Bond Street Story (46 page)

“Of ... of course.”

Mr. Rammell took a deep breath.

“I'll see,” he said.

“You ... you promise?”

“I've told you I'll see,” he said cautiously.

This was difficult again. Dreadfully difficult to put into words. But she struggled on.

“I mean you'll promise you'll see?”

“I promise.”

“Then you will?”

“I'll see.”

When Mr. Rammell left Marcia it was nearly midnight. He had to walk back to Eaton Square. That was because he had sent the car away long ago. There are moments when a car can be an embarrassment. The sense of freedom, of cutting loose, somehow gets whittled right down to nothing in the knowledge that the chauffeur is sitting outside timing things.

And, in any case, the walk was just what Mr. Rammell needed. It helped to clear his head. He hadn't the slightest intention of going off with Marcia to Bermuda. Or anywhere else for that matter. Indeed, as a lover he recognized that he was only somewhere in the second class. He wasn't the kind of man to do anything dramatic of that sort. Not that the idea wasn't attractive. The thought of endless sunshine and coral reefs and palm trees and ... and Marcia of course—he had very nearly forgotten Marcia—made him feel restless and dissatisfied. Also uneasy. Because that last remark of Marcia's was just one more symptom of what he had been noticing for some time now. Marcia herself was changing. She no longer accepted things as they were. In a vague dreamy fashion she was becoming too loving. Too possessive. And that frightened him.

When he got back he went straight through to his study and poured himself a final whisky. He had just reached the pleasant moment of putting off any kind of decision until to-morrow when Mrs. Rammell came in. She looked austere, majestical, in her long house-coat. And Mr. Rammell's heart sank at the sight of her. He knew that there must be something very much on her mind if she was wandering about the house at that time.

And she began immediately. Before she had even closed the
door. All in a rush. Speaking in the way in which only a distraught, agitated woman is capable.

“It's about Tony,” she said. “I've got to talk to you. Now. To-night. Because I never really see you. Not to talk to properly. It's all right. He can come home again. That girl he was so fond of has got engaged to someone else. The danger's all over. He can come back straight away. I want you to cable him. Better still, speak to him. Time's quite different in New York. It's always earlier. Or later. Or something. He's sure to be up. Speak to him now. Tell him to get on to the first plane. Bring him back where he belongs. Let him
feel
we need him ...”

There was more of it. Much more. All in the same vein. Urgent. Impetuous. Slightly hysterical. Not that Mrs. Rammell could be blamed. She'd had it bottled up inside her all the evening. She had to say it. But it was no use. Mr. Rammell had stopped listening. Simply refused to go on hearing. He knew that it was no use trying to pacify her. Not yet, at least. That would have to come later. And when it did come, what the devil could he say?

Even if she had been quiet, reasonable, restrained, it would have been difficult to explain precisely why Tony's presence would have been quite so peculiarly awkward just at this very moment.

“The boy's all right where he is,” he began quietly. “It's a wonderful chance for him. The experience ...”

“Experience!” Mrs. Rammell's voice rose to a shrill scream as she repeated the contemptible word.

And then the worst happened. Remember Mr. Rammell was tired already. He had quite as much on his mind as Mrs. Rammell had on hers. And that last drink had been too much for him. He could feel it burning up his inside. In the result, he lost his temper. Quite suddenly he heard himself saying all the things that he had meant not to say.

“Oh, for God's sake be quiet,” he shouted. “Go back to bed and leave me alone. I don't interfere with your blasted music. And don't you interfere with Tony. I don't want to see him turn into one of your long-haired kind. He's in New York. And that's where he's staying.”

There are some people who are naturally prone to intruding. They are not usually the brash, pressing kind. Simply unfortunates who find themselves projected by Fate into situations that are better left unpenetrated.

Poor Nancy was one of these. Her re-meeting with Mrs. Privett was typical. Five minutes later and she could have saved her sister all that embarrassment. As it was, she inevitably became involved. Without any conscious effort on her part, she was now helplessly and inextricably tangled up in Mrs. Rammell's own most intimate affairs.

