by Jon Cleary
“I know someone like that, a paraplegic.”
“Yes, well, they have it far worse than I’ve got it. I complained because I had no shoes, till I met a man who had no feet. So please don’t let’s mention it again, okay? Now get dressed. I have tickets for the Centre Court at Wimbledon, we’ll see the women’s final.”
“I have a press ticket—” She had intended going to Wimbledon. She was no tennis fan, no sports fan at all; the fervour of crowds for their team or favourite to win only amused her; sport for her was something one did for exercise. But Evonne Goolagong was playing Billie Jean King and, feeling a welling of nationalism, as if someone had waved a bunch of gum-leaves under her nose, she had decided to go and wish the best of Aussie luck to the young Australian girl.
“Forget work,” Alain said, misunderstanding her. “You’re my guest for the day. I was your guest in New York, remember? Get dressed while I order a car. We’ll go down to Maidenhead for lunch first.”
Jack had left her the Rolls-Royce and Sid Cromwell, but she decided she would give Sid the day off and rang him in the penthouse flat to tell him so. It was partly goodwill, a de facto employer being generous to the worker; but she knew that it was also circumspection, that she did not want Sid wondering why she was going out with another man, a young man at that, while the boss was away. There would be no harm in what she was doing, but it was better that no harm might be suspected.
So she let Alain order a chauffeur-driven car while she got ready. She didn’t dress hurriedly but took her time, telling herself that she was not going to rush and give him the impression that she was eager to go out with him. She also, however, took her time about making the most of her face and hair and choosing her wardrobe. She wore a Givenchy silk suit that was both casual and dressy, open-toed Italian sandals and a handbag to match with a Givenchy silk scarf tied to the handle. Just what any girl would throw on for a rushed invitation to lunch at a Wimpy bar and a run round the roller-skating rink afterwards.
They drove out into the country in the hired Daimler and from the moment they had turned out of St. James’s Place Cleo felt no guilt: it was as if while in her flat she had been aware of Jack jealously watching her. Even as they were driving down Piccadilly, still within sight of the western side of the apartment building, she was relaxed. By the time they were on the M4 motorway she hadn’t a care or another beau in the world. Alain, though she didn’t tell him so, was her boy friend for the day.
Ah, but there was another beau . . . Over lunch at the restaurant on the river Alain said, “Did you know Tom Border has written a novel?”
“I never hear from Tom.” She said it non-committally, as if Tom were no more than another journalist she had met on their working rounds.
“Oh. I thought after that experience you two had—” But if he suspected there might have been more between them, he gave no further hint of it. “Well, he’s written a novel based on that.”
“Am I in it?” she asked cautiously, as if afraid of libel. Or worse: like having Tom tell the world he loved her.
“I don’t know, I haven’t read it. But it’s been accepted by Exeter House—that’s the publishing house we own. They’ve given him a twenty-five-thousand-dollar advance, which is pretty good for a first novel. Farquhars are doing it over here. It’ll be out next spring. The chief editor at Exeter told me they expect big things of it. The paperback rights are going up for auction and the book clubs and Hollywood are already asking to look at it.”
“Good for Tom. I hope success doesn’t spoil him.”
“I don’t think so.” He gave her a quick glance, then went back to his Dover sole. “I’ve never met anyone so laid back as Tom. As if he really doesn’t care about the world or what it thinks of him!”
“Does that sort of attitude suit a stuffy newspaper like the Courier?”
He put a hand to his breast. “You’ve just stabbed the Brisson family pride. Mother thinks the Courier is the only honest paper in America.”
“It may well be. But it’s still stuffy, isn’t it?”
“Stuffy as hell.”
“Why don’t you do something about it?”
“I’m still too far down the totem-pole. But some day . . .” Then he lifted his wine glass. “You’re the best-looking woman in this restaurant, do you know that? Maybe not the most beautiful, but easily the best-looking.”
“Is there a difference?”
“In a man’s eyes, yes.”
