always dreamed I’d fall in love with someone tall and dark. Funny you should be small and blond.’
‘I am
She knew by the idle drumming of his fingers on the bedside table that there’d be trouble, that he’d bide his time and then retaliate without scruple. He started to read a piece about some famous actor’s sex life. When he came to the end he said:
‘That’s why I want to make it up the top. Apart from telling Buxton Philips to get stuffed, just think of the birds one could pull. Once you become a big star, you can virtually have any woman you want.’
There was a pause. Harriet felt faint at the thought of Simon having another woman. A great tear fell onto the paper she was reading, followed by another, and another.
‘What’s eating
She got clumsily out of bed; not wearing her spectacles and blinded by tears, she bumped into a table, knocking off a little Rockingham dalmatian that she knew Borzoi had given Simon. It smashed beyond redemption. Harriet was appalled.
‘I’ll buy you another, Simon, truly I will.’
‘As it cost about ?80, I think that’s extremely unlikely,’ he snapped. ‘For God’s sake stop snivelling. It’s bad enough you breaking it, without making that Godawful din. I’m hungry. Go and put on the moussaka, and then have a bath, but don’t forget to leave the water in.’
Harriet lay in the bath, trying not to cry and wondering what it would be like to be married to Simon. ‘Harriet Villiers’ had a splendid seventeenth century ring. Could she cope with being the wife of a superstar? Some stage marriages she knew lasted for ever. She wouldn’t be a drag on him; when he was away acting, she’d have her poems and novels to write; she might even write a play for him.
She could just see the first night notices:
‘Simon Villiers’s wife is not beautiful in the classical sense, but there is an appealing sensitivity, a radiance about this brilliant young playwright.’ Unthinkingly she pulled out the plug.
Simon walked into the bathroom, yawning, hair ruffled, to find Harriet sitting in an empty bath, dreamily gazing into space.
‘I thought I told you to leave the fucking water in.’
Harriet flushed unbecomingly.
‘Oh God, I’m frightfully sorry. Perhaps there’s some hot left.’
There wasn’t.
Even worse, she went into the kitchen and found that, although she’d turned on the oven, she’d put the moussaka into the cupboard instead, so when Simon came in, shuddering with cold and ill-temper, there was nothing to eat. The row that followed left her reeling. He really let her have it. She had no defences against the savageness of his tongue.
Once more she went and sobbed in the bedroom, and she heard the front door slam. Hours later when he came back she had cried herself to sleep. He woke her up.
‘You’re too sensitive, Harriet baby. You overreact all the time. Poor little baby,’ he said gently, ‘poor, poor little baby. Did you think I wasn’t coming back?’ Never had he made love to her so tenderly.
Chapter Six
Harriet woke up feeling absurdly happy. True love could only be forged on rows like that. It was the first of March, her meagre allowance had come through. She got up, leaving Simon asleep. She cashed a cheque at the bank, and bought croissants and orange juice. In spite of a bitter east wind, the snow was melting, dripping off the houses, turning brown and stacked in great piles along the road.
It would be spring soon. She imagined herself and Simon wandering through the parks with the blossom out, or punting under long green willows, and dancing till dawn at a Commem ball. All great love affairs had their teething troubles.
When she got back to Simon’s rooms, she took his mail into his room. He was still half asleep, so she went to the kitchen and made coffee and heated up the croissants. She was worried about a large spot that was swelling up on the side of her nose. However much make-up she put over it, it shone through like a beacon; she must start eating properly.
When she took breakfast into his room, he had woken up and was in excellent form.
‘Buxton Philips’s written me a letter saying he’s sorry, he’s coming down to Oxford to take me out to lunch,’ he said, draining a glass of orange juice.
‘Oh darling, that’s wonderful,’ said Harriet.
Simon drew back the curtains. Harriet sat down on the bed, with the spot side furthest away from him, pouring out coffee.
‘I think you’d better start packing, darling,’ he said, liberally buttering a croissant.
‘Oh God, is your mother coming to stay?’
He shook his head, his face curiously bland. ‘I just think it’s time you moved out.’
She looked at him bewildered, the colour draining from her face.
‘But, why? Was it because I smashed your dog, and let out your bath water, and forgot about your suit, and the moussaka? I’m sorry, I will try to concentrate more.’
‘Darling, it isn’t that,’ he said, thickly spreading marmalade. ‘It’s just that all good things come to an end. You should live a little, learn a bit more about life, play the field.’
‘But I’m not like that. I’m a one-man girl.’
Simon shrugged his shoulders.
‘W-when will I see you,’ she was trembling violently now.
‘You’re making this very difficult for me,’ he said gently.
She sat down.
‘Mind my shirts,’ said Simon hastily, removing the shirts she had ironed from the chair.
She stared at him. ‘What did I do wrong?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, you didn’t do anything wrong.’
It must be a bad dream, it must be. She felt her happiness melting round her like the snow.
‘Why can’t I see you any more?’
‘Darling, for everything there is a reason. You’re a lovely warm crazy girl, and we’ve had a ball together. Now I’ve broken you in nicely, you’ll be a joy for the next guy, but it’s time for us both to move on.’
‘But I love you,’ she stammered.
He sighed. ‘That’s your problem, sweetheart. I never said I loved you. I never pretended this was going to last.’
Her face had a look of pathos and stricken dignity.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she whispered.
Simon was not finding this as easy as he had expected, rather unpleasant in fact. Oh God, why did women get so keen on one? He was nibbling the skin round his thumb nail. He seemed to Harriet to have shrunk in size; there was something about his eyes like an animal at bay.
She licked her dry lips. ‘Will you find someone else?’
‘Of course I’ll find someone else,’ he snapped, anger with himself making him crueller towards her. ‘Borzoi’s coming back. I got a letter from her this morning.’
‘And so I get d-dumped like an unwanted dog on the motorway.’
Slowly it was dawning on her that his future didn’t contain her.
He tried another tack. ‘You’re too good for me, Harriet.’
‘I’m not,’ she said helplessly.
‘Yes, you are, I need a tough cookie like Borzoi.’
The sun, which hadn’t been seen for ages, suddenly appeared at the window, high-lighting the chaos of the
