Dorothy Eden (29 page)

Mrs. Blunt, too, so far approved of Millie, as her cryptic notes showed. “Shall I wash bathroom walls tomorrow? Millie will help,” or “Refilled cake tins. Don’t let Millie eat all the chocolate cake,” or “Don’t sit on kitchen stools. We’ve just painted them.”

This all showed that Millie was a willing and good-natured worker, and Harriet felt more relieved and happy than she had been for a long time.

She could give her full mind to her part in the new play, and she began to enjoy it thoroughly. It was the gay lighthearted part of a frivolous young woman who adored hats that suited her own butterfly nature. Each time she had a sorrow or a celebration she bought a new frippery. With her improved domestic situation the part began to take hold of Harriet so completely that that day, on her way home from rehearsals, she suddenly stopped in Knightsbridge and went into her favorite milliners and bought a small, cherry-colored hat that Joe would have called admiringly another piece of nonsense. When the assistant serving her said, “Your husband’s going to like that, madam,” her impulse almost failed.

But if Joe had known that for almost two years she had not had a normal woman’s desire to buy a pretty hat, it would have been much worse. So in the end her common sense prevailed, and she went out of the shop wearing the hat.

She must, she thought, wryly, have been letting herself grow frumpy, as for the first time Fred, the porter, gave her an admiring glance. It was there plainly in his face, the message from a man to a woman that he finds her attractive. Ridiculously, Harriet felt her spirits lift. Fred, with the bold roving eye, who would find a great many women attractive, from Zoe to the buxom Millie, was no great criterion, but Harriet was too feminine not to respond to that unspoken flattery. Her step was lighter as she went towards the lift. Then, halfway up she heard a scream, followed by the sound of running footsteps down the stairs.

Abruptly she stopped the lift at the third floor and got out to see Millie come panting down the flight of stairs from the top floor.

“Millie, what’s happening ?” Harriet demanded.

“Oh, Mrs. Lacey, someone rang the doorbell, and when I answered it I was just in time to see such a strange woman put her head around the corner, by the lift, and then run away. Listen, you can hear her still!”

Distinctly Harriet could hear the hurrying, stumbling footsteps as of someone in very high heels, going down the stone stairs.

“She had long, sort of stringy blonde hair,” Millie gasped. “I didn’t really see her face because she ran the moment I came.”

“Where’s Jamie?” Harriet asked cryptically.

“I don’t know. With Mr. Palmer, I think. I was just coming down to see.”

The door of Flynn Palmer’s flat at the end of the passage was open, and Jones was standing there. His long face was full of interest.

“Jamie isn’t here, Mrs. Lacey.”

“Then one can make two guesses where he is,” Harriet said grimly. “Down in the basement, by this time, with Mrs. Helps, taking off the wig he borrowed.”

“Oh, the little beast!” Millie exclaimed. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Lacey—”

“It’s all right, Millie. He is a little beast, at times, as Jones will agree.”

Jones nodded, with his wry humor.

“But actually, in this case, I don’t think it was Jamie, Mrs. Lacey. When Millie screamed I came to the door and just caught a glimpse of the woman sneaking past. She had long untidy hair, like Millie said, and I could swear she was too tall for Jamie.”

“Goodness! Do you think she was someone who had sneaked in to sell things, and Fred had caught a glimpse of her?”

“That’s probably what it was. These hawkers pretend not to see the notices.”

“But it couldn’t have been Fred who startled her,” Harriet remembered, “because he was at the front door. Millie, I’ve no doubt Jamie is down with Mrs. Helps, all the same.”

“But of course!” exclaimed Jones, snapping his fingers softly. “Mr. Palmer will be expecting young women to call about the secretary job he advertised. Perhaps one of them went to the wrong door.”

“And then ran off in panic?” Harriet said, turning to go.

“What’s all this?” came Flynn’s voice from the doorway. “Where’s this nervous young woman? I’d like to meet her. It would be a new experience.”

“Millie, go and get Jamie,” Harriet said, turning to go.

“Wait a moment, Harriet.” Flynn’s arrogance was as unassumed as Jones’s formality. “I wish you’d glance at some letters I’ve had from would-be secretaries. I’m bothered if I can tell from their neat statistics which one would be good at love letters.”

“Including the one who’s just got away?”

“Oh, she’s jumped the gun. I haven’t made an appointment with any of them yet. That’s wishful thinking on Jones’s part. He’s got a sick wife, you know.”