He put his hand on hers and she lifted her glass and poured a little cold wine on it. “Cool down, sport.”
He grinned, licking the wine from the back of his hand. “You’re laid back, too, aren’t you?”
Not really, not when Tom was mentioned. “Laid back, but not to be laid.”
“Oh, clev-er. You’ve been saving that up for someone like me.”
But he was not put out, he was enjoying being with her too much. He had gone across to her flat this morning looking for no more than a good-looking girl, one he remembered with some good feeling, to take out for the day. Now he was falling in love; or at least he had stumbled and had yet to regain his balance. The walking stick would be no help to him.
They drove back up to Wimbledon, took their seats, excellent ones, amongst the crowd on the Centre Court. The two women players came out, the champion looking relaxed and carefree, the challenger looking determined and tense. Cleo, ambitious in everything except sport felt her sympathy go out for Goolagong, not because she was an Australian but because she seemed as if she had put the match in its proper perspective: it was only a game, it was not the end of the world. Of course if she lost there would be people back home who would hint that you could never rely on an aboriginal, he or she could never be expected to respect the things that counted. Whereas King, coming from the United States which had a proper sense of values, knew that achievement was everything. All at once Cleo thought that Tom had an aboriginal’s approach to life: he would rather go walkabout than climb the ladder . . .
Goolagong tried hard, laughed and shook her head at her own mistakes; but on the day King was the better player, knew she was going to win. Australians in the crowd groaned and grew morose as their heroine went down; but Cleo felt only sympathy for the aboriginal girl of whom too much was expected. Goolagong would be disappointed at losing, but tomorrow she would be laughing again, while on the other side of the world Australia would go into another of its depressions at losing a sporting event. King, meanwhile, would already be practising for the next tournament.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so jubilant,” said Alain. “I’m waving the damned flag too much. But Billie Jean was good, wasn’t she?”
Have I been like Billie Jean? Cleo wondered. For four years now she had been an achiever. But once she had been as carefree as Evonne, had laughed and looked on tomorrow as another day distinct from today: life then had been a dream, but not an ambitious one. She was still an achiever, still aiming for the title; but what title? Certainly not Lady Cruze. Editor of the Examiner? Yes, but Jack would not allow that for another ten years, if ever. She was on the Centre Court of Fleet Street with no racquet and no balls . . . That, of course, was the trouble. She would have had no problem if she had had balls.
“Cleo?”
“What? Oh sorry. I—I was thinking I might do a piece on Evonne.”
“Why not on the winner? Or are you being chauvinistic?” Then he pressed her hand. “I’m sorry, I’m rubbing it in.”
“Are you going to do a piece on Billie Jean?” She glanced up and saw a television cameraman, looking for reaction now the action on court was over, aiming his camera at her. Her first reaction was to smile: but she wasn’t on Scope now.
“No, we have our own man here somewhere. I’m on vacation, like I told you. I go over to Germany tomorrow, to Heidelberg, to spend a few days with my uncle and aunt. Then I’m going down to Italy. I haven’t been there since I was a kid, with my mother. Would you like to come with me?”
S
he saw the question was serious, but she managed to laugh it off. “My editor wouldn’t give me the time off.” Neither would Jack, the boss.
They made their way through the crowd to the car park, not waiting to see the men’s doubles. People recognized her and gave her hesitant friendly smiles, as if afraid of being rebuffed for their intrusion; she smiled back, liking the attention. She had geared the pace of her stride to that of his limp. Instinctively she walked on his stick side, as if to ward off people who might bump against him and whip the stick from under him. He had looked so handsome and young and alive when sitting beside her in the car, at lunch and in the tennis stadium. But now he was a young man with so much of his life behind him and the handsome brow was furrowed as if he felt vulnerable in the crowd.
“Dinner?” he said.
