An Affair to Remember (3 page)

“Ah, er, Miss Travers.” Oh God he really does look terrified; why did I come? Why Did I Bloody Come? “I wasn’t expecting you so, so –”

“Soon? I’m afraid I’m one of those awful people who are always too early for things.” Wain Steerforth looks at her disapprovingly; his eyes hovering for an instant at her still only too visible cleavage before straying downwards to her crotch. “Would you like a drink before we go in? I don’t myself, but I’m sure I can manage to procure one for you.” She declines. He looks relieved. “If you are sure? Let us go in then. I hope my choice of play isn’t too strong for you. I’ve always had a soft spot for Webster, despite his predilection for mass mayhem. One must of course remember that when dealing with the Jacobeans one is dealing with the linear descendants of an age...” Beatrice follows meekly behind him, his words drifting back to her through the sweaty crowd. They hurry upstairs, passing rapidly through the now empty circle bar, Wain, head down, by now halfway through his first year’s lecture. “You must remember,” he’s saying as they find their seats in Row C, “that in relative terms Jacobean tragedy is always –”

“As a matter of fact I have seen
The Duchess of Malfi
before. A really brilliant production at the Old Vic and –”

“Would you care for a box of chocolates?” Wain, plainly disliking having his discourse interrupted, puts her in her place. “I’m not in the habit of eating during a performance myself, but I understand the ladies…” Hastily she declines the offer, makes a joke about not being able to afford to eat chocolate with her figure. He looks her up and down, taking in her noble lines. Nods, turns back to his programme. She’s made yet another mistake. Disappointment for a moment overwhelms her; where is bloody Brian now, she wonders forlornly. The auditorium lights dim; the buzz of talk round them slowly trickles into silence. The play begins.

“Well, it’s been a most enjoyable experience, er, Beatrice. I trust the performance was to your taste? I have to confess I found it a little on the anaemic side: these old tragedies must be played for all they are worth or not at all, don’t you agree?”

“Not entirely,” Beatrice re-drapes the black cardigan, over her shoulders, “I’m afraid that if there’s too much blood and guts lying about the stage I have a tendency to giggle. I can’t help feeling that to pile on the agony too blatantly does sometimes manage to turn the whole thing into a bit of a farce.”

“Perhaps.” He plainly disagrees, but equally plainly can’t be bothered to argue the point. They’re seated rather uncomfortably in a coffee bar near the theatre. Neither of them want coffee, nor, it has to be said, to spend any longer in each other’s company than convention demands. Beatrice looks at her watch, “Good heavens, is that the time. I better get going, buses are few and far between at this time of the night, and it always seems to take ages to get to Kensington.” Wain, showing the first sign real enthusiasm he’s shown all evening, jumps to his feet, pushes back the spindly plastic-covered stool he’s been perching on with such force it hits the occupant of the table behind him – a heavily made-up lady of uncertain age in a leopardskin patterned mini skirt.

“Mind how you go, dear,” she says, giving him a look, “you nearly had my tea over.”

Wain, a faint flush on his otherwise parchment coloured cheeks, apologises, Beatrice tries to contain her giggles, says, after all three parties have finally pulled themselves together, “It’s been a most interesting evening, Wain,” (liar) “and I really enjoyed the play. Thank you so much.”

Wain smiles a thin smile, puts out his hand, “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’m only sorry I cannot accompany you back to Kensington,” (liar) “but Cockfosters is of course in the opposite direction. However, I have your phone number, and will if I may, give you a ring. Not in the immediate future, I’m afraid, Mother and I are off to Italy for a brief break before term begins, and there’s always a hundred and one things to do at the start of the new academic year.”

“Of course.” Unusually for her Beatrice finds herself lost for words, then realises she just simply can’t be bothered to think of anything else to say. She holds out her hand; his skin feels slimy to the touch. “Goodbye then and thank you once again for everything.” At the door she turns to give him a friendly wave, but he’s still standing where she left him staring glassily ahead, a man in a dream. Oh well…

Back in the flat, Sylvia, still up, switches off the TV. “Only rubbish, I slept through most of it. Well then, how did it go?”

“Grim, Syl, grim, if you really want to know. He was worse than I expected, nearly as bad as Mr Taylor and that’s saying something. He didn’t like me much either, in fact he couldn’t wait to get away.”

