Take My Life (3 page)

Joan Newcombe, who had managed to kiss her sister-in-law and murmur words of congratulation, withdrew slowly from the others.

Leslie said: ‘I told Aunt Phil I liked that song just before she blindfolded the little boy. I liked the twiddley bits. And that one she sang while you were out, Uncle Nick, that was a good one.'

‘I think we should be going, Nick,' his mother said. ‘It's been a rare pleasure to me. Such a pity John couldn't be here to see Philippa's triumph.'

‘Bring him one night next week,' Nick suggested. ‘That's if you can persuade him to face it for the sake of seeing Philippa. They're doing this again next Saturday, and
Traviata
on Wednesday. I'll get you a taxi.'

They left the dressing-room and walked to the stage door. The fine drizzle had changed to a soft gentle rain. He was lucky with a taxi, and in a few minutes he had shut the door on them and with a farewell wave turned in again at the stage entrance.

… The orchestra was leaving in ones and twos. Some of the lesser lights of the company also. A number of them glanced at the well-built, brown-eyed man as he walked through them, nodding a friendly good night here and there. He was good to look at, with a distinction of carriage, an unemphasized maleness, which would make him very attractive to women. It had done so in the past. And the past had not quite forgotten him.

As he came near the door of Philippa's dressing-room he passed a girl carrying a violin case. She looked at him casually and then turned.

‘Nick!'

He stopped, half turned also, puckered his eyes a little in the badly lit passage. But the truth was that his eyes were trying to reassure him that his ears were wrong.

‘Elizabeth!'

She put down her violin case.

‘I do believe you were going to cut me dead.'

‘I certainly was,' he said. ‘Because I didn't see you. I never dreamt of meeting you here!'

She put out one of her hands, and he took it.

‘It's a long time, Nick. I've thought about you so often. Have you ever thought about me? No, don't answer! Don't spoil it just now.'

She was a very dark young woman, with fine eyes of a dark amber brilliance; a girl who might look ravishingly pretty sometimes and plain at others. Her mouth had little shadows about it, made by the curl of her bottom lip and the fullness of the contours round it.

‘What are you doing here?' he said.

‘Playing in the orchestra. And you? Have you been in the army?'

‘Five years. In Libya and Italy.'

‘How's Spot?' she asked eagerly.

‘Dead. The year after.'

‘Broken heart?'

He shook his head. ‘No. Distemper.'

They both laughed, though not without constraint. Her reappearance was to him like an old song sung out of the past; she belonged to another life, a carefree, feckless, irresponsible, pre-war existence for which, although he had enjoyed it, he had no regrets.

‘It's extraordinary our meeting like this,' she said. ‘
Isn't
it extraordinary? You haven't changed at all. Have I? No, don't tell me that either. I expect I must have in some ways, because all sorts of things have happened to me. I suppose it's been my own fault. But what are you dong here? It's astonishing to meet you back stage.'

He hesitated briefly. ‘I'm waiting for my wife.'

She glanced quickly up at him for a second, startled, resentful, then in another second accepting it.

‘So you've done it at last …'

‘I've done it at last.'

‘No wonder you didn't seem very friendly.'

With his old instinct to avoid hurting people he said: ‘ Of course I'm friendly. I'm tremendously pleased to see you again, and quite honestly you've not changed a bit.'

At once she seized on his reassurance, the sulky lines of her mouth melting away. ‘I've a lot to tell you, Nicky. These war years have been a lifetime I've made rather a mess of things. I'd like to tell you about it. Couldn't we – meet somewhere? It would be fun – and so like old times.'

He smiled a little in spite of himself. It was the same Elizabeth. But he wanted to end the interview. He noticed one or two of the cast glancing curiously at them as they went out.

‘You'll be in London some time?'

‘I don't know. I'm booked here for at least a week. It was terrific luck getting it, but so many were down with flu.'

‘Give me your address,' Nick said. ‘Then probably one day later in the week –'

‘You wouldn't come. If I gave it you, you wouldn't come. And I'm in such a mess, Nick! I really need advice; sober, sensible advice of the sort you could give.'

Their eyes met again. ‘Then I'll come,' he said. ‘ If I can really be of help to you, I'll come.'