And Mrs. Rammell's private life was, at the moment, complicated and delicate. As a result of the last row, there was now a breach—a real breach between herself and Mr. Rammell. If she had been seeing comparatively little of him before, she saw absolutely nothing now. They lived a parallel rather than converging existence. Mr. Rammell's business kept him out later in the evenings. At week-ends he left the house early, accompanied by golf clubs. And, in consequence, Mrs. Rammell lived her own life harder. More musicians. More sculptors. More painters. More choreographers. But still no Tony. That was where the bitterness lay. And that was why Mrs. Rammell was so implacable. So savage. She was ready to do anything. No longer cared how much it might hurt Mr. Rammell. Damage him. Ruin him. Kill him, even. He was now not a husband at all. Simply an enemy. And it was Nancy—stupid, unthinking, well-meaning Nancy—who handed her the murder weapon. Ready sharpened. Removed from the scabbard. Point outwards.

It was inevitable. Mr. Rammell had been seeing even more of Marcia. Practically every evening, in fact. And on Saturdays and Sundays, too. But he had kept her off the dangerous subject of islands. Had simply not referred to it. Whenever he had seen that fatal, far-away-from-it-all expression coming into her eyes, he had started hurriedly to talk of something else. Mink wraps, for instance. It was one mink wrap, in particular, a pale, electric blue one, that had been the cause of all the trouble. Marcia had worn it—heavily insured, of course—at a Charity Ball the previous evening and had forgotten to take it back into Bond Street the next day. She was wearing it, absent-mindedly draped round her shoulders, when Mr. Rammell arrived on the following night. And she looked marvellous, Mr. Rammell reflected. Simply marvellous. The blue of the mink, the dark violet blue of her eyes, the smooth sheen of her hair, the blackness of her dress that made her arms seem somehow whiter, more slender, all affected Mr. Rammell deeply. “My God,” he thought, “that's how I'd like to have her portrait painted. Just ... just to show people. Show 'em how beautiful she really is.” But because he had never been brought up to pay compliments, didn't really know how to set about them, all that he said was, “You're looking very nice
to-night, Marcia.” And Marcia, knowing her line by heart, replied: “I'm glad you think so.”

As she said it, she removed the mink wrap slowly, reluctantly and folded it across the end of the couch.

“I ... I ... shouldn't really be wearing it,” she admitted. “Not now. It's ... it's out of stock, you know.”

But Mr. Rammell would not hear of it.

“Put it on again,” he told her. “I like it.”

It was as the pale fur went round her shoulders again, stroking her, that Mr. Rammell noticed her expression changing. Like a cat, it occurred to him: like a cat when its chin's being tickled. She looked soft, sensuous, purry. He wanted—and this was unusual with him—to get up there and then so that he could embrace her. But Marcia saved him the trouble. She came across to him herself, walking with the upright, faintly swaying motion of the trained model, and knelt down beside his chair. She looked lovelier than ever now that she was near him. Her forehead was faintly puckered. And her eyebrows were arched even more steeply upwards. Mr. Rammell recognized the signs. Knew that there must be something on her mind. Guessed that she was going to say something probably.

“Have ... have you thought any more about it?” she asked him.

A little shudder of apprehension ran through him.

“About what?” he asked cautiously.

But Marcia was playing for time now. Being discreet. And tactful. The very last thing that she wanted was to appear to be rushing him.

“About seeing,” she said. “You ... you remember. You promised. Not really promised.” She was pouting a little now. Looking schoolgirlish. As though ready to smile or break into tears according to the answer. “Just promised about seeing. You ... you do remember, don't you? You did say you'd see if you could see.”

Mr. Rammell paused.

“You mean about ...” he began.

Marcia nodded. It was a smile after all. And one of her very sweetest smiles, too.

“I knew you wouldn't forget,” she assured him. “I was quite sure you wouldn't. About ... about seeing, I mean.”

This was it. There was no escape from it now. Mr. Rammell braced himself.

“Well, I can't,” he told her. “I have seen. And I can't. Can't get away from Bond Street. It's impossible. Absolutely impossible. Just can't be done. That's all there is to it.”

