In Bed with Mr. Plantagenet

by Deanna Maclaren

  He hoped the baby was a girl, a sister for Daniel. He’d said to Pixie, what shall we call her and she said at once, ‘Lily, of course. That was your Nan’s name, wasn’t it? Lily.’

  Jack went out into the freezing London night and began the walk back to the Albany club. He couldn’t help wondering what on earth was going on Chez Millard.

  Eugenie and Andrew were not, unusually, Chez Millard. They had arrived at Medway Mansions. Andrew had pinned her down on the taxi floor all the way there.

  As the cab stopped, the driver shook his head as Andrew made to get his wallet out. ‘Catch up with you later, Andy.’

  The driver watched as Andrew dragged the girl out of the cab, across the drive and past the impassive caretaker, who had opened the front door. That Andy, thought the driver. His women! Got his hands full with this one, though. Looked a right firebrand. Looked all set to knee him in the goolies.

  Andrew had never been to Eugenie’s apartment before, but he knew it was on the first floor. Determined not to let go of her, he carted her up the stairs and at the top snapped, ‘Doorkey.’

  Out of breath, she handed it to him. Once in the apartment, he seemed to know instinctively where her bedroom was. Expertly, he stripped off her clothes and threw her on the bed.

  ‘Andrew,’ she gasped, ‘I don’t know what all this is about. You’ve always been so nice.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘So now you’re going to see what the un-nice Andrew is like.’

  And he unbuckled his belt.

  *

  That Sunday was to prove memorable for all three of the people who had dined at Chez Victor.

  Jack had the best of it. Having powered through his very first breakfast meeting at the Savoy, he took a taxi to Heathrow and was back in the south of France just on one o’clock.

  He was met at Nice airport not by Kit, but Kit’s wife. She came rushing up. ‘It’s all right, Jack! It’s all right! Pixie. The baby came early. And it’s a girl, Jack. You’ve got a daughter! Pixie’s fine, the baby’s fine. Kit’s with them at the hospital.’

  Jack collapsed against Liz’s comforting bosom. He couldn’t hold back the tears. Lily, his little Lily was safe. And her dad, Jack Tuggle, was a sentimental old fool.

  *

  For Andrew Millard, it was the day he got flung out of Eugenie’s apartment.

  Eugenie heaved her aching body out of the bath, from which she’d screamed at Andrew to get out of her home. What on earth to wear? Not jeans, nothing tight, not with these bruises. She’d liked to have slopped around in a dressing gown, but she had work to do and on a point of principle she refused to sit at her desk if she wasn’t properly dressed.

  Finally, she settled on a wrap-round soft velvet skirt and a loose, cashmere jumper. She went to her study, took the cover off her Adler and began to write about Cass Collier and what the hell, what the hell had got into Andrew last night? He was a man of the world. He had women all over the place. He’d admitted he’d first screwed all the Duty Sisters at the Middlesex when they were trainee nurses, and they had, er, remained friends.

  Cass Collier. Concentrate. I am never seeing Andrew again. Not after this. But of course, he’s Irish. What else do you expect? All that charm, that smooth sophistication, and underneath it all he was nothing but an Irish lout.

  At four o’clock a cross Mrs Davenport arrived to announce that Mr Plantagenet was waiting to be collected from the Carlton Clinic. And she’d better take him some clothes. The clinic had been obliged to incinerate the ones he was found in.

  In the cab, Eugenie was thinking about the last time she’d been in the Carlton Clinic.

  She was ten, and had her tonsils out. Her mother popped in every day, armed with flowers, fruit and gossip about Medway Mansions.

  Golden rod had sprung up in the garden and had immediately been turfed up by the caretaker. He didn’t take to flowers, especially golden rod which spread, and turned rusty. The window-cleaner had been fired, and no replacement had been found. As she spoke, and arranged the flowers, Marisa was also inspecting the room and redoing her hair in the bathroom mirror.

  On Sunday afternoon, after her mother had rushed off to a ‘luncheon appointment, darling, at Claridges,’ Eugenie was lying in a peaceful doze when a hesitant tap on the door admitted the vicar.

  ‘Not disturbing you I hope, Miss Dare?’

