Spare Brides (6 page)

‘Charlie, I’d rather expected to be greeted by my maid,’ she said flatly.

‘I sent her away.’

‘And how did you explain your presence in my room?’ Ava took off her earrings and put them in a small china pot on her dressing table, then stared at her lover with nonchalance.

‘I’m next door. I told her I’d made a wrong turn.’

‘I don’t suppose she believed you.’

‘She’s a maid, I don’t suppose it matters.’

It mattered to Ava, but not as much as it ought and not for the expected reasons. Obviously, unmarried women were somehow expected to remain virginal until their wedding night, but Ava thought that was outdated and hadn’t paid any attention. It was simply this business about feeding rumour that bothered her. She didn’t like to be known; it seemed so very similar to being owned.

‘Besides, since the duchess has thoughtfully given us adjoining rooms, I imagine she suspects we’re lovers, and if
she
suspects, then everyone else
knows.
She’s famously very slow on the uptake.’

Ava scowled, not wanting this to be the case. ‘Let’s hope it’s just coincidence then.’ Suddenly she felt a basic and needful desire flood through her body; it overtook her concern about the gossip. She changed her tone. ‘So since you’ve sent my maid away, how am I supposed to undress?’ she asked with a small smile.

Harrington patted the bed. ‘Come here, I can help you.’

Afterwards, he asked, ‘Did you like that?’

‘Yes. You’re very good.’

‘Your best?’

‘One of them,’ she conceded. Lord Harrington looked disappointed, but wisely chose to rally. Ava was not a woman who responded to self-pity; in fact she was very likely to be regretfully contemplating the ghastly sameness of all encounters such as these. He jumped out of bed and poked the fire, and then he threw the rubber condom in the grate and poked it again, hoping it would burn. It was not the sort of thing one wanted one’s wife to find, but Ava always insisted on one, seemingly unaware or at least unconcerned that the only other women who did so were French whores. She wouldn’t trust withdrawal; in an amusing perversion of the usual roles of the sexes, she insisted that men were out to trap her.

Lord Harrington reached for two cigarettes and lit them both, handing one to Ava. She sat up in bed, not bothering to modestly pull the covers up to hide her breasts. She didn’t think about it, but if she had, her actions would have been equally bold, because she secretly enjoyed the frisson of shocking. Clearly the lord liked it too, because he leapt back into bed with the energy of a child on Christmas morning. He swooped down to kiss her breast, and as he gently tugged on her nipple he mumbled, ‘Darling, you are perfect, will you marry me?’

Ava took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘That’s terribly sweet of you, Charlie, but aren’t you already married?’

‘Well, yes, presently, but I’d divorce her. For you, my love, I would divorce her.’

Ava stubbed out her cigarette and considered. ‘But if you were single, you wouldn’t have any attractions at all,’ she replied with a yawn. ‘Now, darling, do be quiet. I want to get some sleep.’

T
HE DOCTOR’S SURGERY
was almost identical to the half a dozen or so other doctors’ surgeries Lydia had visited over the past seven years: austere, silent and tinged with the smell of chloroform, a smell that always made her feel anxious and nauseous by turn. The dark mahogany floors, shelves, wall panels and doors in the small waiting room shone with polish and elbow grease, but their shine didn’t please or comfort Lydia in the least; she fought the feeling that she was trapped in a coffin. She couldn’t stay seated for more than five minutes in a row, but leapt up from her chair and strode around the room. She fingered the brass bell on reception, touched the handles on the drawers of the impressive display cabinet housing an eagle that a taxidermist had captured mid pounce and flicked through the magazines set on the table until Sarah reminded her, ‘Not everyone wears gloves nowadays.’ Even though Lydia did wear gloves, for warmth and form, she instantly drew back, sat down and rested her hands on her lap.

There was no good news.

Dr Folstad was tall and slim, fitter than most men his age. His moustache, white and thick, drew Lydia’s eye as it danced with his lip, probably made all the more fascinating by the contrast with his head, which was entirely bald and shone so audaciously that Lydia believed it quite possible that he had it polished along with the wall cladding and shelves. However, for all his reputation as an experimental, forward-thinking doctor, he had nothing new to offer Lydia, who had hoped for a miracle at best, innovation at least. Whilst he looked very different from all the other doctors she’d met, he sounded the same. He took her temperature, asked about her menstruation, made her lie down on her back as he put his hands on her belly. Just as all the other doctors had.

