A Fall from Grace

by Maggie Ford

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Maddie!’ He’d begun to pace. ‘Why should I want anyone else but you? I love you. I do want to marry you but give me time.’

  ‘How much more damned time do you need?’ she blared at him, still unwilling to give up. ‘What else should I think when you won’t grant the one thing I want.’ Her voice rose partly in fury, partly in fear. ‘Until you convince me, I’m having no more to do with you!’

  Giving him no time to answer she turned and ran from the room in a flood of tears, up to their bedroom and slamming the door behind her. And she didn’t care if the whole house heard her.

  Alone, she slowly calmed, all he’d said going through her head; about how he loved her, how devastated he had looked despite refusing to lose his temper – not that he’d ever had a temper – as she rushed from the room leaving him standing there.

  But her accusations had left their mark on them both, the silly things she’d come out with returning again and again, and though little was being said about them, the silent thoughts were there, casting a cloud over the love they had once known. Nights were when she – still battling with the suspicion that he was lying to her despite their continuing to appear together in a flurry of social life – would refuse to let him make love to her, though sometimes she ached for him, her love for him as strong as ever.

  It was getting more and more worrying, hurtful. They might as well have been married for all the old frantic love-making they’d once indulged in had faded. Yet she still loved him so much that her heart ached. But the seed had been sown; a gulf had come between them and there was nothing she could say or do to bring the two edges together again. A fear was always there – what if he tired of her, left her, driven away by her own intransigence, to actually find someone else? Then again, doubts: did he in fact have someone else? Men could deceive so easily. That pig who’d first got her into trouble, hadn’t she trusted him, been in love with him with no idea that he had been deceiving her all along? Perhaps she had no idea now about Anthony.

  As summer progressed her fears finally began to fade. He was being so attentive. As promised, he’d taken her to New York on the Mauritania in August, taking a fortnight off from his bank.

  It was the most wonderful holiday she’d ever had, shopping in all the great department stores, money seeming to be no object with him; a theatre almost every night; gloriously warm sunny days spent wandering through, or just sitting in, Battery Park, gazing across the harbour or down the canyon called Lower Broadway; enjoying the excitement of Madison Square Gardens; Coney Island with its seaside amusements, dinner at wonderful restaurants, then back to their hotel after an exhausting day to make love before falling asleep, exhausted.

  The only fly in the ointment was that Anthony would still interrupt it to take the usual precautions, frustrating her almost to the limit. But so wonderful was the holiday that she’d bite her tongue from begging him to just let nature take its course. But it was sensible if she thought about it. Why rock the boat when it must have cost him thousands so that she could have a wonderful time.

  And she had had a wonderful time; had fallen in love with the place. And as their holiday finally came to an end and they had sailed out of the harbour into the Atlantic, such a feeling of nostalgia overcame her as the Statue of Liberty and the New York skyline sank out of sight in a mist behind the rim of the world, she vowed in her heart as she turned away: ‘I shall come back one day.’ Maybe even next year, she prayed. Maybe even for our honeymoon.

  He’d at least made a half promise during one of their more frantic moments of love-making that he’d start making wedding plans as soon as they got home. A wedding some time in the autumn, joy filled her breast at the thought. But autumn was passing and still nothing done towards it. She thought it best not to badger him too much and upset things. She’d done too much of that on their return to England, and was told not to be so impatient. But impatience was hard to control sometimes. Christmas almost upon them, she tried not to fret; not to badger him. He was now suggesting spring, ‘a much nicer time for it, darling.’ And she so needed to believe it this time.

  New Year’s Eve, half an hour to go to 1925, the great room of the hotel crowded, people hardly able to move, the dance floor a solid mass of gyrating bodies, twisting and writhing to the Charleston, everyone pepped up with excitement, music, booze and what was currently being termed happy dust in readiness for a mad welcoming in of the New Year.

  The noise was overpowering, getting ever more so as the big hand of the ornate clock on the wall crept towards the twelve. With less than twenty minutes to go, Anthony had hurried off, sidling his way through the crowd to fetch a special bottle of champagne.

  Left sitting at her table, Madeleine glanced at her gold and diamond encrusted wristwatch. Ten minutes gone already. He was taking his time. He would be at the bar fighting to get served. If he didn’t hurry he would be too late for the last stroke of midnight when they would drain their glasses to the bottom in one gulp and half drunk would leap into each other’s arms, lips pressed together, his hand inside her low cut dress, fondling her breasts. Would it matter if anyone saw them? No one would care. They’d be busy with their own fondling.

  Coming to a decision, Madeleine got up and began edging her way through the crowd in the direction Tony had taken. Reaching the bar, still crowded, she struggled from one end of it to the other. No sign of him. Where was he? Had he gone round the other way to find her and she had missed him. She fought her way on. They would probably meet at their table in the end. A couple were canoodling in a darkish corner where the blazing fights did not quite reach. The man had the girl in a clinch, hand under her skirt, lips against her bosom, the girl sighing in ecstasy. It didn’t matter if anyone saw them. No one was taking any notice anyway. Madeleine made to hurry past, meaning to avert her eyes as if they weren’t even there.