She looks haunted, Sylvia’s thinking, feeling a tingling of unexpected shock, that’s the only word for it, surely a dud date shouldn’t make her look like that? Something’s really wrong, must be. “And what about the play?” she asks brightly, hoping for a more positive response, “I know one doesn’t exactly enjoy Webster, but –”

“Brilliant. It really was.” Beatrice slumps into a chair; the black cardigan falls in a heap on the floor, she looks down at it with loathing. “I envied the Duchess of Malfi having all those frightful things happening to her, at least they were happening, not everything going off at half cock.” And to Syl’s consternation, she bursts into tears.

Feeling inadequate, she pats her friend’s heaving shoulders. “Surely, luv, he can’t have been that bad? Did something happen on the way home – something else?”

“No, nothing happened, quite a good journey actually, and no, he wasn’t that bad, probably rather sad really. He had a mother…”

“That wouldn’t help. Look, luv, what about a good strong drink? Paddy brought back a duty free bottle of gin from his last trip to Beirut and gave it to me as he’s on the wagon at the moment; nothing to put in it but water, but it might help.”

Beatrice sits up, dries her eyes. “I would absolutely love a good, strong drink, Syl, and you’re the best friend a girl ever had. There’s nothing at this moment I’d like to be more than completely, utterly sloshed.”

Syl, a little worried by her reaction – had her offer been a mistake? – makes for the kitchen, “I’ll just get some ice to put in the water, it might improve the taste of the gin a bit.”

“Frankly I don’t care how nasty it tastes as long as it does the trick,” Beatrice calls after her, picking up a copy of
The Lady
magazine lying on the coffee table beside her chair, “and what on earth are you doing with
The Lady
? I wouldn’t have thought it was your sort of thing – all those knitting patterns and ‘how I love my moggy’ stories.”

“Actually it’s not a bad magazine,” Syliva returns from the kitchen carrying two brimming glasses and a packet of cheese and bacon crisps on a small tray, “and they do sometimes take the odd article of mine. Not good payers, but all outlets are grist to the writer’s mill, you know.” Beatrice accepts the gin, takes a grateful gulp, crunches a crisp.

“Look at these ads, Syl, honestly I can’t believe such people still exist. ‘Second footman for Lady Deidre Delaware, must be reliable and a car driver’; she reads out; ‘Wanted: Housekeeper for elderly lady. Own flat, staff kept’; ‘Harassed Author/TV Exec urgently requires literate P.A. Must have shorthand/typing skills and be willing to learn computer. Good accommodation offered right person in pleasant house in Suffolk. Please write Box…’” Beatrice’s voice trails away; she sits quite still, looking disbelievingly at the words in front of her. “Brian,” says the voice in her head, “Brian?”

“Christ!”

“What on earth’s the matter? Is there something wrong with the gin? I know it's a bit –”

“Syl, I think I’ve found the answer. They must have meant me to – it’s here, in
The Lady
.” There’s a kind of awed bewilderment in Beatrice’s voice. Syl looks at her; sips her drink. Oh crumbs, she thinks, what next, what bloody next?

Chapter 2

“And where are you off to now? Didn’t I tell you last night I’d need the car this morning. I’ve promised to deliver that stuff to the Campbells and then there’s some coffee do up at The Gables.”

Sam Mallory climbs slowly out of the car and, slamming the door behind him, looks up at his wife with distaste. Leaning out of their bedroom window, still in her dressing gown, her hair, as it appears to Sam more often than not to be, screwed up in heated rollers, her face devoid of makeup, Emmie Mallory is a far from glamorous figure.

“Sorry dear, I thought you said you wanted it tomorrow, I was only going to nip up to the garage and get some more of that mulch for the garden. It can wait.”

“It’ll have to! Anyway, I’ll be tied to the shop tomorrow, it’s Karen’s day off, and I can’t see you helping out.” This was unfair: he did, frequently, but he can’t be bothered to argue.

“Will you be out to lunch?” he asks hopefully.

“Of course I won’t, so don’t think you can slip off to the pub the moment my back’s turned.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He turns back into the house; he’d better, he thinks gloomily, make a start on those damned VAT returns.