He felt better when he had said it. More confident in himself. But he was totally unprepared for the effect that it had on Marcia. She covered her face with her hands as though he had hit her.

And when Mr. Rammell took her hands in his and looked down at her he saw that she was crying. Her eyes were big with tears. Real tears. The kind that go sliding down and make a mess of eye-black.

“You ... you do mean now, don't you?” she asked brokenly. “Just now. Not ... not never?”

“Of course not, dear,” he lied to her. “It may be easier later on. But I can't at present. Not suddenly, I mean. You understand, don't you? I'll see again later.”

“How ... how much later?”

Now he was really cornered. He could feel himself sweating quietly inside his collar band.

“In the spring,” he told her, adding unromantically: “After the Sales. When everything settles down again.”

But this came as no comfort to Marcia. It wasn't definite enough. She was crying openly by now. Her make-up had started to run already. And her shoulders were heaving.

“It's ... it's no use,” she said. “We shan't go for ages and ages. I know we won't. And then I shall be too ... too old.”

Now she was really past consolation. The forbidden word had slipped out. And, in consequence, every little bit of her was miserable. She ached with sheer wretchedness. Putting her head down on her forearm, she wept and wept.

It was, in point of fact, the very last kind of manifestation that Mr. Rammell felt in need of. He had come, precisely as he had come on so many other nights. Not for passion. Not for sentiment. Not even for the sake of any immediately recognizable form of emotion. Simply for rest. For quiet. For relaxation. And here he was being practically blackmailed into booking a double passage to Bermuda.

He reached down and took Marcia's wrists in his. Again, as he did so, their smallness, their fragility, troubled him again.

“Don't cry, darling,” he said gently. “Please don't. It only upsets me, too. You know it does.”

This was, as it happened, a little better than Marcia had expected. Right up to the last moment she hadn't intended to carry things so far this evening. Hadn't really meant to do more than remind him. And all the time she had been crying she had been afraid that he would be angry. Even be horrid. Possibly lose his temper, too. But the way he had taken it all was quite different.
It showed that he minded. That he cared. That, even though he still didn't show it properly, her life had become part of his by now.

“I ... I'll try not to,” she promised. “It was silly of me. It's ... it's only because I ... I mind so much about ... about us.”

Because she was shivering a little now that the outburst, the
crisis,
was over, Mr. Rammell got up and fetched the wrap. He folded it round her shoulders rather as a parent covers up a child. And as he did so, he noticed how she gathered it around her. Snuggled down into it. Burrowed, almost. Soon only her eyes were left showing. And even these had begun to smile again.

A thought came to him.

“D'you like that wrap?” he asked.

“It's a heavenly wrap,” Marcia answered.

“Care to keep it?” Mr. Rammell asked, trying to keep his voice as casual-sounding as possible. “For your own I mean.”

The reply, even after making all allowances for something appreciable in the way of a time lag, did not come as soon as Mr. Rammell had expected. That was because this time Marcia was wondering what to say. Not merely how to say it. Because right up to the moment when Mr. Rammell had spoken she had still been thinking about Bermuda. And not about the mink wrap at all. Hadn't so much as hinted. Let alone asked. The idea of actually owning the mink wrap—or one just like it—had not crossed her mind since she had put it on before Mr. Rammell had arrived.

“It's a
heavenly
wrap,” she repeated.

“But would you like it?” Mr. Rammell demanded. “That's what I want to know. Would you like it?”

As he said it the second time, Marcia felt almost like crying again. Or laughing. Because it was all so odd and mixed up. Really, she had done nothing for it. Nothing special, that is. Except be a nuisance. She hadn't led into it. Not been extra loving. Or thoughtful. Or endearing. It had just come.

And at the realization of what it meant—that this was love—she reached out her arms towards Mr. Rammell. Her eyes, still swimmy from the recent tears, were gazing full into his. The words she spoke were the plain, simple truth. Truth as Marcia herself saw it.

“I ... I don't deserve it,” she said.

Mr. Rammell was a business-like man. As soon as he left Marcia, he took out his little Morocco-leather notebook and made the single entry “mink-wrap.” Then, relieved rather than
otherwise that this was how the evening had ended, he made his way back to the Square.