‘Have you ever used contraception?’

‘No.’ Lydia was mystified. She was here to learn how to get pregnant. Not once in her eight years of marriage had she ever used contraception. Why would she?

‘There are women who do, early on in their marriages, and it damages them in the long term.’

‘Oh.’ Lydia had heard this before. When she’d repeated it to Ava, Ava had laughed riotously and talked about the guff that men spouted in an attempt to terrify women. She’d commented that it was criminal, and then added that she only wished contraception had such long-term effects, as it would save her a lot of time and effort. Lydia had been too stunned and shy to ask exactly what Ava had meant by this.

Lydia had received several pieces of dubious advice during her desperate pursuit to conceive a baby, and had sat through many chastising lectures too. One doctor advised her to drink a pint of Guinness every day, as he was adamant that she lacked iron. For a year she’d waded through the thick, creamy beer every morning at breakfast, even though she wasn’t keen on the burned, sharp, almost lactic flavour, and it often caused her to have a headache for the remainder of the morning. She only gave up the habit when another doctor advised her that the drink was making her less feminine and thus reducing her chances of conceiving. She’d been told that wearing high-heeled shoes had thrown her uterus into displacement; for several months she was unfashionable, bordering on the dowdy, and had only returned to heels when Ava had once again sprinkled her wisdom by commenting, ‘Good God, woman, you’re a fright. Lawrence isn’t going to want to make love to you if you insist on dressing like a farm labourer. Then you’ll never get pregnant.’ Lydia thought she might have a point: heels were so much more flattering for the ankles and calves.

She nervously fingered the lace hem of her skirt, which sat a smidgen below her knee. She wondered whether she might get ticked off for that too. She’d once been told that short skirts were responsible for her infertility. Admittedly, that choice piece of idiocy hadn’t come from a doctor; it was a great-aunt of Lawrence’s who’d insisted that draughts ‘up there’ led to problems.

‘Do you exercise?’ Dr Folstad asked gruffly.

‘I dance,’ Lydia admitted carefully.

‘Dancing. Hmm.’ His tone was condemning.

‘I ski in season, and play tennis and golf too in the spring and summer,’ she added defensively, in case dancing was to be disapproved of on moral grounds, as well it might; one never knew what doctors despised.

‘For sure. As all you young ladies do.’

Patronised and alarmed, Lydia asked, ‘Is it wrong?’

‘Not necessarily. Some doctors say excessive exercise in women is a problem. Others say it isn’t.’

‘What do
you
say?’ asked Sarah. Her concern over the enormous fee this doctor was charging had shocked her out of her normal reserve.

Dr Folstad leaned forward and turned on the desk lamp. It had been a dull day. The sky, originally the colour of the hem of a wedding dress, had now darkened to something more akin to a groom’s topcoat. It had drizzled non-stop since Boxing Day. The inclement weather was hard to ignore; it had a devastating effect on the perkiness of hats and hearts. The light from the lamp helped ease the gloom marginally, but Sarah wished someone would offer them a cup of tea; she was sure Lydia would benefit. Irritation at the lack of hospitality emboldened her further. ‘Do you have a view?’

The doctor held Sarah’s gaze, not offended, rather amused by her challenge. ‘I think moderate exercise is to be recommended, as is the moderate consumption of alcohol. Drink milk but make sure it’s pasteurised. Eat plenty of eggs and leafy greens.’ Lydia nodded enthusiastically at every syllable that dropped from his mouth, as though he was spitting pearls. ‘Try not to get too stressed, Mrs Chatfield. Stress is an enemy in all health issues.’

‘Lady.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Lady Chatfield.’ Lydia blushed, immediately wishing she hadn’t corrected him. What did it matter if this foreigner failed to address her properly? Few Englishmen truly understood how to address whom, whom to address how.

‘Lady Chatfield,’ he repeated carefully; was he laughing? ‘And you could try some new positions during sexual intercourse.’