  Eugenie, who could speak reasonably well now, pretended she couldn’t and carried on spooning up her ice-cream before it melted. She was amazed that her mother had actually remembered to ask for the wooden spoon, along with the tub of ice-cream.

  ‘May I sit down?’

  Eugenie nodded. Didn’t feel she had any choice. What was he doing here? She didn’t go to church. Why wasn’t he in a vicarage, preparing a sermon? Wasn’t that dog-collar choking him? Could girls become vicars?

  The vicar was looking appreciatively round the bright, flower-filled room. ‘Lots of visitors, I expect? Your schoolfriends.’

  Eugenie shook her head. None of the boys or girls in her Primary school had come to see her because their mothers believed that tonsilitis, like measles, was catching.

  When the vicar of St. Marylebone had gone, the Irish nurse who Eugenie liked, popped her head round the door. ‘How was God?’

  ‘He left me the parish magazine.’

  ‘Saints defend us! Haven’t you any comics?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve read them all.’

  The nurse came in and riffled in Eugenie’s bedside locker. ‘Here. This looks interesting.’

  It was a monthly magazine called Young Elizabethan. It contained articles about worthy people, like Suffragets, and lots about Life in Other Countries. Eugenie always went in for the competition, which was based on your comprehension of what you read, and of course was cunningly designed to ensure you studied the magazine from cover to cover. Even aged ten, Eugenie wasn’t fooled for a moment about that.

  What really annoyed her, though, was that quite often the competition (and the book token prize) was won by someone called Helen Diamond. Eugenie hoped that one day she would meet Helen Diamond, so she could give her a socking black eye.

  ‘Ah, there you are at last, Mrs Plantagenet.’

  Mrs Davenport was manning the reception desk. She pushed a yellow form across the desk at Eugenie. ‘Your signature, please. We can’t let patients leave with just anyone. And print your name underneath.’

  ‘But you know my name.’

  ‘I have to follow the rules. Thankyou.’ She scrutinised the yellow form. ‘This seems satisfactory. You will find your husband in Room 24. Take the lift to the second floor, and turn to the right.’

  Eugenie’s knock on the Room 24 door was answered by a nurse, in Carlton Clinic blue.

  ‘You’re his wife! We’ve been waiting for you. He’s been Got Up and we gave him a bath…’ She ran on, as if David wasn’t there, sitting in the same sort of armchair that the vicar had sat on.

  Eugenie grinned at him, as she went across. ‘Hello, David. I hear you’ve been chucked out.’

  Her husband gave her a weak smile. He looked dreadful. His face had the pallor of undercooked pastry, and in the thin robe they’d put him in, he was sweating.

  ‘I didn’t bring any day clothes,’ Eugenie told him. She’d realised that a passionate reunion greeting was out of the question, and the best thing was to stay quietly practical. With the nurse’s help, she dressed David in pyjamas, a dressing gown, and his slippers. He’d filled out physically, she realised. His legs and chest were much more muscular than when he’d gone away.

  ‘I told the taxi to wait,’ she informed the nurse, ‘but I expect we can get him to it in a wheelchair.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ The nurse looked stricken. ‘We’re only allowed to use wheelchairs for patients who can’t actually walk.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ Eugenie flared. ‘He’s ill. He should still be in bed. You should be looking after him.’

  ‘We need the bed,’ the nurse said.
‘People are dying of That Flu. Come on. I’ll help you.’

  Together, they got David to the taxi. The driver, accustomed to lucrative Harley Street tips from grateful invalids, helped him into the cab. On the way, Eugenie held his hand, and just said, ‘Nearly home.’

  Her head was teeming with questions. How had he got That English Flu when he’d been in Peking? How had he got home? When? Why had he been found lying in Park Lane? Why had they had to burn his clothes?

  But not now. Not now. Wait.

  The caretaker opened the taxi door as Eugenie was paying.

  ‘Nice to have you back, sir,’ the caretaker said to David.

  ‘He’s got That Flu,’ Eugenie told him.

  ‘Well you won’t get it, Miss. Husbands and wives, they never get ill at the same time. Law of the jungle, you might say.’

  Eugenie was relieved to get David, at last, into bed. At least Andrew had been considerate enough, before he made his enforced exit, to change the sheets.

  She fetched David a hot toddy of whisky, lemon and honey. She sat on the edge of the bed and had one herself. It was then that she noticed something was missing.