“Yes.” She almost said Of course, as if it were the most natural thing that they should finish the day in such a way. She had been surprised at how much she had enjoyed his company; she could not remember having given him a single thought since she had seen him last. But he made no demands on her, he was not possessive, he was just attentive and charming. And young. “There’s a place called the White Tower—if we mention my name we might get in—”
“Your choice. I chose the restaurant in New York. How will eight o’clock do? This—” he tapped his leg “—gets a bit tired when I’ve been on it all day. I’ll have a bath and a nap.”
They got out of the car and stood beside each other for a moment. She looked at him, grateful for the day, then she made one of her old affectionate gestures and touched him on the cheek. “It’s been a lovely day.”
He smiled, kissed the back of her hand. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Then he limped across to the Stafford. She watched him go, then went up to her flat. She opened the front door and went in and at once felt there was someone else there in the flat. It was a most peculiar feeling, like hearing a silent whisper in one’s head.
“Jack?”
There was no answer and, when she went through the other rooms, no sign of anyone. She went back to the front door to check for marks, to see if someone had somehow forced their way in; there were no marks at all. She closed the door, locking it; then went through the flat again, checking if anything was missing; but nothing was. Finally she rang down to the hall porter.
“Mr. Bligh, has Lord Cruze returned?”
“Not as I know, miss. I was away for a coupla hours this afternoon, I just this minute got back—”
“Is anyone else in the building?”
“No, miss. Everyone’s gone away for the weekend. You’re the only one home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bligh.”
She put down the phone, then dialled the penthouse number. She let the phone ring, but there was no answer. She replaced it, then dialled St. Aidan’s House.
“Lord Cruze’s residence.”
“Who’s that?”
“It’s the coachman. There’s no one else here—”
“Tim, this is Miss Spearfield. Is Lord Cruze there?”
“No, miss. He’s in America, isn’t he?” His puzzlement was plain even over the phone. “I come up here today to do some work on the carriages, His Lordship wants to drive ‘em next weekend—”
She hung up, annoyed at herself for her unease. It was guilt she had felt, not a presence in the flat. She had wondered why Sid or Mrs. Cromwell hadn’t answered the phone either in the penthouse flat or down at St. Aidan’s House. Then she remembered that Sid had told her, when she had given him the day off, that he and the missus would go out to Chalfont St. Aidan and visit their son and daughter-in-law. They would stay at the big house tonight and come back to London tomorrow afternoon, if that was all right with her. His Lordship, Sid had said, would be in Monday and he’d be out at Heathrow to pick him up. All that had been in the back of her mind, like loose change in a purse, when she had come in the front door. But something, conscience or fear of Jack’s finding out she had been with Alain, had warned her that she was not to take advantage of being unobserved.
She bathed, lay on her bed for a couple of hours, then got up and dressed. She made herself up even more carefully than she had this morning, chose her dress with an eye to what it would do for her figure; she was not going out tonight amongst older people, she would not be expected to be modest about what she had to show. The dress was the one she had worn to her first dinner party as hostess for Jack; she had not dressed for a date with such anticipation in far too long. It struck her that she had never had the opportunity to dress like this for a dinner with Tom.
Alain had kept the Daimler and the driver. He was waiting beside the car as the hall porter opened the front doors for Cleo. As she came down the steps to him he whistled softly. “As I used to say in my uncouth college days—wow-eee!”
Bligh had come down the steps to help them both into the car. He was an ex-army sergeant who had once known his way round a lot of women but was now confined to barracks by a commanding wife. Looking at Miss Spearfield he wished he was a young recruit again, a rich one. “Have a nice evening, miss. You’ve got your front door key? I go off this evening at ten.”
“Yes, thank you, Bligh.”
As they drove away Alain said, “You have a conquest back there. Hasn’t he seen you dressed up like this before?”
If Bligh had, he’d kept his enthusiasm from showing. But then, dressed up, she had always been going out with His Lordship.
