A Fall from Grace

by Maggie Ford

  ‘OK then,’ he said, and moving his hand beneath her neck, drew her to him, his other hand already caressing her naked breasts, and as their lips met, the hand moved slowly down to her thighs to nestle between her legs and, as she sighed, tightly grasped her there. She gasped in her need of him.

  Suddenly he released her, sat up and slewed his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her as he opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet and she knew instantly what he was about.

  Waiting for him was an unbearable chasm just as it had been last night while he took precautions to safeguard her from harm.

  He’d put that second sheath in the cabinet drawer ready for this morning, thinking of her protection of course, but all she wanted to do was to grab his shoulder, turn him back to her, tell him that it didn’t matter if she did conceive; that it was what she wanted – to have his child, she a mother at last, cementing their union of love. If it happened today, they’d still be married in time to keep tongues from wagging. The child would be legitimate, all she had ever wanted, and it would be Anthony’s – hers and Anthony’s. All these years of yearning, at last she would be happy instead of having to tell herself she was; genuinely happy in her own right an end to all these years of knowing that happiness had always been only an illusion for her.

  ‘Darling,’ she whispered as he turned back to her, ‘let’s not bother using anything.’

  She hated the things: harsh, sturdy rubber seeming to rasp against her tender flesh, no feeling of him except for those couple of times last year when carried away in a few moments of madness they had forgone such precautions. The result had been overriding fear of abortion, only to suffer anyway as the fetus decided to rid itself of her nevertheless, it not even formed enough to be recognizable as a human child.

  He paused in moving to kiss her. He drew back. ‘Sweetheart, we need to be careful.’

  She too drew back. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we don’t want to spoil the opportunity we have now for freedom and fun.’

  ‘But a baby would make our marriage just perfect.’

  It caught her that he’d ignored her mention of marriage, ploughing on with all thought of making love put aside for the moment.

  ‘Why on God’s earth would you want to saddle yourself with a baby just when we’re free at last to do exactly as we please – going out and about, parties, theatre, meet people that matter, socialize till the cows come home, travel anywhere we please, abroad, to America if you want?’

  How could she explain to him how she felt? The baby that had been taken from her sprang into her mind, as it did occasionally out of the blue, but whenever it did, she would inevitably see that likeness to the man who’d taken advantage of her innocence and her longing for the child would fade instantly. What she wanted was Anthony’s child, one who’d resemble him in every way and upon whom she’d pour her affection.

  ‘I want us to have something of a good time together before we start to settle down,’ he was saying. ‘And I know you do too. You’ve had so little of it with James around.’

  ‘James was good to me,’ she said sharply in his defence.

  ‘Of course he was. But any fun you had, it was you who’d arrange it – those parties of yours, he seldom took part. Even when we were together you always had to rush away. Now you’re free and we can live it up a little, our whole life in front of us. The two of us, we’ll take London society by storm.’

  She didn’t want to take London by storm! Or maybe she did. Wasn’t this what she had dreamed about for years – the two of them, he tall and suave in evening suit; she on his arm, slim and glamorous, her evening dress the latest fashion, flat silhouette, sleeveless, frilled skirt, low hip line, hem slanting to one side; her hair short, fair and wavy, held by a beaded bandeau. They would dance the night away, kicking up their heels, enjoying cocktails and champagne with friends, the centre of attention.

  She knew she was attractive, drew all eyes even when with James at those boring business dinners, and at the grand parties and soirées she’d once thrown before he became ill; even as far back as that girl from that horrible boarding house – she’d forgotten her name – and those friends of hers, she was the one the young men glanced at first, their gaze unwavering even as she stood back, uncertain and aloof.

  Now she was poised, self-assured, always beautifully dressed, and on Anthony’s arm they would take London society by storm. The world was at her feet – at last.

  ‘Let’s just live a little first,’ he murmured against her ear. ‘We have plenty of time to start a family. What d’you say, my sweet?’

