Dance While You Can (23 page)

A snigger from the doorway brought me round sharp. Jessica was holding two glasses while Lizzie filled them with champagne. ‘Poor Alexander,’ she sighed. ‘Is he dreaming about his long lost lover again, do you think?’

Lizzie tutted and giggled. ‘Would you like some champagne, Alexander darling?’ She held the bottle towards me, but I ignored it and glared at Jessica.

‘I don’t think Alexander wants any champagne, Jess.’

‘No, I guess not.’ Jessica clinked her glass against Lizzie’s. ‘Let’s drink to my darling husband. Should we tell him our little secret, Lizzie? What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. Shall we?’

Jessica looked at me. ‘No, I don’t think so. He’ll only get cross.’ And, giggling, they started to walk out of the room.

‘Tell me what?’ I demanded.

‘Nothing,’ Jessica threw over her shoulder. ‘Come along, Lizzie, let’s go and see how Mrs Dixon is getting on in the kitchen.’

‘Have you been holding something back from me, you bitch! What is it? A letter? Where have you hidden it?’

‘Oh, he thinks he’s had a letter,’ Jessica said. She turned back to me. ‘No darling, not a letter.’

‘Then what?’

‘I’ll tell him, Jess, shall I?’ said Lizzie.

‘Yes, you tell him.’

‘Alexander. What’s my name?’ She smiled and nodded her head. ‘I think he’s beginning to get it already, Jess. That’s right, Alexander, my name’s Lizzie. And what is Lizzie a derivative of? That’s right, Elizabeth. Congratulations, Alexander.’ And shrieking with laughter, they walked out of the room.

After they’d left my study I sat staring into space, not daring to move, afraid of what I might do if I did. Eventually I picked up the phone and rang Henry. Briefly I told him what had happened. He swore he would beat Lizzie to within an inch of her life, but by that time my temper had abated, and a feeling of defeat had set in. I told him not to mention it, saying that it would be better if from now on we just forgot it had ever happened.

The evening didn’t go with the swing we had hoped it would. Jessica and I could barely be civil to each other, and matters weren’t helped by the presence of Robert’s mother. Naturally, neither Jessica nor Lizzie could resist the odd oblique, barbed reference to our affair. I was past caring, but there were twelve others present, mostly old friends of Robert’s; they, and Rachel, were clearly embarrassed. Robert got roaring drunk, so did Lizzie. Jessica disappeared for half an hour at one stage, and then I noticed Robert was missing too. I felt sick. My only hope was that she would get pregnant. It would be good enough grounds for a quick and uncomplicated divorce.

Around eleven several people drifted off, and I walked Rachel to the door.

‘I couldn’t help but notice how bad things are between you and Jessica,’ she remarked, as I held out her coat for her.

‘An understatement, Rachel.’

‘You look tired, and you’ve lost weight.’

‘That’s what a bad marriage does for you.’

‘Then get out of it. You’re young, you don’t have any children to consider. Get out now, while you still can.’

‘I’m seriously thinking about it.’

‘Do it. I know things didn’t work out well for us in the end, but I cared about you, Alexander. I still do. And despite everything I said that day, I know that behind that handsome façade of yours there’s a good and decent man. The trouble is, between you, you and Jessica are suffocating him.’

I gave a sad smile, and drew her into my arms. ‘Did I really treat you so badly, Rachel?’

‘One way or another you’ve treated everyone badly. Time to stop, eh?’ She opened the door.

‘Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Lizzie Roseman.’

Rachel and I turned to find a tall blond man standing on the pavement outside, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other as if he were more than ready to move on. The collar of a purplish check shirt appeared above the neck of his fur-lined leather jacket, and his jeans, which had seen better days, were stuffed inside the legs of what looked like size fourteen cowboy boots. All he needed to complete his appearance was a cork-dangled hat and a can of lager.

‘Er, maybe you know her better as Lizzie Poynter,’ he said, when neither Rachel nor I answered him. ‘I’m told her sister, Jessica, lives here.’

‘I think I’ll be on my way,’ Rachel said. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Think about what I said.’ And she ran off down the steps. The man smiled pleasantly as she passed him, and doffed the invisible hat. I followed her down the steps and asked what he might want with Lizzie. He hooked his thumbs through his jean loops, as if trying to give himself a confidence he was clearly far from feeling, and leaned against the pillar of the porch. I listened in stupefied silence as this stranger, who had appeared out of the darkness on a cold and windy March night, told me who he was, and why he was looking for my sister-in-law. In the end I asked him to wait, and went inside to fetch Henry.

I let him take a good look at the man standing at the door before I made the introduction. ‘Henry Clive, meet John Roseman. Or should I put it another way. Henry, meet Lizzie’s husband.’

After the shock had worn off, a rather cosy little party developed. Lizzie had been horrified when John followed Henry and me in through the drawing-room door, but her horror soon changed to delight as the Australian turned on all the charm that had probably made her marry him in the first place. Henry, I noticed, sat back and watched the proceedings with detached interest.

