Spare Brides (38 page)

Now Lydia floated into the room. She looked utterly beautiful, even more exquisite than her glorious norm. She had an iridescent glow; her skin was luminous rather than its usual creamy perfection, her smile brighter and broader. She actually looked taller. Beatrice felt hate slither into her heart. She did not hate Lydia just because Lydia was betraying her husband; she hated her because she had it all and more. She oozed excess. Beatrice imagined she could smell it on her: the surplus, the sex and the warmth.

Bea was determined that she would not give Lydia any satisfaction in terms of acknowledging her unexplained absence. No doubt she was desperate to talk about her passionate love affair; well Bea didn’t want to know. She didn’t need details. Couldn’t bear them. She had big news of her own, which she had just been about to impart to Ava when Lydia had interrupted. She actually resented the thought that Lydia’s reappearance might overshadow it.

Recently, Ava had started to listen to Beatrice in a way that no one else did, generally. It was flattering. Ava clearly looked on Bea as a project, but Bea didn’t mind. She felt someone ought to take her in hand; she hadn’t been managing her life particularly well so far. Now that Lydia had arrived, Ava’s attention might falter. Bea decided to plough on and not make a single reference to Lydia’s prolonged absence. She stood up to greet Lydia, because not to do so would be notably peculiar, but she let the kiss linger in the air. She did not dare make contact; it was impossible not to think about where Lydia had been, what she’d done.

‘Bea, how lovely to see you.’ Lydia smiled that bewitching smile of hers, which Bea had always loved yet now mistrusted.

‘Thank you. You look wonderful. Are you wearing a new dress?’

Lydia glanced down at her turquoise silk georgette dress, with an air that suggested she was surprised to see she was wearing anything at all. She shrugged. ‘No, I think you’ve seen this before.’ Her entire demeanour was carelessly casual. Bea wondered could she be oblivious to the concern she’d aroused of late.

‘I can’t imagine what it is then. Maybe you have a tan.’ Beatrice turned away and quickly sat down.

‘It is so very hot.’ Lydia slunk into a chair and flung her hat aside. She shook out her hair. It was unkempt and unstyled, yet she looked glorious. Free. Lascivious.

‘Do you want tea, or should I call for cocktails?’ asked Ava.

‘Tea,’ replied Bea at the exact moment that Lydia requested cocktails.

Beatrice stared at her hands as though they had the answers to all life’s great questions written upon them. Usually so willing to comply and conform, she was in the habit of adjusting her desires to fall into line with others, but this afternoon she did not grasp the alternative but resolutely stuck to her choice.

‘I don’t mind,’ smiled Lydia. ‘It’s that awkward hour, a little late for tea, a little early for cocktails. Whatever.’ She pulled out a packet of cigarettes from her bag and offered them around. Ava took one, Bea shook her head. ‘You can have one, you know, there’s no one watching you. No one will tell,’ Lydia teased.

‘Who would there be to tell?’ snapped Bea. ‘
I
don’t have to answer to anyone.’ She placed a heavy emphasis on ‘I’; Lydia would have to be utterly self-absorbed not to notice, but just in case, Bea drummed the point home. ‘
I
don’t have a husband, and it’s been a long time since they stopped insisting I needed a maid to follow me everywhere.’

‘Isn’t it a blessed relief?’ commented Lydia, seemingly unperturbed by Bea’s hints about accountability. She dragged on her cigarette and then tapped her ash into a huge glass ashtray that sat on a gilded occasional table. The smoke seemed to be painted on the air; it was so stifling it didn’t drift. ‘Part of the reason I married was because I was sick of being chaperoned. So restrictive.’

Ava laughed but couldn’t understand; she’d never been chaperoned in the traditional sense. Her mother tried, but somehow Ava had put herself beyond that sort of control. No one was ever quite sure of her whereabouts and no one ever had a clue as to what she was thinking.

‘Well, I suppose,’ muttered Bea. ‘I’ve never thought of it that way. It was simply the case that we had to give up the spare maids because money was getting tight, but during the war everyone made sacrifices, so there was no embarrassment; no one guessed we were strapped.’

‘No one minded anything much during the war,’ Ava agreed. She’d begun to understand Bea’s financial constraint, something she’d never considered until Bea came to stay with her.