  His breath moved over her hair, tickled her cheek seductively, his hands gently, persuasively, caressing her skin, began to explore, making her shiver deliciously – such a wonderful, overwhelming sensation.

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed, forgetting about babies, and lay back ready for him.

  Twenty-Five

  Madeleine and Anthony had been together sixteen months and this feeling of freedom was as fresh as ever, doing just as they pleased, going to mad, mad parties, coming home around four in the morning with hardly time to draw breath before another round of excitement engaged their attention.

  Christmas had been a wow, New Year’s Eve even more so – a fancy dress party at one of the big hotels going on until dawn. He’d gone as Mark Anthony, as near to his namesake as he could get, in lightweight Roman armour; she as Cleopatra, a clinging, low-cut gown of silver lame revealing every curve of her slender figure and a wonderful silver headdress that, oddly in keeping with the present fad for bandeaux, sat low on her brow, crowned by a silver cobra coiled ready to strike.

  Hardly giving winter time to pass, they’d spent a few days in Paris then travelled down to Nice, Anthony confidently leaving the bank in the capable hands of his manager and staff. This summer he planned to take her to New York on the Mauretania. Life with him was indeed wonderful. Yet something was missing.

  ‘Darling, when are we going t’get married?’

  He didn’t answer. It was as if he hadn’t heard her. It was late, nearly three o’clock. It had been a fun-filled evening, a party at The Savoy Hotel, some sort of celebrations though she wasn’t sure what, a little intoxicated by then; going on to another private party afterwards – someone’s birthday – lots of champagne!

  It was hardly worth getting ready for bed at this hour but tomorrow being Sunday they’d sleep till midday. Madeleine, in her woozy state, again posed the question she had been asking from time to time for a few months now. She wasn’t drunk enough not to feel hurt by his failure to reply, but managed to give him credit for perhaps not having quite heard her. Yet for one reason or another he always managed to evade it whenever she broached the subject.

  ‘Tony, did you hear me, darling?’ she said.

  He was carefully pulling back the bed covers, his naked back to her. ‘Yes. But it’s late and you look all in. Talk about it in the morning.’

  But usually they didn’t talk about it in the morning. In the morning something else always cropped up: he needed to eat breakfast quickly and get to his bank; had an important client to see; had an important meeting arranged with his staff; needed to discuss certain matters with his undermanager that couldn’t wait; and so on, and so on.

  She suddenly felt angry. To show it could mean they might not make love tonight. Anyway, maybe he was too tired and a bit too drunk himself to make love, though that didn’t usually deter him no matter what the hour and she was always ready for him. But she knew that if they did he wouldn’t be so drunk as to forget to take precautions. She understood the need to, but if they were married it wouldn’t matter any more, would it?

  She stood glaring at him, swaying a little. ‘I don’ wan’to talk about it in the morning! I wan’to talk about it now! I wan’us t’get married, darling.’

  ‘For Chrissake, Maddie!’

  The epithet was like an explosion, making her sway backwards to hold on to the dressing table behind her for support
. He never swore in front of her. He probably swore at others. Men did, but she had never heard him. It wasn’t like him; maybe the drink.

  ‘Just come to bed, will you?’ he hissed. ‘Before you bloody well fall down.’

  ‘Right then!’ she hissed back.

  She’d never heard him speak so harshly. And it shook her. Enough to make her feel not quite so dizzy as she thought she was. In sudden fury, she grabbed for her nightdress which she usually ignored, as they preferred to lie naked together, and dragged it over her head. Seething, she stomped round to her side of the bed, tore back the covers and all but threw herself into it with her back to him, the exertion making her dizzy.

  She felt his arm come round her and jerked away. ‘Goo’night!’ she rasped, but the hand persisted.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, love. We’ll talk about it if you like.’

  ‘We’ve had months and months to talk about it.’

