‘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
