The Wheel of Fortune (30 page)

Meanwhile perhaps I should start savoring the fact that I’ve survived the wedding, God knows how, and here I am, strolling with Robert down the Champs-Elysées just as a quarter of a century ago we used to pitter-patter hand in hand along the lane to the village shop at Penhale. We’re enjoying ourselves hugely, rushing off on exciting expeditions as if we were children again, only this time, as Robert points out amused, nobody’s going to be cross with us if we turn up late for tea. Yes, I think I’m recovering from that ghastly wedding—and certainly a heavenly honeymoon is a useful start to the rigors of married bliss. …

What a wonderful honeymoon! Darling Robert’s spent money like water and this proves he’s quite capable of being generous when it suits him. He did make one edgy remark about my weakness for lavish spending but I pretended not to hear, and anyway I’m absolutely determined to reform. (Yes, I really am. I
must.)

We’re now back in London again at our heavenly little house in Ebury Street and everything in the garden couldn’t be lovelier—except that Declan and Rory are due to arrive from Oxmoon tomorrow, and new horrors are without doubt about to begin.

The boys have gone back to school after four frightful days and Robert has told me frankly how pleased he is to have me to himself again. To do Robert justice I have to admit he has good reason to be pleased; when the boys are with us I’m in such a state of excruciating tension that I’m very poor company and a most inadequate wife. I’ll have to pull myself together but it’s hard to be serene when Declan calls me a whore and encourages Rory to be as disobedient as possible. I daren’t tell Robert who’s fortunately out of the house most of the time. If Robert knew what I was going through there would be more beatings and I couldn’t stand the strain.

However now they’ve gone so I have a breathing space for eleven weeks—although I shall visit them next month at the school. But I don’t have to think about that yet. All I have to think about now is my delicious new social life as Mrs. Robert Godwin. For a day or two I had this frightful worry that I might be pregnant, but thank goodness it was a false alarm. As I told Robert at the beginning of our affair when he finally roused himself from his passion to consider the potential consequences, I’ve never had an unwanted pregnancy, although I’ve certainly had some bad scares in my time.

I do want another baby, of course—I’d like two more, a boy and a girl—but not just yet. Robert would be livid if he couldn’t have me entirely to himself once the boys were out of the way, so I must be careful—and in being careful I’m being realistic. Some marriages can take the strain of an early pregnancy, some can’t. Ours couldn’t, and it’s much better to face this truth and acknowledge it. In a year or two it’ll be different—after all, Robert’s told me he wants a son and I believe him—but at this particular moment little unborn Robert Godwin would most definitely not be welcome.

I hate to admit it but I’m uneasy. Having acknowledged that our marriage isn’t yet stable enough to welcome a child, I now have to acknowledge that our unsolved problems are assuming a sinister clarity of outline. I can’t keep saying to myself, Oh, everything will come right after we’re married. This statement may well be true—my God, it’s got to be true!—but here we are, married, and we now have to grit our teeth and solve these problems. Or, to be accurate, I’ve got to solve them, since Robert won’t admit there are problems to be solved.

Heavens, how worrying it all is! In fact I’m so worried I can’t even begin to think of divine Harrods and their slightly overwhelming blizzard of bills. …

“Ginette, I’d like a word with you, if you please.”

“Yes, darling, of course. What about?”

“Money.”

I inwardly quailed but somehow managed to give him a brilliant smile.

We were browsing through the Sunday papers on a snowy day at the end of January. Outside in our little walled garden which stretched to the mews, the morning light was bleak but in our drawing room the fire was burning in the grate and all was warmth and coziness.

I was very pleased with our house in Ebury Street. I would have preferred something bigger and more positively Belgravia, but I recognized that there was no sense in thinking in those terms without a substantial private income, so I had done my best to find an attractive house and make it as charming as possible. I had succeeded, but sad to say, such a success could hardly have been achieved without generous expenditure.

