‘I think I’ll hang on for a while,’ he said to her over the phone which made her feel better about her own decision. Ronnie, however, was looking downcast. She let him stew. Later she would sort him out to his delight.
Sunday’s newspapers showed earlier pictures of crowds and crowds of anxious speculators thronging downtown New York – a sea of trilby hats – car owners desperately trying to sell their vehicles to people who didn’t want them, could no longer afford to buy a bit of furniture much less a car.
Monday brought a rude awakening. The moment the stock market opened, the fears of investors here were realized as the first shock wave from Wall Street really hit them. Along with every other punter, Madeleine saw her shares fall so sharply as to take her breath away. She should have sold. She should have followed those wise ones who’d got rid of most of their stuff at the first glimpse of disaster and now be buying back at lowered prices.
Yet what if they continued to fall, so far as to be worthless? The bank taking fright would call in their loans, contact her to honour her debts as soon as possible, as she had always used them to finance her dealings.
Hitherto it had never seemed a problem that her money was tied up in her account; that she had bought and sold without a care; that they held the purse strings and if anything went wrong they would call the tune.
She’d taken heart when Friday morning’s papers had reported a rally on the New York Exchange the previous afternoon: thanks to an emergency meeting of several big banks and their reassuring statements to prop up the market, there was an actual improvement on the day. The crash was blamed on the inadequacy of the ticker-tape system to cope with a sudden massive volume of trading. But like everyone else, her relief was short-lived. Reports were saying that the spree of easy money and overconfidence was over. The bear market had returned with a vengeance, crushing everyone’s dreams of wealth everlasting; and Madeleine one of them.
Ronnie, who’d refused to rely on patience, didn’t look so stupid now with money in his pocket. But she had no time to think what that might mean as she found herself at her wits’ end on how to deal with her bank’s demands for her to settle up, her bank manager no longer her smiling friend.
But there was more to come. She had always been confident that funds would be there; a steadily flowing river supplying her needs whenever she dipped her toes in its waters. Now, suddenly, out of the blue, the stream had dried up. Even her home was in jeopardy, would have to be sold if she couldn’t find the wherewithal to settle the bank’s demands.
And there would be other creditors too, demanding settlement of debts they had once been content to let ride for a while: milliners, dressmakers, Ronnie’s tailor, wine merchants, those who supplied everything she’d needed for her dinner parties and evening parties, those high-class, exclusive establishments of New Bond Street, Kensington and Knightsbridge; all now clamouring for their bills to be settled, bills that would normally have been confidently left for months before she needed to pay them.
Today her brain was spinning with worry as Ronald came into the sitting room where she was lying full length on the chaise longue, not far from tears at the frustration of it all. She twisted her head to look up at him.
‘Ronnie darling, I hate to ask, but could you settle with your tailor yourself this time?’ She sighed. ‘After all, you’ve some money of your own. I’m so sorry, love. Would you?’
He didn’t reply for a moment but stood frowning at her. Then without warning, he burst out, ‘Why should I?’
Taken by surprise by the challenge, she was momentarily bewildered. ‘Darling, what do you mean? You’re the one with money now. I’m broke. You know that.’
‘Then you should’ve cashed in, like me, when you had the chance. But no, you thought you knew better! Now I’m left paying the bills.’
‘I’ve only asked you to settle your own bills, not mine.’ She was beginning to grow angry. ‘How can you say that when I’ve always made sure you were OK?’
It was perhaps the first time she had ever felt truly angry with him, taken aback by this sudden attitude. But she wasn’t prepared to let him get away with it. It sounded in her tone.
‘You’ve lived off me for long enough, Ronnie. Now it’s time for—’
‘You to live off me?’ he interrupted. ‘Is that it?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well that’s how it sounds to me.’
Anger suddenly got the better of her. ‘Well, if that’s how you feel, Ronnie, you can always go!’ she flared. ‘Clear off!’
For a moment he stared at her, then turned on his heel and went out of the room leaving her gazing after him, still angry. She heard him mount the stairs, two at a time. He would sit up in their bedroom, sulking for a while then finally creep back into the lounge, say he was sorry. She couldn’t help thinking, still angry, that he knew where his bread was buttered. Soon the market would begin looking up again and she would eventually be back on track, making money. Slowly at first, but luck had always been kind to her where money was concerned.
There was no sound from the bedroom and she was damned if she would go up there to try and mollify him. Let him sulk. It might do him good.
Now she could hear him moving about, footsteps above her, the faint sound of drawers being violently opened and shut. She could imagine him giving full