  ‘We need to give it time to…’

  ‘Time!’ she twisted back to glare at him in the low light of their table lamps. She was suddenly feeling less drunk now. Maybe just lying down, maybe her anger. ‘How much more time do you need? Or am I just your whore?’

  ‘What are you talking about? I said we’d get married, but…’

  ‘But what?’ she broke in, her body remaining rigid as he tried to put an arm about her. ‘But what?’ she repeated.

  ‘Darling,’ he soothed. ‘We will get married, and I want our wedding to be huge and memorable, on everyone’s lips for years to come. But it does mean taking up a lot of our time making all the preparations necessary for the wedding I have in mind. It could stop us having the wonderful time we’re enjoying now. So, for a while, let’s not spoil it, eh?’

  He spoke so persuasively that she could just visualize the sort of huge affair it would be. But he’d said all this before, crooning, creating wonderful visions, and each time she would respond by melting into his arms, visions of the marvellous wedding they would have floating in her head. But slowly the visions had begun to be replaced by a vague sense of uneasiness turning slowly to bewilderment and lately this feeling that he had never wanted to get married, and even more recently asking why.

  Even now a crafty little voice was whispering: because he knew she wanted a baby and he didn’t want babies to ruin the good time they were having. He was a good-time person, didn’t want it to ever end. Marrying and settling down with a family, a reduced social life, that that was the last thing on his mind. She too had wanted to enjoy life, have a good time, but hadn’t quite realized what that might entail.

  So when would she ever have a baby to hold in her arms and croon over, to replace that one which she had been deprived of? She was twenty-eight – another year, four more years, by then in her thirties, it became ever more dangerous to give birth. Probably not so for women who’d already borne several children, but hers would virtually be her first. She couldn’t let herself wait for so long.

  ‘I can’t see why we don’t have a simple wedding and get it over with,’ she grumbled, moving back from his effort to kiss her. ‘What does it matter about making a big impression? All I want is for us to be a normal married couple. We’ve waited long enough.’

  There was a long silence. Not knowing what else to say, she snapped, ‘Anyway, I’m tired. I need to go to sleep.’

  Twisting away from him she reached up and switched off her bedside lamp. He had said nothing, but she could feel he was angry as he in turn clicked off his own lamp.

  In the darkness they lay back to back, the first time he had ever not attempted to make love to her. In the darkness she lay miserable, no longer feeling tipsy, wanting only to sleep and forget, yet she was still awake as dawn crept through the curtains. He on the other hand was snoring gently, peacefully, and she hated him.

  The following morning her love had recovered itself. She wanted so much to say sorry, yet somehow couldn’t, for all the forgiveness she felt. As for him, breakfast was eaten in silence, he seemingly more engaged in his morning newspaper brought to him by Jessop.

  After a couple of attempts at conversation had been blocked by a grunt or two, she had given up, frustration growing by the minute so that when he’d kissed her on leaving to go to his bank, it had not been the usual lingering kiss but a mere peck on the cheek which she, by now simmering with hurt from that silent meal, had coldly offered. That brief questioning look he’d given her as he drew away had stayed with her all day, worrying her, flooding her mind with all sorts of questions of her own.

  Even as she laughed and chatted with friends she’d met for coffee, the lunch she’d shared with several others, afternoon tea with some whom she often met at one party or another, the questions persisted. Why should he constantly be evading this business of marriage; did he truly love her, utterly and completely as he said he did; what if he had someone else in tow – questions becoming ever more silly and ridiculous. Or were they? After all he’d gone behind the back of her husband, his own uncle, with her.

  Those times he said he had to see a client? Was that client someone with whom he was now involved with behind her back? She thought of those social gatherings, dances, parties, how women looked at him, and he at them. Tall, fair-haired, twinkling blue eyes, he must be aware of how he turned their heads. Nor could she ignore the slow way he would look at them, she once happy to believe it to be just good manners on his part!

