Prudence

‘Better than no paradise at all,’ said Ace. ‘He must have given you a hard time. I’m sorry.’

‘Wasn’t much fun, but in a way it was such a nightmare during, that afterwards hasn’t been nearly so bad. Like the Red Queen pricking her finger — pain first, prick afterwards.’

‘Pricks don’t seem to have had much to do with it,’ said Ace. ‘I’m going to have a large brandy. Would you like one too?’

Later we wandered for miles along the shingle, the waves booming, the seagulls circling and complaining overhead. I suddenly looked at Ace — angular features softened, black hair slightly ruffled, suntan whipped up by the wind — and my stomach disappeared.

‘You’re very quiet,’ he said. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Oh,’ I stammered, ‘I was just thinking how nice it is, and how I don’t want to go back to work and my horrid old boss.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Quite old,’ I said without thinking. ‘He must be thirty,’ and then realized what I’d said. ‘I mean I only called him my old boss, like some people call their wives their old woman — when they’re not old, I mean.’

‘I see,’ said Ace dryly.

When we got back to the car, we looked out to sea for a minute. Please God, make him kiss me, I prayed. I’ll behave well for at least a year. God wasn’t listening. Ace lit a cigarette.

‘I came here with Elizabeth,’ he said, ‘not long before she died. It was a bitterly cold day. She used to feel the cold. I kept giving her pairs of gloves, but she always lost them. She had a whole drawer full of single gloves because she couldn’t bear to throw away anything I’d given her.’

I found my eyes filling with tears.

‘Does it still hurt — all the time?’

‘It gets better — then one has terrible jabs like a war wound. It’s pretty good hell being a “widower”.’ I could feel him carefully putting quotes around the word. ‘Depression makes you lousy company. When you meet old mates you’re reminded of previous times when you were together. You avoid happily married couples — you can’t stand the togetherness. And you can feel yourself projecting your bitterness and indifference on to everyone else. However sympathetic people are, there’s something humiliating about disaster. You always feel yourself being pitied or patronized.’

The dark eyes were brooding beneath the thick brows. What a splendidly strong face he had. He was not at all like the person I first thought — much more complicated and, though he didn’t realize it, much more vulnerable.

‘One feels guilty, too, about forgetting.’

‘But you can’t give up women for good,’ I said.

‘I don’t — it’s been two years now. Casual affairs are all right. But when you’ve had the sort of thing Elizabeth and I had casual affairs aren’t really enough. On the other hand one feels guilty about becoming totally committed to someone else.’

He threw his cigarette out of the window and started up the car. It had suddenly got much, much colder. An apricot sun was firing the pine trees as we drove home. Some Pole was playing Chopin Nocturnes on the car wireless. Suddenly a black and white bird flashed across the road; it was a magpie. One for sorrow, two for joy. I looked frantically round for its mate. I’d had enough unhappiness recently, but there was no sight of another one.

‘Not too tired?’ he said.

‘I feel marvellous.’

‘We’ll stop soon for a drink.’

An hour later I sat in a happy stupor, drinking a huge dry martini.

‘Thank you for a heavenly day,’ I said.

Ace smiled. ‘It’s not over yet. The food’s good here. Would you like to stop for dinner?’

‘Oh, yes please,’ I said.

‘I’ll go and ring home.’ I was expanding like a flower. But my daydreams were rudely interrupted.

‘Afraid we’ve had dinner here,’ he said. ‘A couple of mates have turned up unexpectedly at home — arrived just after we left, and been cooling their heels waiting ever since — so we’d better go back. We can all eat out locally. I told Jack to book a table.’

We drove as fast as possible along the narrow roads, headlamps lighting up stone walls hung with rusty bracken and fern. The wireless was playing Schubert’s C Minor Symphony, and as various sections of the orchestra stalked catlike through the second movement, I tried to fight off bitter disappointment. No cosy tete-a-tete now, just Mulhollands scrapping all through dinner, with two more of Ace’s friends clamouring for his attention, and no doubt having conversations about politics ten feet above my head. Ace suddenly seemed very uptight too. The lovely intimacy we’d built up during the day was disintegrating like an iced lolly at the end of its stick. It was all the fault of that bloody magpie.

‘Look,’ Ace said.

‘Are they…?’ I began. We both started speaking at exactly the same time.

‘No, you go on,’ we both said.

There was a pause.

‘Are they nice, your friends?’ I said.

‘You may know one of them — Jimmy Batten. He’s a barrister; knows Pendle, I think.’

‘Oh, I love him,’ I said, perking up. ‘He was prosecuting in Pendle’s rape case. Who’s the other bloke?’

‘It’s a girl,’ said Ace. ‘An American called Berenice de Courcy.’

‘Sounds familiar,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t she churn out best-sellers about raising one’s consciousness? She’s a big star in the States, isn’t she?’

‘That’s right,’ said Ace, slowing down to avoid a sheep.

‘And ravishingly beautiful — “I can support the movement and shave my legs” sort of thing?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Trust Jimmy Batten to have someone like that in tow. I thought he was married.’

‘Not very,’ said Ace, putting his foot on the accelerator.

I wanted to put on some make-up to compete with the formidable Berenice, but there was not much I could do careering along in the dark. I nearly gouged out my eye with my mascara wand, then slapped on the dregs of a bottle of Diorissimo and had done with it.

Chapter Twelve

They were all in the drawing-room when we got back. Neither Rose nor Maggie were looking their best. Rose had obviously had too much to drink and no time to wash her hair. A three-day-old fringe separated on her forehead, showing up lines, making her look much older than usual. Maggie was sulking and wearing too much make-up. Jimmy Batten stood with his back to the fire, nursing a large gin and tonic and exuding urbanity. He looked less attractive than I remembered him. His camel-coloured casual clothes were a little too tight, and clashed with his now drink-flushed face. His sleek, dapper otter good looks went much better with a dark suit. Jack, just back from the office, already with several large whiskies under his belt, was gazing at Berenice with undisguised admiration. And well he might, because she was ravishing, straight out of the pages of Harpers, with a mane of black hair rippling down her back, a long lean figure, slitty dark eyes, a wide red mouth and a conker brown suntan. She was wearing a black satin shirt, grey suede Gauchos clinched by a black Hermes belt, and black cowboy boots which showed off her terrific legs. And she exuded so much glossy good health she made everyone else look like hospital cases. Goodness, I thought, J. Batten has done well for himself. The next moment she had swiftly crossed the room to us.

‘Ivan, sweetest,’ she purred, taking both his hands, ‘I know we should have warned you, but I got your letter,