  A second later she stopped sharp, gasped, let out a cry so audible that the man turned his face towards the noise. Moments later Madeleine was pushing through the throng, sobbing, seeing no one as she made for the cloakroom.

  Twenty-Six

  Madeleine gazed around her drawing room, the morning sun pouring in at the big windows.

  She’d had one of those dreams again, of coming upon Anthony with that girl, the dream going further wherein she’d see them actually engrossed in the act; he looking up to find her there and asking her what she thought she was doing watching them. In the dream she’d run off, as they watched her go, arms about each other. She’d wake up, her mind going over what she had dreamed, her heart feeling as heavy as lead. She lay awake, her thoughts not allowing her to sleep again until, seeing the dawn light, she would fall into a deep sleep until awakened by her daily, Mrs Mann. Then she’d have to drag herself out of bed, forced to face another day alone. It had been like this since May, six months ago now, when she had finally walked out on Anthony.

  Of course he’d apologized over and over again for that New Year’s Eve business, said he’d consumed so much champagne and hadn’t realized what he was doing. For five months she’d tried to accept his excuses, fighting to make allowances for him, to forgive him, but it was hard to forget and every time any little argument flared between them, she’d find herself bringing it up again and again. It would lead to a full-scale shouting match with him often walking out leaving her in tears.

  Sometimes it was she who fled, to walk for hours, hurt and miserable, wondering why she was being so stupid. She would return, resolving to put it behind her, but it was always there, like a tiny lurking demon. Finally that last terrible fight. After seeing him talking to a girl on the other side of the tennis court at a garden party last May, the girl lifting her face to his, giving him a kiss and his lapping it up, or so it seemed to her oversensitive mind from that distance, she’d had enough.

  After walking out on him, she’d gone to a friend, stayed the night there but ignored her advice to go back – that she was only hurting herself by forever bringing up one si
ngle small incident. The following day she had gone to an estate agent who found an unnecessarily spacious house – a small act of defiance on her part – where she still resided.

  In all this time there’d not been a word from Anthony. She’d had one or two friends tell him where she was, but nothing – no humble note of apology, no phone call, nothing.

  From time to time news would filter through to her. Mr George Foster, James’s old partner and now hers, who of course knew him through James being his uncle, would keep her informed. Also news came from various mutual friends, some that he’d not so much as looked at another girl in all this time; others that he had been seen with different girls on odd occasions. Not knowing what to believe she could only hark back to last New Year’s Eve and find herself ready to believe the latter.

  At first she’d wanted to run back to him, listen to his abject apologies; fall into his arms full of forgiveness; have him hold her tight. But it hadn’t happened and anger remained. Why should she forgive, listen to his lies? Now, after all these months it had become almost too late; anger, silent recrimination, mounting all the while. Yet she missed him so, fought with herself not to. And there were the ever-present questions: why hadn’t he come seeking her? Had he found another girl? Or picked up with that one she had caught him fondling that night?

  She thought about it, especially when she lay alone in her bed at night, unable to sleep, the small hours creeping by, oh so slowly, each laden as the small hours always are when sleep eludes: unresolved solutions pinging away inside her head; and while her heart lying like a lump of concrete within her breast, feeling as if it was breaking all over again. Daytime when she could make herself busy, planning and holding numerous social gatherings wasn’t so bad – she still had plenty of friends who sympathized with her, knowing her story. She was still the exciting hostess, finding any excuse to throw a party, filling her new home with guests, everyone drinking too much, she included.

  There were weekends in Paris, with some of them the occasional jaunt to the south of France, the endless buying of clothes, so many clothes, sending hardly worn ones to the poor – joining a charity committee to help take up the day when she was at a loose end – that or constantly on the phone to friends. At the motor show in Paris she’d bought herself a car, a Citroën, and learned how to drive. There was dinner most evenings, and the theatre with a hired escort though it went no further than that. Days when lost for something to do she’d spend hours endlessly scrutinizing the Financial Times studying the stock markets, telephoning her instructions to George Foster who’d become her good adviser and friend, though she saw herself more as a sleeping partner in the firm.

  It would be Christmas soon. She intended to throw a social event to dim all social events, even after all these months still needing to push away these persistent bouts of loneliness and thoughts of Anthony. She thought of him now as she gazed through her drawing-room window, Mayfair was a good address, from here a partial view of Green Park – an exorbitant rent but she could afford it. She could have had a country house but she loved the London scene and living in the country would have brought memories of her parents’ home, which she’d rather forget. Here she could hold her own dinner parties, her evening parties, weekend parties by invitation at other people’s country houses. She and Anthony used to attend weekend parties. Was he at this moment doing the social rounds with some girl or other, she wondered, the thought bringing a momentary stab of depression, making her draw a deep breath to dispel it.

  She’d transferred all her money from his bank into one George Foster had recommended, the rest in stocks and shares, as James had taught her. She’d grown quite adept at it or extremely lucky and all was looking solid enough. She still saw herself as something of a novice, but trusted James’s old partner – and now hers – with his good knowledge of the market. More especially he’d often invest some of his own money in that which he’d advised her to buy, proving confidence in his own advice – not exactly stooping to illegal insider dealing that, if discovered, might lead to dark frowns though he knew where to draw the line.