Robert had approved the cost of the renovations to the main reception rooms but had urged economy on redecorating the rest of the house, so I had made up my mind to skimp wherever possible. But of course the hall and stairs had to look well, to match the standard of the drawing room and dining room, and of course some alterations were essential in the kitchens, which were positively medieval, and of course I couldn’t skimp on the boys’ rooms because I did so long for Declan and Rory to be happy in their new home. I was sure Robert would understand the need for this additional expenditure so I didn’t ask his permission beforehand, and anyway I planned to pay for the boys’ rooms out of my own income—but something seemed to have happened to my quarterly payment (could I really have spent it all in advance?), and then I had some bills from Harrods which I thought I would be wise not to open, so I hid the unopened envelopes at the back of my desk and said to myself, “I’ll think of all that later.”

However I kept thinking of those unopened bills, so to divert my mind from this little awkwardness I took a stroll along the Brompton Road, and I was just drifting past Harrods—of course I never intended to buy a thing—when I saw in the window this dressing table which was quite exquisite and I couldn’t help thinking how ravishing it would look in our bedroom where I’d skimped and saved until it looked no better than a monk’s cell. Frankly, I’m not too keen on monk’s cells. Anyway I bought the dressing table but then I found I couldn’t rest until I’d bought one or two other items to go with it. Well, three or four. Or five or six. What does it matter, the point was that our bedroom suddenly became divinely exciting and I adored it. I knew I’d been naughty but in my opinion the result made my liberality (what a much nicer word that is than extravagance!) worthwhile.

“Don’t worry, darling,” I said glibly to Robert in the hope of forestalling his complaints. “I’m going to reform.”

Robert tossed aside his newspaper, stood up and moved to the window to watch the falling snow. He looked very tall, very authoritative and very menacing. Then turning to face me he said, “I had a letter from Harrods yesterday and I’ve decided it would be better for our marriage if I have complete control over our financial affairs. Otherwise quarrels over money will be a recurring feature of our married life.”

“You mean—”

“I want your credit account terminated and the income from your trust fund assigned directly to me.”

Silence.

“Let me reassure you,” said Robert, pleasant but implacable, “that I intend to be generous in the amount I shall give you to cover the cost of housekeeping and your general expenses.”

Another silence.

“So you’ll have no cause for complaint,” said Robert, still speaking in a pleasant voice, “and in fact I’m sure you’ll find such an arrangement will make life much easier for you. The truth is it’s no good expecting a woman to balance a checkbook. The feminine mind is quite unsuited to even the lower forms of financial management.”

I at once thought of Conor telling me how clever I was as I eked out the housekeeping money to cover his disaster at poker.

“You were always hopeless with money,” said Robert, slicing through my memories. “Right from the beginning you were always borrowing the odd penny from me to buy extra humbugs and then forgetting to pay me back.”

“Licorice. I never liked humbugs. And I always paid you back!”

“No, you didn’t! Oh, I admit you gave me the occasional boiled sweet, but—”

“I borrowed money from Celia to pay you back!”

“Exactly. You borrowed from Peter to pay Paul, as the saying goes, and you’re doing exactly the same thing now with appalling results. I’m sorry, Ginette, but my mind’s made up. I’m your husband and I can’t allow this situation to continue.”

“But Robert—”

“You want order in your life, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, this is it. This is order; this is freedom from chaos. Now run along like a good girl and fetch your bills so that I can see the exact dimensions of your latest mess.”

“How dare you talk to me like that!”

“What do you mean? I’m your husband, aren’t I?”

“That doesn’t give you the right to talk to me as if I were a mentally deficient schoolgirl!”

“And being my wife doesn’t give you the right to behave like one! Now pull yourself together and face reality. We’re married now, the rules of the game have changed and it’s my absolute moral duty—”

“Oh my God.”

“—to look after you in as kind, as considerate and as generous a way as possible, and it’s your absolute moral duty to be loyal and obedient and to do as I say in all matters regarding the welfare of our marriage. I know perfectly well you have an inclination to be strong-willed and independent, but I’m going to be the boss of this marriage, and I think the time has come—”

“If you talk of drawing lines I shall scream.”