She said: ‘It's a miserable neighbourhood. Loften Street. Not far from Euston Road.'

He felt in his pocket and brought out the tattered corner of the programme he had pulled to pieces. Then he found the clean one he had bought for Leslie. ‘Write it on this, will you?' He handed her the programme and his pencil and said: ‘Good night, good night,' to two more of the cast while he waited. Elizabeth scribbled her address and then, seeing his preoccupied air, wrote something underneath.

Having done that she held out the programme to him, but his attention was fixed furtively upon the door of one of the star dressing-rooms. It was open and a number of people had just come out and were saying good night to Philippa Shelley, who was still in her Japanese costume but had discarded her wig and shaken out her own hair.

‘Here you are, Nick,' Elizabeth said.

‘Er – thanks,' Talbot answered, taking the programme and stuffing it into his pocket without glancing at it.

‘I'd like your help,' Elizabeth said, fingering the pencil and trying to regain his attention. ‘ Truly. It's not just ‘‘one of my tricks''.'

Then she saw that the crowd were dispersing, but that Philippa Shelley had seen Nick and instead of going back into her dressing-room was coming towards him. Almost at once Elizabeth jumped at the truth.

‘Had I better go?' she asked, under her breath.

‘No, of course not,' Nick said.

‘Oh, Nick,' said Philippa pleasantly, smiling at him as she came up, ‘I think we shall need an extra taxi for the flowers. I was wondering if they'd keep better here till morning … Er …' She glanced at Elizabeth.

Nick said: ‘This is an old friend of mine, Philippa. We met quite by accident. May I introduce you to my wife, Elizabeth.' He glanced suddenly from one to the other. ‘Or have you already met?'

He thought he had caught a glance of recognition pass between them, but in fact it was recognition of another kind, recognition of an implacable understanding instantly formed.

‘No, we haven't met.' Philippa said, her eyes a shade cooler. ‘How d'you do, Miss – er –'

‘Rusman, Elizabeth Rusman. How d'you do, Miss Shelley. I'd no idea you were Nicky's wife … I thought you sang beautifully tonight.'

‘Thank you. You're very kind. You were – in the orchestra?'

‘I'm afraid as a deputy only. Yes, I knew Nicky well a few years ago. It doesn't seem as long as that, does it?' She appealed to him.

‘It seems a long time to me,' he said. Elizabeth laughed. ‘ That's very nice of you, Nick.' Deliberately or accidentally she had turned his words round to

mean the opposite.
‘The war has upset so many things,' she went on slyly. ‘Almost

everyone's plans went awry. I know mine did. You're very lucky,

Miss Shelley.'
‘Thank you,' said Philippa, not showing any special gratification.
‘Have you been married long?' Elizabeth asked.
Nick said: ‘Yes. Quite a good while.'
Philippa had glanced at her husband. ‘D'you mind if I drag Nick

away?' she said to the other girl. ‘I expect you're tired as well.

We've had a frightful day.'
‘Of course. I quite understand. I was just going.' Elizabeth glanced

swiftly at Nick, who had assumed a poker face. ‘ Good night, Nicky.

See you again, I hope? … Good night, Miss Shelley.'
She picked up her violin case and moved off with a quick, easy

step – a provocative step, Philippa thought – towards the stage

door.

He waited for her while she changed, and then they left by taxi for their flat. She made no reference to Elizabeth, and they chatted amiably enough, though not without some restraint on his side. He was irritated by the exceptional bad luck of Elizabeth's sudden appearance, he was annoyed by her sidelong glances and innuendoes, as if what had happened had been last week and not five years ago. Philippa would expect some explanation; so would anyone; but for the life of him he could not begin it. He wanted to make her an apology without seeming to apologize; and he didn't know how to.

There was the pleasant surprise for her of his telephone call; but here again he was tongue-tied. It seemed that he could not tell her this without falling under a suspicion of trying to divert and placate her.

Altogether it was a most peculiar position, for, normally highly strung and full of nervous energy as she was, it was she who was inclined to be edgy after a concert.