  She would invite him and his wife Millicent to her Christmas event. She had never done it before and she hoped they would accept. There was a lot to think about: ordering the catering, the music, making sure invitations went out before any others arrived at the homes of her chosen guests. It all helped to occupy her mind to some extent and hardly had she sent them out than replies came flooding back almost by the following post: ‘So enormously happy to accept, my dear.’

  Tonight she was giving a small dinner party, a few exclusive friends: Lilian and Howard Greenwood, Elizabeth and Burgess Jennings, Barbara and Stephen Pickford. The Greenwoods and the Jennings knew Anthony and she hoped they wouldn’t bring his name up at the table. She’d had several carefully penned notes of sympathy from some who knew of the break-up. Of course she had never explained the cause and assured them that it had been a mutual decision. On a whim she had telephoned George Foster to ask if he and his wife might care to come and he’d said they would be delighted.

  A few minutes later the phone had rung again and it was Foster’s wife, Millicent whom she’d met once or twice. The woman had phoned to ask if they could be so bold as to bring a young man along with them.

  ‘He lives on his own nearby. He strikes us as being rather lonely,’ Millicent said. ‘His name is Ronald Thurston Jameson – says his parents five mostly abroad, India, but he never sees them – they even missed his recent twenty-first birthday last week – quite unbelievable how thoughtless people can be – says he and his parents don’t get along that well and he’ll be somewhat at a loose end at Christmas.’

  Listening to the gabble, Madeleine told her she’d be happy to welcome him; knowing personally just what loneliness felt like.

  He proved to be a lively, immensely handsome young man, polite, well spoken, though she wondered why she’d half expected a graceless twenty-one-year-old as she watched him during the evening, talking easily to those he had obviously never met before, drawing them to him, making them laugh with his light and witty conversation. In fact she felt quite proud of him.

  As the evening wore on, she found herself watching him, fascinated by the way he’d wave a hand to his almost every word, the wide smile revealing very even, white teeth; amused by the way his dark hair persisted in falling over his brow, without the Brilliantine most men used; the way his brown eyes would flick in her direction, he tilting his head as their eyes met, and she found herself wanting to invite him again. As her dinner guests began to leave, she said she hoped he’d enjoyed the evening. ‘Thank you very much. I most certainly did,’ he said, his manner more mature than she had expected.

  ‘I’m planning a sizeable Christmas Eve party here,’ she said while the Fosters waited to leave. ‘May I invite you and your…?’

  ‘That would be really wizard,’ he broke in with sudden enthusiasm that betrayed his youth but which sent a tingle through her.

  ‘And your parents?’ she continued, ‘If they would care to come?’

  His smile vanished. ‘My parents have their own interests.’ His tone had grown dark, surprising her. ‘Our paths have never really crossed. They lived in India, me at boarding school here. We’ve nothing in common.’

  There was an awkward silence, the Fosters hovering. She was aware of her voice rising higher than it should. ‘Then if you’re not going to be with them or with friends, then do come!’

  ‘I will,’ he said, and his brown eyes seemed to penetrate hers so that she tingled anew.

  * * *

  The Christmas Eve celebration had gone down well.

  ‘Thank you so much for a wonderful time’ was the general parting remark as her guests left wearily, around two thirty, with some departing nearer three. ‘We so enjoyed the divine buffet, darling, can hardly wait for your next invite. You will invite us, won’t you?’ Of course she would, she told them.

  ‘And the music, my dear, was quite perfect –
exhilarating. I do believe we’re quite worn out!’

  She had engaged a jazz pianist and a saxophone for the evening. Most of the time she’d danced with young Ronald, as he, without a partner, had arrived alone, the Fosters busy with their own family party.

  Chatting throughout each dance, though what about she could not recall, she’d been most conscious of Ronald’s hand holding hers so lightly, his other hand warm on her bare flesh, her dress having been cut extremely low at the back, almost to her waist. It was easy to pretend it was Tony’s hand on her back, so long as she didn’t look into his face. Not as tall as Anthony, his lithe body still retained the slimness of youth, his features she suspected would last him well into his later years.

  As her guests began to take their leave, he had lingered. He was still lingering when the last one departed, and what could she do but ask if he would care for a quick nightcap before he too left.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said graciously. ‘That would be nice.’

  Now they sat together sipping brandy, he at one end of the sofa, she at the other, neither of them saying much. When it was that he moved to sit closer to her, very much closer to her, she wasn’t sure but somehow the sleeve of his jacket was brushing her bare arm. She should have got up but she didn’t – merely stayed where she was, aware of the warmth of his upper arm through his sleeve. ‘It’s very quiet now, isn’t it,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she whispered back.

  She was about to say that it must be time he went, but somehow couldn’t. Strange sensations were beginning to ripple through her body, sensations of expectancy, like little waves, or tiny needles, exquisite, penetrating, running along her spine, through her muscles and playing inside her stomach. She sat without moving and knew he’d picked up the message her body was conveying to him of its own accord. Anthony wasn’t here and she so needed to be made to feel alive again.