Lydia sensed Sarah shudder at her side. It was good of Sarah to attend this appointment, as sex and all the associated, wasn’t a subject she’d ever felt comfortable discussing, even before she became a widow. Before, she had found it embarrassing; now, no doubt, it was both embarrassing and painful. Lydia had married a year after Sarah, and she remembered trying to talk to her friend about what to expect on her honeymoon. Sarah had told her to pack Hartmann’s Hygienic Towelettes and lots of spare pairs of knickers, and not to worry if she didn’t immediately get the hang of it. Still, blushes aside, if positions could help, then Lydia had to know more.

‘Any you’d recommend especially?’ she asked, taking care to keep her eyes trained on the green leather desk.

‘I have a leaflet. Produced in Oslo but written in English.’ He didn’t need to be any more specific; both the women already understood that the leaflet would no doubt be considered obscene in British terms. Whilst having children was deemed patriotic, any discussion as to how this might come about was still judged as perverse. Folstad stood up and rooted in a cabinet drawer; while he had his back to them the women shared a quick glance. They were unsure whether to be excited for Lydia, hopeful or panicked. Lydia wanted to giggle. Nervous.

‘Here we are.’ He handed her a very thin five inch by three inch sheet of paper. It was the same thin texture as her confirmation Bible and she wondered whether this was significant; she read so much into everything nowadays. The print was tiny and difficult to read. There were no pictures.

Blushing again, Lydia folded the piece of paper in half and then into quarters, and carefully stowed it in a buttoned pocket inside her bag. ‘Do you think it might be worthwhile my husband coming to visit you?’ she asked tentatively.

‘I can’t imagine there’s any point in that,’ replied Dr Folstad. ‘What possible help would it be? No doubt your husband is a busy man, and invariably the problem lies with the woman, you know.’

‘I see.’

‘Vitamins are essential. And cod liver oil. Do be sure that the receptionist has your correct address. I send bills out on a Tuesday. Any questions?’ The doctor’s moustache stayed still for a moment.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

Just one.
Why? Why not?
But she knew he couldn’t answer that.

O
UT ON THE
pavement it was miserably cold. The streets were teeming with people rushing to find shelter from the drizzle that had started while they were visiting the doctor; umbrellas popped up like shiny black mushrooms, but neither Lydia nor Sarah had one with them. The bitter January air scratched the women’s faces; helplessly they watched as a gust picked up a brown paper bag and carried it bouncing along the street. A small child gambolled after it, laughing; a nanny ran after the child, scolding. Lydia and Sarah wondered what to say to one another. The doctor’s hopelessness and blame sat heavily on the pavement with them, more solid and real than the longed-for Silver Cross baby carriage with a plump heir inside. Lydia rallied first. She was more familiar with this situation than Sarah; she’d been found culpable often enough.

‘Well, I’m stranded somewhere between painful outrage and a genuine interest in the leaflet,’ she commented, forcing a bright smile to her face. She threaded her arm through her friend’s.

‘Should we find a tea house? Warm us up?’ Sarah suggested.
Warm us up
was new-speak for
cheer us up
. No one admitted to needing to be cheered – it seemed unpatriotic – but everyone felt it. Gloomy Januarys were the worst.

‘Yes, tea.’ It would solve little, but both women needed to believe in this, the great British myth that everything would at least be better after a hot cuppa. ‘Let’s go to Maison Lyons at Marble Arch. It’s so very glam. Look, there’s a cab.’

As hoped, the familiar white and gold façade did something to lift the spirits of the two friends. Lydia pushed open the door and both women tumbled into the welcome glare of the large, bustling food hall. They excitedly drank in the intoxicating sight of the fancies on offer. Fat pink joints of ham hung temptingly from hooks, alluring jewelled cakes, light pastries and delicate hand-made chocolates were displayed in glass counters, crates of exotic, colourful fruits that had been shipped to London from all over the Empire were stacked around them, as well as slabs of smelly ripe cheeses and displays of impressive wines and champagnes. The women breathed in the luxury and allowed themselves to let drop a small amount of the tension that perpetually gripped them both.

‘Do you have much delivered from here?’ Sarah asked conversationally.

‘Yes, when we’re in Eaton Square, it’s so convenient. They deliver twice a day, you know.’

‘How marvellous.’

‘I come here to have my hair done occasionally too,’ confessed Lydia. ‘There’s a salon in the basement.’

‘Do you? Why? I thought Dickenson had clever fingers and some flair that way.’