  By evening she’d shrugged off her suspicions, calling herself a fool for letting her imagination run away with her. Was it his fault if his looks drew other women’s eyes, and what man wouldn’t enjoy the compliment? It was her he loved. It was just this reluctance of his to be married and settle down.

  Tonight she would put aside these foolish suspicions. It was Friday. This evening they were having dinner out before going to the theatre, afterwards on to a nightclub with friends. There’d be jazz music and dancing until the early hours. Back home they’d make love as if last night’s quarrel had never happened. She could hardly wait for him to come home. There might even be time to make love before dressing to go out.

  She made sure to be seductively dressed as he entered, her insides tingling as she thought of his reaction. He seldom missed a chance to make love – if only he didn’t always pause to take the usual precautions for all it never took him long to prepare.

  Hearing his key turn in the lock of the front door, she quickly wound the gramophone, slipped a record on and lowered the arm, the quiet strains of ‘When Day is Done’ filling the sitting room. She waited, hearing Jessop’s voice say, ‘Good evening, sir,’ and his response as Jenny their housemaid took his hat and coat from him to hang on the hall stand.

  Moments later he was opening the door of the sitting room, she now standing in the middle of the room, waiting for his eyes to light up at the sight of her. Instead it was as if he hadn’t even noticed her as he went to the cocktail cabinet to pour himself a whisky.

  She stood bewildered. ‘Don’t I get a kiss, darling?’

  ‘Did you want one?’ he said without turning.

  Left not knowing how to respond, she brazened out the question with a small laugh. ‘A kiss or a drink, love?’

  ‘Either.’ His tone was so abrupt that it startled her.

  ‘A kiss would be nice,’ she said quietly.

  At that he turned. There was no smile on his face as he came towards her to peck her on the cheek as he passed.

  The movement left her shocked, standing where she was in the centre of the room while he went to the sofa and sat, sipping his whisky, again as if she wasn’t there.

  Sudden fury flooded over her – a sudden seething fury. She made for the gramophone, yanking the arm upwards. The music cut off with a horrid agonized screech as the needle was dragged across its surface. She almost wanted to cry but wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction. How could he still be holding a grudge from the previous night?

  ‘What’s the matter with you,’ she hissed. ‘Is it because of las
t night?’

  He continued to sip his whisky, but his eyes, now dull, were gazing up at her from under his brows as she stood over him. ‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked at last.

  That he loved her to distraction; that he wanted her this minute; that if she felt so strongly about their being married, he would begin making the arrangements this very weekend; that he was tired of the high life and wished only to settle down and be with her for the rest of their lives?

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said instead. Then anger took over again, not quite the same as before but more beseeching, her voice beginning to shake. ‘And if you don’t know then what’s the point of me telling you?’

  ‘I’ve already told you,’ he said, ‘If that’s what you’re getting at, we will get married but not yet. As I said before, we need to see a bit of life first.’

  ‘We?’ she cried. ‘Don’t you mean you?’

  ‘All right – me. I need to see a bit of life.’

  ‘And what about us – how much longer do you expect me to wait for you to settle down?’

  Slowly he placed his glass on the little oval side table next to him. ‘I’d rather not discuss it right now, love. We should be getting ready to go out for dinner before the theatre.’ Madeleine stood her ground. ‘I don’t want to go out!’

  Anthony stood up, his features set. ‘Then don’t, Maddie! But I still intend to…’

  ‘And who with?’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘You expect me to believe you’re eager to go out all on your own? There must be someone else.’

  ‘There is,’ he said evenly, taking her off guard.

  ‘Who?’ The question wrenched itself from her before she could stop herself. ‘Who is she?’

  But although his brows drew together he remained cool. ‘Our friends – the ones who’ll no doubt be asking where you are.’

  But he had evaded her question. ‘Don’t lie to me, Tony,’ she said slowly and coldly. ‘There is someone else? What other reason would there be for you not wanting us to get married.’