For a few moments they were held up in a traffic block, and at that point she suddenly mentioned what he had avoided. It was not, however, in jealousy but in good-tempered mockery that the first question came.

‘She's rather pretty, isn't she – Nicky?'

Philippa had never called him Nicky before in her life. ‘ Who?' he said obstinately.

‘Elizabeth.'

‘Oh, yes. In a way.'

‘Is she one of your old names?'

Nick felt anger rising in him, fought it, and lost. But his voice was still quiet when he said: ‘As a matter of fact, yes.'

The taxi started with a jerk, and Philippa looked in surprise at her husband's profile temporarily lighted by a passing car. It was not like him to be on his dignity.

‘Are we likely to find many of them scattered about London?'

‘What makes you imagine that we shall?'

‘Well, we've only been in England three weeks.'

Nick said: ‘I've not seen or heard of her for five or six years. I'd almost forgotten her.'

It was Philippa's turn, a little offended by his lack of humour, to struggle with the next words on her tongue. But they came out.

‘Was that why you were taking her address?'

‘Look,' said Nick. ‘She came on me quite suddenly. I never
dreamt
of seeing her. I'd no idea she was even in London. What would you want me to do, sock her on the jaw?'

‘Oh, no,' said Philippa, really offended now. ‘ I'm sure you did
quite
the right thing.'

Talbot blew out a deep breath. ‘Good Lord, can't you see I was taking her address simply because she insisted on giving it to me. There was nothing else I could do. I'd no idea you had such a jealous nature.'

‘I'd no idea you had such a past.'

He stared out at the traffic. ‘ When I met you I was twenty-nine. I never told you I was a plaster saint. I never deceived you in the least. You married me with your eyes open.'

‘Perhaps it will be as well if I keep them open.'

‘Just as you please. You'll imagine more than you'll see.'

They reached their flat and went up to it in silence. There, over the cold supper left for them by Mrs Saunders, Nick took a grip on his own ill humour. It was so childish, so trivial this bickering, and so indefensible on both sides to let it stain the triumph of the evening. Years hence they would remember the ovation of her first appearance at Covent Garden and they would laugh together over the lovers' tiff that Elizabeth Rusman had caused. But it was up to
him, now
at this moment, to make it a laughing matter, which shouldn't spoil anything more.

‘Well,' he said, feeling somehow that he couldn't get away from a vague pomposity. ‘I won't pretend I'm not glad the ordeal's over. All along I was sure, certain: but one couldn't forget the outside chance.'

‘Yes,' she said flatly, and went out to fetch the flask of coffee from the kitchen. He was left with his thoughts.

‘Would you rather have gone out with the others to celebrate?' he asked when she came back. ‘I did suggest it, you know …'

‘No,' she replied. ‘I see too much of them as it is – especially Vareni.'

‘Angelina has a lovely mezzo voice. She's the best talent in the whole company after you. Your duet was the peak of the second act.'

She nodded. ‘ I know.'

‘Not,' he added, ‘ that I had any doubts after about the first three minutes of the first act. And I don't think you doubted, did you? I never caught a tremor.'

‘Well, of course, my voice doesn't give way at the
first
signs of nervousness.'

He looked at her and then began to sip his coffee.

She added: ‘I thought perhaps you'd decided I was no good when you walked out in the middle of the first act. Or was it because you'd caught sight of Elizabeth Rusman in the orchestra?'

He put down his coffee and got up.

‘You are a silly little cat,' he said, and went into the bedroom.

They had never quarrelled like this before. It was nothing, a storm in a teacup, a harmless bickering; and yet it was in danger of becoming everything.

His management of her affairs had become, almost unsought, his chief preoccupation since his demobilization. For him it was an entirely new form of livelihood, but he was convinced that he must continue in it if she was to reach the very top of her profession.

In a sense, in his kindly perception of her finely strung nerves, he had spoiled her, loving her so well and handsomely bending his will to hers, conscious underneath of his own influence, but using it with delicacy and tact. He had met this young singer and fallen deeply in love with her – feeling for her something he had never remotely felt for anyone before – and it was his pleasure and this wish to share in her triumphs, to share her with an acclaiming public and to protect her from such trials and misfortunes as her profession might bring.