  ‘David, where’s your rucksack?’

  ‘Oh,’ he whispered. ‘At Art’s.’

  ‘At Art’s! You mean you’ve been to see Art?’

  ‘Well of course I have. When I heard –’

  ‘How did you hear? Don’t tell me they sell Stet magazine, in English, in Peking?’

  ‘No. Minty’s father rang the embassy. Told them to find me. Minty’s mother had been speaking to – Mr Carter. They had to send a search party. The embassy had to. To find me. Then …’ his voice faded. Eugenie held the glass to his lips. ‘I started – I started straight back. The embassy lent me some money. But it took some time. I had to come through Hong Kong.’

  ‘And you went to see Art, before you thought to see me?’

  ‘Course. Art’s my blood brother.’

  And I’m your wife.

  Chapter Eleven

  Andrew Millard went to the Albany club and swam, furiously trying to get away from himself. He was hoping to run into Jack Tuggle, to apologise for sticking him with the Chez Victor bill, but was told at the reception desk that Mr Tuggle had checked out.

  On Monday morning he strode into the office and barked at Mrs Armstrong to field all calls. He shut his office door, and sat with his head in his hands. He felt filthy. Just filthy. He wished he was anyone but himself. He wished he didn’t have to live with the memory of what he’d done on Saturday night.

  Marsha, his best and brightest girl, stuck her attractive head round the door. ‘Can I get you a coffee, Mr Millard?’

  ‘No! Get out!’

  Marsha retreated, no doubt to inform her colleagues that the boss was in a foul mood. He buzzed the outer office and asked for an invitation to Paula Montgomery’s book launch to be sent in.

  A moment later, Mrs Armstrong’s timid assistant appeared. ‘Mr Millard, did you want an envelope as well?’

  Andrew felt a storm of rage engulf him. ‘Of course I want a fucking envelope! What do you think I am, a fucking carrier pigeon?’

  She backed out. A moment later, Mrs Armstrong appeared and laid before Andrew the invitation and the envelope. Then she said crisply, ‘And Mr Millard, I must ask you not to swear at my assistant. She’s not used to it. She’s very upset.’

  Andrew gave an inward groan as Mrs Armstrong departed. How many more women could he possibly upset? Why didn’t he just go out into the street now, grab a passing woman, shove her in a shop doorway and rape her?

  No, no. Got to apologise to that typist. There would be a deathly silence from all the other offices, signalling that his staff were listening intently. Hell. Better go and do it.

  He had just got to the point, with the tearful typist, where he was emphasising what a valued member of the team she was, when Mrs Armstrong shot to her feet. This could only mean one thing. Patric Ryan, the man Andrew still thought of as his boss, had arrived.

  Patric followed his partner into his office, took one look at his face, and hustled him out.

  ‘Can’t say I want to meet with this Bassett woman, so glad to have you on board, Andrew. Mrs Armstrong, what have we got on Lady Bassett?’

  Mrs Armstrong, who was in charge of the diary, knew there was no meeting scheduled with anyone called Bassett. But she could play the game.

  ‘Lady Bassett, of the licquorice allsorts, is very friendly with Lady Lyle, of Tate and Lyle, the golden syrup.’

  Patric grinned at her. Definitely her best yet.

  He got Andrew into a taxi and gave an address in Dean Street, Soho. Andrew stared with unseeing eyes at all the rubbish piled up in the streets. To save electricity, Britain had been put on a three-day working week.

  Patric waited.

  ‘Oh God,’ Andrew said. ‘I just got torn off a strip by Mrs Armstrong. For swearing at her typist.’

  Patric laughed.

  ‘I mean,’ Andrew went on, ‘when I think what Eugenie has to put up with from that jerk she works for. He thinks everyone’s name is Cock.’

  ‘Who’s Eugenie?’

  ‘The girl I beat up on Saturday night.’

  Patric didn’t say any more until they were in a Dean Street club known to both of them as the place you could never find when you were sober. It was the club where, years before, Patric Ryan, the debonair man-about-town, had told Andrew he was going to marry Paula Montgomery.

  Without being asked, the barman, who was also Irish, brought pints of Guinness to the corner table. Andrew and Patric were the only members in. Later, the place would be heaving with the theatre crowd, fresh off the stage, adrenalin still pumping.