If that statement seemed unnecessarily acid, as many of Flynn’s remarks were, Jones did not appear to mind. He gave his deferential smile and said, “Not the blondes, sir. Definitely not.”

“Well, good for you, Jones. Do come in, Harriet.”

He led the way back into his living room, walked surely in the familiar surroundings. Flecks of gray showed plentifully in his untidy, dark hair. When he turned to wave Harriet to a chair the strain on his face and the underlying irritation were all too evident.

Her habitual feeling of guilt and uneasiness came back. Really, this was an impossible situation. She would have to say so, once and for all.

“Read this!” Flynn said, flourishing a letter. “I believe it’s the one offering to send a photograph. To me! Harriet, can’t you sit down? Jones, where are you? Bring some drinks. Oh, yes, I know it’s after six, but your wife won’t really expire if you’re five minutes late.”

“How is your wife, Jones?” Harriet asked, as Jones came in with the tray of drinks.

“Much the same, Mrs. Lacey, thank you. I’m not very happy about the new woman who looks after her, but I’m hoping she’ll improve when she gets fond of Nell.”

He spoke with such assurance that Harriet said, “Does everyone get fond of her?”

“You really couldn’t help it,” Jones answered simply. He was tall, thin, and probably in his late thirties. He must have been a very ordinary person until this air of dedication had lifted him out of the ordinary. It also gave him his patience with Flynn’s irascible tempers and idiosyncrasies. He was really a treasure. Harriet wasn’t quite sure that Flynn deserved him. She hoped that Nell, the delicate, pampered wife, did.

“Gin, Harriet?” said Flynn. “All right, Jones, dammit, man, get your coat and go.”

When Jones had gone Flynn went on in his caustic voice,

“The little woman! The dear little hypochondriac. Whew!”

“How do you know she’s a hypochondriac?”

“Of course she is. Has Jones, who’d be a decent fellow otherwise, on a string. Slightest deviation from routine, tug goes the string. What are you drinking, my love? Do make up your mind.”

“Do you mind,” said Harriet slowly, “not calling me your love?”

He raised his head, interested. The quick, habitual irritation went out of his face and one thick black brow was raised amusedly.

“But I talk to all pretty girls like that, even to my late abysmally stupid secretary. And Zoe, of course, Zoe adores it. Don’t you, Harriet?”

“The situation is impossible,” Harriet burst out. “It would be much better if we didn’t see each other at all, or at least no more than is absolutely necessary.”

“If you mean I’m impossible—” Flynn began, fingering his dark glasses.

There it was, the constant pain, that she had to observe helplessly.

“It’s impossible,” she explained clearly, “because we both feel so hatefully guilty. You have to keep an eye on me in case I’m lonely. I have to do what I can for you because you are blind. And all the time Joe is between us.”

Harriet’s voice had risen a little and grown breathless. She was almost in tears again. It was humiliating. Suddenly she hated the dark, caustic young man who faced her with his self-contained irony. But there was no irony in his voice when he answered. “No one is to blame for what happened. It was destiny. That’s the way to look at it. On the 24th February, 1955, Joe’s and my guiding stars collided. Mine got dimmed and Joe’s went out. It had been due to happen, obviously, since the beginning of time. It couldn’t have been altered.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Harriet said, “don’t be whimsical. It doesn’t suit you.”

“True. It doesn’t. Have a pink gin, darling. It will do you more good than my fatalism.”

“Joe’s star, as you put it, went out, and you not only lost a career—”

“Oh, that. I’m going to write instead. Harriet, don’t be morbid.”

“There’s another thing—Zoe. You’d marry her if you hadn’t this—this protection thing or whatever it is, about me.”

“Well,” said Flynn thoughtfully, “you might almost have something there. Zoe’s a poppet. I adore her.”

“And so does she you, heaven knows why. But the thing is, Flynn, we’re bad for each other. There’s this—shadow—between us.”

Flynn turned to pour the drinks. He knocked over a glass, swore, shouted for Jones, then said, “Oh, lord, the fellow’s gone running home to his sick wife! What a world! No, I’ll pick it up. Leave it, can’t you? I’m not completely decrepit. That’s what gets me, you women waiting on me. Zoe’s the same. One day I’ll wring her pretty white neck.”

