”
“All the more reason to make it sound convincing. If he suggests coming up to London, stall; say you’ve got a full week and perhaps if he rings on, say, Thursday, you might be able to tell him when you’ll have a free day.”
“But I want—”
“I know what you want. You want to sit mooning beside the phone waiting for him to call, and ready and willing to do whatever he suggests. I’m onl
y—”
“Am I interrupting?” Rodney asked, entering. “I would have come in before, but the conversation kept me riveted.”
“Then you heard what she’s been saying,” Angela said tearfully. “I daresay she’s right, but he’s there at Oxford all alone, and—”
“What we all need,” Rodney said, “is a nice cuppa. Go and make it.”
She dried her eyes and went into the kitchen. They heard her putting on a kettle and getting out tea cups.
“Everything I told you was true,” Nicola said, from the sofa. “If she doesn’t rush at him, he’s hers. I suppose you’re on his side?”
“Why does a man have to be played, like a salmon?”
“A man doesn’t. A real man knows when he wants a girl, and he goes after her and tells her so, but that’s not the kind this man is. Henrietta got him by tying him up before he knew what was happening. If Angela wants him, she won’t get him by making it easy.”
“Is this the method you’ll apply when you go after a man?”
“I don’t go. He comes.”
“And if he shows any initial signs of uncertainty, what does he have to do to achieve his object?”
“He has to wait. He has to wonder, and worry, and stay awake at night, and walk to the edge of a cliff and stand there wondering whether to take the next, the final, the fatal step. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and pack. I’m late.”
“What for?”
“My train.”
“Where are you going?”
“Down to Brighton.”
“Without stopping to say one word about what happened at Madame Landini’s?”
“Nothing happened. She held it in her hand, she gave it back to me, I put it on.”
“She said nothing?”
“She murmured something to the effect that it was an interesting watch. That was all. If I had to reconstruct—and you know how good I am at reconstructing—I’d admit that for a person merely looking at a watch, however interesting, she held it a long time. Otherwise, nothing—until last night, when she sent for me, thanked me, told me that she and Signor Piozzi between them had adopted a suggestion I made day or two ago—only she didn’t acknowledge that the suggestion came from me—to use a dictaphone, and she would be sorry to lose me, but any time I went after a job that looked a little out of my reach, just refer them to her and she’d fix it, and she had told Guido to arrange a little present, and goodbye. The little present was a cheque for one hundred pounds, which is even better than Angela’s record of something for nothing. And that’s the end of my glimpse of life as lived by the rich and famous. Now could I go and get ready?”
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