  ‘Darling, did you see my exit in the Second? Bloody door stuck so what did I do? Just stepped out through the bloody window!’

  ‘You were marvellous, darling. Just marvellous!’

  And if she’d been lousy, you just followed Noel Coward’s lead, rushed into the dressing room and exclaimed, ‘Darling, you’ve done it again!’

  ‘The thing is,’ Patric said to Andrew, ‘a lot of women like it rough. I’ve heard women say, I know he still loves me, because he still beats me.’

  ‘So have I. They’re usually American, and usually black. Eugenie’s neither.’

  ‘How did this all start, on Saturday night?’

  ‘I’d bumped into Jack Tuggle at the Albany. Invited him along to supper, to meet Eugenie.’

  ‘Don’t tell me Tuggle made a pass at her?’

  ‘No, no. I don’t think he can see beyond Pixie. Eugenie was late. She’d been to interview that Cass Collier phoney. She’s Evie Dare, you see. She works on that magazine, Stet.’

  ‘Oh, we have that at the villa. Paula loves it. We don’t see enough of you at the villa, Andrew.’

  That was because Andrew couldn’t trust himself to keep his hands off Ryan’s wife.

  ‘So Collier made a pass at her and then I discovered she’d gone to interview him wearing no underwear. Just some damned black stockings. Something snapped. I dragged her back to her place and belted hell out of her. Then I did all those things you know you shouldn’t do to a woman, unless she specifically asks you. I did them anyway. Then when I’d finished, finally, she threw me out. I mean, before I went, at least I was decent enough to change her sheets. Had to. Looked as if someone had given birth in that bed.’

  The barman came across with two more pints of Guinness and a plate of cheese sandwiches. Patric said,

  ‘So you rang her and –’

  ‘No. First of all there was another power cut and – no I didn’t. I didn’t ring. I meant to, I knew I ought to, but I couldn’t think what to say.’

  ‘Come on, man. You’re Irish. We can always think of something to say. I sometimes think even Mrs Armstrong has a touch of the little people about her.’

  He excused himself to visit the john. When he returned, Andrew was peering into the juke box. ‘You won’t believe this, Patric. They�
�ve got a Kit Rowledge record. I remember seeing him in Hamburg. Do you know, people in Hamburg are dotty about marzipan fruits. They eat more marzipan in Hamburg than anywhere else in the world.’

  Patric guided his partner back to his seat, and indicated to the barman that a couple of chasers were needed. Two shot-glasses of Irish whiskey were brought at once.

  ‘So you didn’t phone her?’ Patric pressed on.

  ‘I didn’t think Sorry quite fitted the bill. I mean, it’s just not enough, is it?’

  ‘It would have been a start.’

  ‘Well I didn’t get the chance. Because she rang me, that evening. Very precise, very Charlotte Brontë. ‘I am ringing,’ she said, ‘just to let you know that my husband has returned to me.’ Just that. ‘My husband has returned to me.’

  ‘Husband? You’ve been dating a married woman?’

  ‘He went away, round the world. I just, you know, I was the one who kept Eugenie company.’

  Patric sat back in his seat and regarded his friend, his partner, with affection.

  ‘It sounds to me, Andrew old son, as if you’ve fallen in love. Big time.’

  Andrew downed his whiskey. The barman brought two more. The barman knew these characters. They were capable of drinking whiskey all day, and still be able to walk in a straight line.

  ‘Well?’ Patric said.

  Andrew’s face softened. ‘Yeah. I love her. She’s just got everything. Brains, fantastic good looks, fantastic body, fantastic in bed…’

  ‘Now how old is she, and the husband?’

  ‘She’s twenty-eight. He’s twenty-one.’

  ‘Twenty-one. Lead in his pencil, then.’

  ‘There’s lead in mine!’ Andrew shot back, to Patric’s satisfaction. He’d known, right off, how to handle this situation. Get Andrew out of the office, and to a place of safety. Listen. Learn exactly what had happened. Then nettle the guy. Stiffen him up.

  ‘And you’re pushing forty, Andrew. What are you going to do?’

  ‘My first move was to send her an invitation to Paula’s launch. I’ve got to go right back to the beginning with Eugenie. Be the type of guy she was first attracted to.’