“—to make it clear exactly what I will and won’t tolerate. Now, I know this is difficult for you. Our old friendship gets in the way here because you can still look at me and see the small boy two years your junior whom you used to order around, but—”

“What! I never ordered you around! You were ordering me around as soon as you could talk! ‘Ginette, do this, Ginette, do that’—all the time, every day, God knows how I ever stood it—”

“I’m sorry, I realize women can seldom resist the urge to digress but I must recall you to the subject under discussion. As your husband, I—”

“Oh, be quiet! You’re not behaving like a husband, you’re behaving like a jailer! Oh, how dare you treat me like this, how dare you—”

“I’ll tell you exactly why I dare. Because you’re no good with money. Because I’m ultimately responsible for your debts. Because you asked me to stop you getting into messes. Because I care about our marriage and rows such as this are something we have to avoid in the future at all costs.”

“If you care about our marriage you’ll treat me as an adult woman ought to be treated!”

“I am,” said Robert.

I stormed out and slammed the door.

I’ve married a male monster. Is this a fatal mistake? Not necessarily. Male monsters can often be absolute pets. I’ve flirted with a number of delicious ones in the past and I’ve adored feeling that I’m the only chink in their antifemale armor, but I’ve always thought what a bore they would be as husbands and my God, now I know I was right.

However I’m not a feminist. I’m enjoying myself much too much being a first-rate woman to want to be a second-rate man, and I’ve no quarrel with the way the world’s arranged. I don’t care whether I have the vote or not. Certainly I would never bother to chain myself to the railings of Number Ten Downing Street; I’m much too busy wondering when I’m going to be invited to dine there. But despite my indifference to feminism there’s one belief I hold very strongly and no one can talk me out of it: women are not born inferior to men. They’re born different, but not inferior. And I resent,
deeply
resent being treated as if I were something less than a normal human being.

Why did I never realize Robert could be like this? Because he was playing the game according to the rules and making no attempt to be a male monster until he became my husband and acquired (he thinks) the right to be one. He did give me inklings, though; I can remember him saying the law was right to class married women with lunatics and children, but I just wrote that off as male arrogance, something to be taken with a pinch of salt. However I can’t take the loss of my income with a pinch of salt. I’ll need a huge indigestion pill to enable me to absorb an outrage like that, but for lack of alternative I’d better start swallowing one.

Is there really no choice but to acquiesce? I must try to be dispassionate; I must ask myself what the truth of this situation is, and the truth is that Robert
is
my husband. He can cancel my credit account and if I refuse to assign the income of my trust fund, my life soon won’t be worth living.

Let me now try digesting that very unpalatable verdict. Well, the first fact which stands out like a sore thumb is that rationally Robert’s right—as usual. I’ve been very naughty and very extravagant. No more using that delightful word “liberality” now; I must confront my problem. I’m not incapable of handling money but I can’t blame Robert for deducing that I am. I should also admit that Robert’s not taking an unusual line here; plenty of husbands refuse to let their wives buy goods on credit, and plenty of husbands refuse to let their wives have checkbooks, and this may even be good for their marriages, particularly if their wives have the brains of a cotton reel.

Yet the fact remains that although Robert’s logically right he’s emotionally wrong. That trust money is mine. It was left to me—
me—
by my father. I may be only Mrs. Robert Godwin in the eyes of the world, but to my bank manager I’m still an individual, not merely an extension of my husband—I’m the recipient of those funds, a human being who deserves to be treated with respect, not an idiot wife who can expect no better fate than to be the target of remarks like “the feminine mind is quite unsuited to even the lower forms of financial management.” I have this horrid feeling that if I assign the income from my trust fund there won’t be any
me
anymore, and I’ll be diminished in some way quite impossible to describe to someone like Robert.

I feel wretched about this, and not merely because I’m furious with myself for not anticipating the severity of Robert’s reaction. I feel wretched because I know our marriage now has another problem. I can manage; I can cope with a male monster if I have to, but the fact that Robert and I have different notions of what marriage should be like is hardly going to make life easier. I believe marriage should be a partnership aided by a reasonable amount of give-and-take and based on mutual respect and trust. Robert apparently regards it as a variation of a master-servant or parent-child relationship. Why on earth didn’t I realize this before? How can one sleep with a man for six months without discovering this fundamental difference of opinion?