‘Then after, well, I was no longer the sort of girl who needed chaperoning. In fact, I was no sort of girl at all.’ Bea paused, barely allowing the pity of her words to settle in the room before she added, ‘Sir Henry Vestry has asked me if I’ll take his daughter, Georgina, out into society. I’m sure you remember, her mother died of the flu and her father married a divorcée, so there isn’t anyone suitable to launch her.’

‘How very flattering. They must trust you a great deal,’ said Lydia. Her smile and eyes were unnaturally wide.

‘I’m old. I’m over,’ Bea stated simply. ‘That’s what it means. Nothing else.’

‘Don’t be silly, it will be jolly.’ Lydia sounded strained and unconvincing.

Ava patted Bea on the shoulder and said, ‘I am going to ask the maid to bring champagne.’

‘Ava, that’s very kind, but I don’t really feel like celebrating.’

‘No, darling, absolutely not, but you can drown your humiliation,’ said Ava, and she rang for the maid.

The women stayed silent until the maid had poured the champagne and left the room. They all drank up quickly.

Beatrice would borrow diamonds, Georgina would wear pearls. Pearls were for girls. Diamonds were to compensate for the loss of natural bloom. They probably were a genuine compensation if they had been given to you by a doting husband to celebrate the birth of a bouncing baby or years of matrimony, but they were cold comfort if they were on loan from a wealthier pal. Bea could see that Lydia was scrabbling around her brain for something compensatory and cheering to say on the topic. Ava, brutally honest, didn’t bother. She’d accepted the information for what it was. Society’s view of Beatrice Polwarth was that she was past it. Twenty-six, an old maid.

‘I don’t quite see myself joining the church parade just yet, sitting in rows on green chairs in the park,’ commented Bea.

‘No one is saying you have to.’

‘I’ve been invited to chaperone, Lydia. That’s exactly what they are saying. Finished. Before it even started. Done. Gone.’ Bea thought she might cry.

‘Will they pay you?’ Ava asked.

‘Yes, rather generous expenses and, of course, lodgings for the season.’

‘Well, that’s something marvellous. You have a job. You’re the first one of us to secure paid employment since the war.’ Ava refilled their glasses. ‘Congratulations!’ Bea knew that Ava’s rare enthusiasm was genuine, but she couldn’t share it.

‘It will be fun,’ added Lydia tentatively. ‘They have a house in Belgravia, don’t they?’

‘Yes. Very smart. Four floors,’ admitted Bea.

‘And a pile in Oxfordshire. Didn’t the King visit there last year?’ No doubt Lydia remembered that back in January, at Ava’s party, Beatrice had been thrilled with the idea of rubbing shoulders with aristocracy, and was trying to rouse and tempt. Bea resented the implication that she was a child who could be offered a shiny ribbon or an ice. She might have held that view just a few short months ago, but it felt like a distant epoch. She had believed then that there was still a chance for her to find love, or at least companionship; her biggest concern had been whether she could afford the season. Now she would be funded, but her season was past. She was one of a large crop of apples that, rather than be picked, would fall from the tree and rot into mulch among the browning foliage. Lydia left her chair and perched on the footstool next to Bea. She placed her hand on Bea’s arm. Bea withdrew, tucking her arms close to her body, out of reach; no doubt Lydia thought it was something to do with the chaperoning. ‘You’ll get to go to dazzling parties.’

‘And sit on the sidelines.’

‘There will be fathers in attendance, older brothers.’ Lydia smiled gently. Beatrice wished she wasn’t so beguiling. She did a very good impression of someone who really cared. It was confusing. Bea wanted to hate Lydia. Lydia was a woman who had everything Beatrice herself longed for and more. The fact that she seemed not to value her treasures and privileges in the least was the most galling part. Bea was almost sure she did hate her. Yet she seemed so much like the friend she’d always loved, especially when she added, ‘You’ll have spare time, too. You can continue with your sketching.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Will you go to Nottingham to choose her lace? We all went there, didn’t we?’ Lydia’s gentle nudge down the avenue of their shared past was alluring. Almost irresistible.

‘Do people still do that?’ Ava asked with a yawn.

‘Absolutely.’ Bea was surprised to find she had a view on where the lace for the veil and dress should be purchased. ‘It’s traditional and patriotic.’

‘Silver-trimmed?’ probed Lydia.

‘Gold,’ replied Bea emphatically. She hadn’t really given the issue much thought, much less discussed it with Georgina, but that was her instinct. ‘I mean, Sir Henry can afford the best, so why wouldn’t we?’ She missed Ava winking at Lydia at the mention of the word
we
.

