Spare Brides (19 page)

‘No time for notes,’ hissed Sarah. She was both furious and disappointed with her friend, yet she was loyal, and she swallowed up the awkward moment. ‘Lawrence, my dear, there you are. We were wondering where you’d got to. Lydia will be so much happier now. She’s missed you.’ She kissed Lawrence on the cheek and held him in a friendly embrace just long enough to allow Lydia to gather her senses, but not so long as to make Lawrence aware that she needed to do so. ‘I shall leave you two alone now. See you at dinner. I understand that drinks are at seven. We’re to be seated by eight.’ The door closed behind her.

‘Lydia.’

‘Lawrence.’ Lydia did not run into Lawrence’s arms as he’d hoped. Instead she remained in her seat, in front of the dressing table. He couldn’t see her eyes because Dickenson was now robustly towel-drying her hair and obscuring her expression.

‘You’re shivering.’ He looked around for her robe.

‘So, you finished your dreadfully important work?’

‘Work? Oh, yes.’ Lawrence wasn’t sure who the pretence was for, Dickenson or each other. Either way, he appreciated it. Things were deuced awkward between him and Lydia. This damned baby business. This Lydia was the one he felt comfortable with; the one who spent her day doing charitable deeds, the one who would retreat into decent manners when required. With a little bit of care on both sides, they might very well be able to bury the nastiness of last week. They could make a good show at forgetting it. Her behaviour had been unacceptable. She had been, by anyone’s estimation, hysterical. Obviously her hormones were not all they should be. If they were, there would be a baby, no doubt, and she wouldn’t have need, let alone inclination, to indulge in all this silly talk about punishments. What rot.

‘Well that must be a big relief to you.’ She had not yet said she was pleased to see him. Naturally he assumed she must be; every woman liked her husband by her side at this sort of do. Besides, with the snow, they might be here for days. She couldn’t possibly want them to be apart for so long; although it was quite clear that she was still out of sorts. Nose out of joint good and proper. She was making him work for it. Well he’d be damned if he’d apologise. Certainly not in front of Dickenson. The servants loved that sort of thing, and it didn’t do. A man mustn’t look weak. Gossip started. Best he ignored her girlish sulking and pretended everything was in splendid fettle. He wasn’t going to waste another moment on this nonsense.

‘What a journey I’ve had. Damned motor. We broke down about seven miles away. Had to walk, in the snow, to the local village. We were lucky to find board.’

‘You should have telephoned.’

‘Oh, I know Pondson-Callow would have sent out the carriage, but it was snowing quite heavily by then. Not safe for horses.’ Lawrence brushed aside his inconvenience. He didn’t like to appear helpless; it was important that everyone saw him as a strong and energetic man. It had been tricky during the war, no doubt about it. If only the civil servants had been given uniforms, there wouldn’t have been quite so much pointing and questioning in the street. Those horrible women who were always handing out white feathers used to infuriate him. What did they know? Privately, although he’d never admit it, he’d sometimes, fleetingly, wished he didn’t always look quite so healthy, quite so vigorous. He’d heard of chaps who had started to carry a stick or developed incessant coughs, just to make things easier in public; chaps like him, ones that served, but served in an office. Essential workers – bankers, doctors, dentists – were in the same position. He was damned if he’d become one of the apologetic ones. What he did was vital. Well, important. Certainly valid. So he went the other way. He’d taken care to walk to his full height, to project his voice loudly and confidently, to keep in shape. It was no good being ashamed of where he was. What he was. That way ruin lay. That was why he was so damned cross with Lydia for saying such a ridiculous thing about her infertility. How could it be his punishment? He hadn’t done anything wrong.

This morning he’d insisted on walking here straight after church; he’d carried his own luggage. He hadn’t imagined in a month of Sundays that Lydia would have made such an early start; frankly, he was rather surprised that she’d chosen to spend her Sunday doing good deeds. Impressed, certainly, but he’d expected to find her still in bed, probably with a hangover. He’d thought she’d have a spot of kedgeree and then be the first to demand a snowball fight. It was wrong of him to be disappointed that she’d been out all day. Hospital visiting was the right sort of thing, obviously; admirable. Although he hoped to God her absence today wasn’t something to do with their fight; he feared she was in danger of catching religion. People were going, rather extremely, down one path or the other nowadays, either declaring that they were agnostic or converting to Catholicism. He did hope she wasn’t going to become one of those overly worthy or religious women; they made dull wives.