The White Tower was crowded, mostly, it seemed, with American film people. She recognized several whom she had interviewed and nodded to the wife of a director on whom she had based a column. The wife, with the wife of a writer, had founded the “You, too, Club” (“Will you come to dinner next week, Mr. X? Oh, and you, too, Mrs. X”); Cleo had written the column with some relish, working off the last of her resentment at being overshadowed. It had brought a flood of mail, all from women; and a sour question from Jack as to whether she now thought she was a spokesman (he wouldn’t say spokeswoman or spokesperson) for some radical feminist group. The film director’s wife gave her a wink and a wide smile, but it was difficult to tell whether she was still pleased about the column or whether she was complimenting Cleo on having a new, younger man for the evening. It occurred to Cleo that though all the other diners in the restaurant probably knew the Roux or Brisson name, none of them recognized Alain. He was heir to more money and lasting influence than any of them, but none of them knew him.
It was an enjoyable evening. Alain was charming and entertaining and discreetly revealing about the Brisson family; he was loyal to his mother, but he knew everyone was interested in her. Cleo, forgetting she was a columnist, listened avidly and with enjoyment; it was a pleasure to hear about another parish. She found her old affectionate gestures creeping back; she had, at Jack’s jealous insistence, stopped touching other people. But twice during the evening she put a hand on Alain’s to emphasize a point; the second time he turned his hand over under hers and she let her fingers entwine in his. When they walked out of the restaurant they were hand in hand.
Going home in the car she knew she would let him stay with her tonight if he suggested it. She had bathed in the freedom of the evening; there had been no bickering, no demanding, no jealousy. And she had been excited by the fact that he was young: despite his crippled leg he was in his animal prime, he was ripe with sexuality. She wanted to go to bed with him.
She had put Jack out of her mind, no mean feat. But . . . “One thing I like about you, you haven’t talked about other girls. You don’t boast of your conquests, do you?”
“I try not to. What ever happens between me and a girl is something just between us.”
Good. Then Tom wouldn’t know . . . “You haven’t mentioned that girl, the blonde in New York—Joan someone-or-other?”
“Joan Temple. She’s married and has a baby.” He had let her hand go as they had got into the car, but now he took it again. “No strings.”
She could take t
hat any way she wanted: he had no strings tying him or there would be no strings attached to whatever happened tonight. She chose to take it the latter way. He would be gone tomorrow, to Heidelberg and his uncle and aunt, and she could make it her one and only fling since she had met Jack. A one night stand, good enough for a woman if it was good enough for a man.
In the narrow street between the hotel and the apartment building he dismissed the car and took her up the steps to the front doors. “I better see you up to your flat, if the porter’s gone off duty.”
Going up in the lift he kissed her hand but made no attempt to embrace her. They were both confident now of what was going to happen, there was no need to rush things. But when she opened the front door of her flat he dropped his walking stick, put his arms round her and pulled her to him. She put her arms round his neck and pressed his face almost savagely against hers.
Then the light in the living-room was switched on.
VII
Jack Cruze had arrived in Charleston impatient to get his business done and be on the plane again for home. Perhaps because of his impatience he managed to convince himself that he was not suffering from jet lag; he got down to business immediately on arrival. He called Cleo late that evening and, as usual, woke her up in the early hours of the morning. As usual he was profuse in his apologies, but he knew he could not have waited another couple of hours to speak to her. He finished his business two days ahead of schedule, declined an invitation by his American associates to spend the weekend in the Carolina country; he decided he would not call Cleo but would surprise her by arriving home early. He did not realize that jealousy influenced him in not giving her any warning. He had no reason to suspect that she might see another man, but he wanted to be certain. He wore a hair-shirt with no more style than he did something from Turnbull and Asser.
He flew up from Charleston to New York, stayed the night there and flew out on an early morning flight for London. He arrived at Heathrow to find no Sid Cromwell though he had asked the airline to contact Sid and instruct him to be at the airport. He caught a taxi, the first time he had ridden in one in more years than he could remember, and his mood, which had grown worse across the Atlantic, was not improved by the garrulity of the taxi driver. When he arrived at St. James’s Place he was tired to the point of exhaustion, deeply irritable and prey to thoughts as yet not clearly defined. He wanted to find Cleo waiting for him with open arms, then everything would be fine.