‘A train?’

‘Well, I suppose eighteen inches. The maximum.’ Beatrice began to feel the effects of the champagne and her friends’ curiosity. She had never basked in the limelight, even during her own season; she might do very well with reflected glory. She might make do.

‘Won’t that look rather odd with the short skirts that are in fashion?’ asked Lydia.

‘I shan’t allow her to wear a short skirt,’ replied Bea, scandalised at the idea.

‘But she must, if she wants a man. She can’t be dull,’ commented Ava.

‘Gosh, this is going to need some thought.’ Bea was suddenly determined that Georgina Vestry would have a good season. A triumphant one. She would make a match. She would not be condemned to spinsterhood; her arms would not ache to hold babies. Bea would see to it. ‘The new fashions are a worry at court. The three small ostrich feathers and the wisps of tulle look simply silly in shingled or bobbed hair.’

‘What’s a girl to do?’

‘What indeed.’

‘So you’ll take the job?’ Ava asked.

Bea considered. Chaperoning was a position of both independence and responsibility. Her opinions would be elicited, considered and valued. She’d be needed. She’d have company. ‘I think I’ll telephone them right now, or maybe I should deliver the news in person.’

‘I’m sure they’d love that.’

Bea stood up, straightened her spine, threw back her shoulders. She would not take the underground; she would take a cab. She could afford it. She was a working woman. A woman of independent means.

A
S BEATRICE BUSTLED
out of the room, Lydia felt the air tighten. They had avoided an emotional breakdown; they had manipulated and manoeuvred the facts so that Beatrice found the silver lining in the dark, dank cloud. It was something. Not everything, but that was what they were all supposed to settle for now.

Lydia would not. She was here to tell Ava as much. She would not settle or conform. She’d tasted it all. Smelt it, licked it, held it. She wouldn’t give it up. Couldn’t.

Ava rang for her maid. ‘Bring more champagne and make sure it’s chilled,’ she snapped, showing an uncharacteristic lack of composure. ‘It’s so hot,’ she groaned, by way of explanation for her short temper. She turned to Lydia. ‘Well?’ It was all-encompassing.

‘I love him.’

‘Don’t be an idiot.’

Lydia smiled brightly, her eyes ablaze with certainty, a protest against the sharpness of Ava’s rebuke. She did not know how to explain her love; all she could do was definitively assert it.

‘You love having sex with him. It’s not the same thing at all.’

It was true that the sex mattered. His presence in a room made the hairs on her arms stand up; every fibre in her body ached as it leaned towards him in some secret, unfeasible way. When he slipped his tongue in her mouth she felt volts shoot through her being, her soul. He was a funny, unconventional, self-possessed, imprudent indulgence. She did not have to discuss with him the difficulty of finding a reliable housemaid, or whether a badger cull was necessary. They did not wonder whether they ought to invite Lord So-and-So for dinner because he had so much influence at the Home Office. They’d never bicker about how appropriate it was for Lydia to spend so much time with the increasingly scandalous Ava Pondson-Callow. They would not have a conversation about her need to produce a baby. Lydia was happy to live in the moment, shunning her past and refusing to contemplate the future. Their moment was glossy and gleaming. So dreamy. But then there was the other side. The deep and dark, depressed side he had shown her. The frightening realities. He’d blown the lid off her privileged and cosseted existence. She loved that just as much.

Ava sighed and shook her head. ‘Sex makes such fools of us all.’

‘It’s not just about sex.’

‘It’s always just about sex.’

‘There’s honesty between us.’

‘A sexual honesty?’

‘Yes, that and an emotional one too. What we feel for one another is rare and fragile. It can’t be articulated or labelled.’

‘What you feel for one another is depressingly commonplace, and it is known as adultery.’ Ava sighed and reached for her cigarettes. ‘It’s becoming horribly messy, Lydia. You must give him up.’

Lydia felt irritated and patronised. She’d come to Ava because she’d thought she was the most likely to understand; Ava was the least conventional of all her friends, the most willing to kick at traditions and laugh at rituals. She’d expected indulgence; an excited exchange about the deep mysteries of sensational physical satisfaction and complete emotional and intellectual fascination. She had not imagined she’d encounter resistance or disapproval. ‘Why do you care, suddenly? You’ve never been what one might describe as virtue incarnate.’