‘Would you like to wear your blue silk georgette, my lady? I have it laid out.’ Dickenson reached for the dress Lawrence most liked to see his wife in. He’d bought it for her on their last anniversary. Whilst undoubtedly a modern cut, it was pale and feminine, embroidered with daisies and cornflowers, which reminded Lawrence of more innocent days, when they were both unquestionably youthful and all about beginnings. The skirt was an abundance of minute pleats, and there was an overlay of something or other – lace? Something light and shy, at any rate. It was an extremely pretty dress. Dickenson held it with reverence.

‘No. That dress isn’t right at all. I need a party dress.’

‘But it’s not a party, my lady. It’s dinner.’

‘It will turn into a party, if I know Ava Pondson-Callow. One that lasts until the early hours. She’s bored of being cooped up.’

‘Actually, I spent most of the day with Ava; she was in rather good spirits.’

Lydia ignored Lawrence and continued to address her maid. ‘What one wears has a dual purpose, and every woman worth her salt is inherently aware of both, Dickenson.’

‘I thought the idea was to look nice, my lady.’

‘It has to flatter, of course, but beyond that it has to demonstrate one’s sense of status and style. It is an illustration of a woman’s understanding of the significance of the event she is attending. If she gets it wrong, then she is telling the whole world that she’s clueless. We don’t want the world thinking I’m clueless, do we?’

Uncomfortable, Dickenson shook her head. The pretty blue silk georgette lay lifeless in her arms. ‘Which do you want?’

‘The silver tulle and lamé number. I want to shine tonight. Bring my pewter mesh evening bag too, the one with the enamelled mounts embellished with leather and pearl. You did pack it, didn’t you?’ She sounded tetchier than usual, more demanding and desperate. Lawrence thought she’d probably been out too long in the cold. ‘And my grey leather shoes, the ones with the lattice openwork and steel bead decoration. I want to shimmer tonight. Positively glitter.’

It was all too much for Lawrence. The feminine activity and industry required to look gorgeous was not something he liked to witness, preferring instead to think of the process as somewhat magical. ‘Well, I suppose you need to be getting on.’

‘Yes.’

‘Would it be easier if I found another room to dress in?’

‘Yes, darling, it would.’

Lawrence didn’t read too much into the fact that the first and only time his wife had thrown an endearment towards him was when he offered to leave her alone.

L
ADY PONDSON-CALLOW
had accepted that she had to make a good job of a bad situation. If she was to deal with forty house guests for the second night in a row, she was determined to do so spectacularly. She had the housekeeper write out the name of each person staying on a separate card, and then had spent much of the day placing and replacing them to her satisfaction. Starting with her own card at one end and her husband’s at the other, she had put them in the order in which they were to sit at the table. It had often been said by various hostesses that this practice was a little like playing solitaire, because the trick was in the sequencing; Lady Pondson-Callow thought it was rather more like playing God. Tradition had it that she ought to place the lady of greatest honour to her husband’s right, the second in importance on his left. Then on either side of herself she ought to seat the two most important gentlemen. The remaining guests were to be fitted in between. An effort was to be made to ensure that people were seated by those they found congenial or, if the mood struck her, those they found controversial. Either arrangement made for a diverting dinner.

Lady Pondson-Callow had scrupulously followed these rules at last night’s formal dinner. She’d found herself wedged between Lord Feversham and Sir Oswald Henning. So many dull old men to entertain. Tonight she was determined to sit next to the elusive Sergeant Major Trent. Everyone wanted to know more about him. If his conversation was anywhere near as stunning as his looks, she was in for a treat and, if it wasn’t, well, she still wouldn’t complain. Sir Peter had been equally disgruntled with last night’s seating plan. Traditionally the guest of honour was the oldest lady present, and so he’d had to make do with a couple of old, dreary dowagers. Lady Pondson-Callow understood her husband well enough to know the importance of providing him with a harmless distraction; if she didn’t, there was always the danger he’d go and search out some entertainment of his own, which could rarely be contained so well. She was desperate to shake things up a little tonight, but she had a horror of doing anything that might be considered
nouveau.
She wondered whether there was a new bride among her guests; no one could object to a fresh honeymooner taking precedence over older people. Oh yes! There was Doreen. Despite the fact that she was already rumoured to be sleeping with her dance tutor, she was less than a year married, technically still a new bride. Peter would be so much happier leading her into dinner, which left Lady Pondson-Callow free to sit with the dashing officer. The effect of this decision was to cascade right down to the likes of Beatrice and Mr Oaksley.