He had groped for another glass and finally succeeded in pouring a generous drink. Handing it to Harriet he said in a milder tone, “Actually, I don’t have what you call a protection thing about you, whatever you have about me. But I like to know you and the children are upstairs. I like having Jamie down when he feels like it. I like knowing you’ve got this luscious Millie who’s young and bright for the children. I like to know your affairs are in order, Harriet.”

“Thank you,” said Harriet, rather stiffly.

“So perhaps I have got a protection thing. But for God’s sake, don’t talk about it. Here, read these letters. Tell me whom I’m to see. The whole lot of them bore me.”

Harriet began to read the first letter, then was interrupted by Flynn, with one of his abrupt changes of mood, saying inquisitively, “Why were you walking so gaily when you came out of the lift? I heard you.”

“I don’t know. Because I had a new hat, perhaps.”

“Haven’t you had a new hat for a long time?”

“Actually, no.”

“Let’s celebrate, shall we? I’ll ring for oysters and champagne.”

“Flynn, don’t be absurd! I have to go to the children. Anyway, Zoe’s sure to be in.”

“Can’t I order enough for three?”

“Triangles and new hats. All incompatible. I must go, truly.”

Upstairs in her own flat Harriet found Jamie, with the angelic expression that hinted at undiscovered naughtiness on his face, and Millie in a state of controlled excitement.

“Jamie was with Mrs. Helps, all right,” she said breathlessly. “But he came home when he was told. Gosh, that old woman’s room! Gives you the creeps, like a morgue.”

“What’s a morgue?” asked Jamie.

“All those heads of hair!” went on Millie irrepressibly. And then the reason for her excitement came out. “Oh, Mrs. Lacey, I wonder if I could have the night off tonight. Fred’s asked me to go to a dance.”

“Fred?”

“Fred Helps. The porter.” Millie’s voice was slightly astonished, that Harriet should be in doubt as to which Fred was meant. To Millie there obviously was only one Fred, and he was the tall, bold-eyed young man who, to her, looked so glamorous in his green uniform.

“Oh, him. You want to watch your step with him, Millie. He has an eye for pretty girls.”

“I can take care of that,” Millie said confidently, and for a moment her eyes were as bold as Fred’s.

“It’s a place where they keep dead bodies,” Jamie said suddenly and startlingly.

“Jamie, pick up your toys tidily,” Harriet said. “Yes, Millie, I think you can go to the dance. It’s rather short notice.”

“I know, but he only just asked me,” Millie said excitedly.

“Well. All right, but I do warn you not to take Fred too seriously.” Harriet suddenly felt old and sedate, and thought of Flynn’s offer of oysters and champagne, and was both angry and sad. “Have you got something nice to wear, Millie?”

“Only my blue net.” Millie pouted, then brightened. She had the kind of vacuous face that never stayed gloomy for long. “I’ll be able to get a new dress when I’ve earned some money.”

“So you will. It’s much more fun buying clothes with money one has earned oneself.” Good heavens, she was growing staid and prosy. “You can borrow my white wool stole, if you like. It’s in my closet.”

“Oh, Mrs. Lacey! Can I really? Oh, you are kind.”

“Not at all. Put the children to bed first. And I think you ought to be home by midnight. I shall still be up.”

“Yes, Mrs. Lacey. And thanks ever so!”

An hour later Millie, flushed and plump in the blue net, and with the white stole swathed dramatically over her young, smooth shoulders, was on her way to enjoy the first dividends that the new job was producing for her. Harriet called good-bye to her cheerfully, and did not know that on the landing outside the closed door Millie stopped to put on the earrings she had daringly borrowed from Harriet’s jewel box which she had thoroughly investigated on her first day at work. They were slim, dangling ones, not quite large enough for Millie’s taste, but with a sparkle that she liked. They made her feel even more chic and expensive than the soft white stole did. She was very excited and very pleased with herself indeed. She could scarcely wait to get to the ground floor and have Fred’s bold, bright, admiring gaze on her.

Left alone, Harriet firmly resolved not to brood. Today she had known, when she had enjoyed buying a new hat and walking in the sunshine, that sitting at home in the evening with sleeping children was not her role forever. She would be content with it meanwhile. She was very lucky. She had a comfortable flat, a good part in a new play, two charming children. She did not have oysters and champagne for dinner, but she had her eyesight…

She had scarcely time to think of anything, however, before the doorbell rang. When she went to the door she saw the strange spiderish figure of Mrs. Helps, Fred’s mother.