Emmie shuts the window with a slam. She hadn’t in fact told Sam she’d need the car today, but Jack Fulton rang first thing this morning while he was out on the deliveries: “Look, pet, can we meet? I’ll be passing your way this morning, so what about the Grove – you know, that clump of trees at the top of Dog’s Head Hill – where we met before, say half eleven?”

“But Jack,” she’d said, her legs as usual turning to water at the sound of his voice, “someone might see the car – you know last time…”

“I’ll park it off the road, there’s a track – but if you’d rather not come –”

“Oh darling, of course I want to come, can’t wait, it’s just –”

“So long then – see you there.”

She’d only met Jack Fulton three weeks ago, but those three weeks had changed her life, they really had. She felt young again, full of life and the spirit of adventure – anything could happen, no matter what, she didn’t care. And it had been such an incredible stroke of luck too that she’d met him at all. It wasn’t as if she was in the habit of treating herself to a drink on her own, somehow it didn’t feel right. But the day she met Jack Fulton had been so hot and sticky that after finishing her shopping she’d popped in to the George Hotel in the High Street for a quick sherry before driving home. All the tables in the lounge being occupied, feeling a little conspicuous, she had to admit, she’d sat herself up at the bar, but only had time to take one sip of her sherry and pop an olive into her mouth, before this tall, fair haired, beefy chap loomed up and plonked himself down beside her. “Waiting for hubby, then?” he’d asked – and oh what a lovely smile he had – “Or may I buy you a drink? I hate to see a pretty woman drinking on her own.”

“Thanks very much,” she’d said, before she’d even had time to think about it, “I’ll have a sherry, if I may. As it happens my husband’s at home minding the store.” And that was how it had started. They met again the following week – she always went into town on a Thursday, and a proper little Brief Encounter it had turned out to be. Jack Fulton, that was his name, was a traveller in animal food stuffs, with a wife and kids up north in Barnsley. He was doing a three month stint in his firm’s Suffolk area to fill in for a colleague who was off sick . Makes a nice change, he’d told her, but it did mean he was all on his own during the week – he went home at weekends of course. “Sent from heaven, Emmie, you are,” he’d said, the first time they kissed, his eyes glazed with desire, his heavy body squashing hers into the back seat of his green Volvo, his breath coming in quick gasps. “Not here, not now,” she’d somehow managed to say – they were in the car park of The George, “someone might see us. Leave it with me, I’ll think of somewhere. Give me a tinkle tomorrow – that is if you can find the time.”

“I’ll find the time, alright, just give me the number, you green-eyed temptress,” (green-eyed temptress!) he’d said heaving himself off her, “but old Jack’s an impatient guy, so don’t you keep him waiting.” And she had found a place. That little wood at the top of Dog’s Head Hill – the Grove, the locals called it, and it was only half a mile from the shop, so handy for nipping out to, if Jack by any happy chance wanted a quickie. A bit on the windy side, but no houses anywhere, with a little pathway into it leading off the road, and they’d been snug as anything in this leafy glade they’d come across. Really romantic, as long as the weather kept fine, and safe from prying eyes, too – that is until last week when that wretched Josh Bogg had to come up the hill in his tractor and see them getting into Jack’s car. The locals said the place was haunted, some old god once had his shrine up there or some such rubbish, but she and Jack had been far too busy having fun to think about that!

Her toilet completed to her satisfaction, Emmie picks up her shoulder bag, too hot for a sweater, and hurries downstairs. She’s decided on that loose, pink cotton sack dress, she’d bought on her last visit to town: only worn once, and with that low cleavage, not being too tight round the hips, and easy to get out of – useful if Jack was in a hurry, sadly he often was – it seemed just the right thing for a day like this. And though she says it herself, after one last look in the mirror, she doesn’t look half bad in it. Please let Jack think so too, she prays as she hurries into the utility room to switch off the washing machine – she’ll hang the stuff out later – and puts her head round the door at the rear of the shop to tell Karen she’s off.

“Everything alright, Karen? Shan’t be long, and the major’s in the back doing his VAT if you need any help.” Karen Bogg, her skin tight, acid green mini skirt exposing a hefty chunk of pink thigh, is perched on a stool behind the shop counter, on which she’s spread her comic. She nods lethargically, without bothering to remove the earphones clamped to her ears. What can you do with a girl like that? “And make sure you remove those things when serving a customer.” Karen nods again.

“Will do, Mrs M. But we’ve been really quiet this morning so –”