The seating arrangement was generally a secret between the hostess and her staff until the moment gentlemen filed into the drawing room for pre-dinner cocktails. At that point each gentleman collected, from a silver tray, a diminutive envelope addressed just to him, inside which there was a card with the name of the lady he was to take down to dinner. Having shaken up the seating plan to the point of controversy, Lady Pondson-Callow didn’t want to be bothered with the disagreeable grumbles that were likely to ensue, so she instructed the butler to display the entire arrangement on a board in the hallway at tea time.

‘How very modern, my lady,’ commented the butler.

‘I’m well aware of that, Farrell, and, as you can imagine, with my distrust of the modern, I have not reached the decision lightly, but on balance it’s better this way, rather than having the shrimp ruined by awkward, protesting silences. Best everyone gets used to where they are sitting sooner rather than later.’

Beatrice was bitterly disappointed to discover that she was not to be seated near Mr Oaksley at dinner. She hadn’t expected that her personal desires might have reached the lofty heights of Lady Pondson-Callow’s consciousness, but she had hoped. Taking all her frustration and converting it into courage, she went to Ava’s room to beg her to intervene; if things were swapped around, she and Arnie could continue their intimacy uninterrupted.

Beatrice found Ava admiring herself in a full-length gilt mirror; she was wearing her underwear and a rose velvet evening coat lined with peach satin.

‘How do you like my new look?’ Ava asked brightly. She turned the full effect of her widest beam on Beatrice. The beam cut through the cigarette smoke and the chaos of the room. Bea cast her gaze about, because the coat didn’t have a clasp and Ava’s underwear was sheer; she could see her deep magenta nipples and her mound of pubic hair quite clearly. It was disconcerting. There were huge piles of discarded dresses, undergarments and stockings everywhere. Records, fallen from their sleeves, littered the floor around the gramophone, and jewellery, lipsticks and shoes were scattered like confetti on every surface imaginable. Ava’s maid was carefully sorting through a pile of garments that had been casually tossed on to the bed. She was returning exquisite dresses – copper, magenta, cobalt – to padded silk hangers at about the same rate as Ava pulled something from her wardrobe and dropped it again. The room was awash with gleaming sequins and silks, which reflected in polished metal clutch bags and modern aluminium and mirrored furniture. Everything shone.

‘Gosh, you have such beautiful things.’

Ava allowed the slouchy, beaded velvet evening coat to fall to the floor and reached for another frock. Bea scooped up the coat, which embodied the flapper’s party-until-dawn attitude. Like its owner, it personified opulence combined with mischievousness. The sensual silky velvet, the luxurious ruche collar and the elaborate embroidery on the hem and the sleeves all whispered prosperity and prominence. She stroked it longingly.

‘You know I’d let you borrow anything, only …’

‘None of it fits.’ Bea wasn’t ever sure if Ava’s generous offers were genuine, or simply a subtle way to draw attention to her weight problem.

‘Cheer up, Beatrice. You know you’re terribly lucky with the current fashions. The garçon look hides—’

‘A multitude of sins. Yes, I do know. You are always telling me.’

‘Simple, straight and waistless is not only liberating, it’s—’

‘Forgiving. Yes, I think you have mentioned that.’

‘For those who need it. Come here.’

Beatrice walked towards Ava with trepidation. Ava brazenly and efficiently ran her hands down Bea’s ribs, waist and hips. ‘For God’s sake, Beatrice, you have to ditch the whalebone corsets. Men won’t dance with you if they can’t feel you. Buy an elastic girdle. How many times do I have to tell you?’

Beatrice flushed. Her pudgy, ringless hands hung limp and pink by her sides. Ava abruptly turned to examine her reflection. ‘Help me, what should I wear?’