We learned that Lizzie had married John some four years ago, while she had been travelling round Australia. By all accounts it had been something of a whirlwind romance; they’d known each other a total of three months before she walked out and left him. Quite why she walked out we were never told, but I suppose that was their business. She seemed wholly unconcerned that she had committed bigamy, and so too did Henry and John. Jessica, I noticed, said nothing, and I soon realised that she had known about John all along. It was decided that as Henry was a lawyer he should sort the whole thing out – John would do anything he had to do to help – and with that, Lizzie and her new-found husband left. To go where? Heaven only knew, and Henry didn’t care.

I was dumbfounded. Between the time of John’s arrival and his departure, I don’t think I’d uttered more than a dozen words.

‘Always did like the Aussies,’ Henry said, putting on his overcoat to go. ‘Get in touch with their embassy, old chap. See if they can’t rustle up a little something for you too.’

‘I might just do that,’ I laughed. ‘Something’s got to be done. Robert Lyttleton had her tonight. D’you think he could be persuaded to take her with him?’

‘Not a chance.’

As I turned back inside I saw Jessica standing at the drawing-room door. From the look on her face there was no doubt she had heard every word. I walked towards her, heading for my study, and as I brushed past, her voice snaked over me.

‘I’ll never let you go, Alexander, so don’t even think it’.

In the early hours of the morning she crept into my bed and cried as though her heart might break. Understanding her pain, I held her in my arms and wondered what the hell was to become of us.

When Henry and Caroline announced the date of their wedding it was impossible not to share in their long-delayed happiness, though I had to admit to more than an occasional stab of envy. After that one night of tenderness Jessica and I had, yet again, talked long and hard about our relationship, but this time there was no point in fooling myself: I would never be able to trust her again, and whatever love I’d had for her had been killed the day I found out about the telegram. I was as faithful to her now as she could have wished but my fidelity was born of my impotency, not of love, and she knew it. She tormented and ridiculed me for what she called my ‘defective organ’, but if I threatened to leave her, she threatened in return to tell the world how ‘the great Alexander Belmayne couldn’t get it up’. She even went so far as to hang a plaque over my bed quoting William Congreve’s words:
Heav’n has no rage, like love to hatred turn’d, Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn’d.
These two lines epitomised our relationship so perfectly it would have been laughable had it not been so tragic.

No longer able to prove myself in the bedroom, I threw myself into work. My professional reputation was growing, and I took on more than it was humanly possible to cope with. In the end Henry took me to task and tried to persuade me to seek psychiatric help before I killed myself with overwork. I told him to mind his own business, and that I was perfectly capable of sorting out my own life. But the dilemma grew. I wanted children, now more than ever. I wanted them so badly, I would find myself smiling at them in shops, or walking the parks in order to watch them play. I felt sick at myself for such a display of weakness, but my yearning was too strong to be denied.

It was on one such day, while I was walking in Hyde Park, that I felt something knock against my legs. I looked down to see a girl’s small face gazing up at me – she was laughing despite her fall. She had been running away from a hot air balloon that had rolled towards her while someone was trying to inflate it. I bent down to put her back on her feet, expecting her to run away, but she lingered, looking me over in the curious way children have, until a woman appeared beside us.

‘There you are, I thought I’d lost you under the balloon.’

I could see the woman was nervous at finding the child with a stranger, so I stood up and smiled, wanting to reassure her. ‘No harm done,’ I said, and ruffled the girl’s hair. ‘Definitely all in one piece.’

The girl’s face broke into a smile that turned my heart over, then allowing the woman to take her by the hand, she walked off. I watched them go, the thin legs of the girl skipping along beside the elegant, though stiff figure in canary yellow.

That night was one of the rare occasions on which Jessica and I sat down for dinner together. I was relieved to see that she was moderately sober and in a better mood than usual – the following week she was to have an exhibition of her own in a Bayswater gallery. She chattered gaily on in her excitement, not really interested in what I might have to say, but obviously glad to have someone to talk to. After a time I found myself telling her about the little girl, and how I often walked alone in the park. To my surprise she seemed genuinely touched. Despite the turbulence of our relationship, there were still rare moments of tenderness between us, and when she came to sit beside me I slipped an arm around her and sighed wearily.

‘What are we going to do about us, Jess? We can’t go on hurting each other the way we do.’

She turned to face me, and brushed the hair away from my face. ‘Do you want a divorce, is that what you’re saying?’

Was that what I was saying? The truth was, I didn’t think I did want a divorce. If Jessica so despised me for my infertility, how could I be sure that that wasn’t the way all women felt about men like me? And despite all she, said, Jessica still stayed with me. Perhaps that counted for something. In the end I said: ‘I don’t know, Jess. I just don’t know. But you’ve got to admit we do seem to bring out the worst in each other.’

‘Not all of the time. Sometimes we’re good together. And I’ve been thinking.’

‘What have you been thinking?’ I asked, when she didn’t go on. ‘Come on, you’re cooking something.’

‘Let’s just say it’s something that’s going to surprise you, and make you very happy.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘I’m not telling. Not yet anyway. But what I will tell you, is that despite the way we hurt each other, despite everything I say, I do still lo – ’

I put my fingers over her lips. ‘No, don’t say it.’

The light went from her eyes and I heard her swallow. ‘If I can’t say it, Alexander, then maybe . . . Well, I know it’s been a long time, but maybe you’ll let me show you?’

‘Oh, Jess, it won’t change anything. You know that.’

But it did. It changed everything.

It was May 4th. I will always remember the date because it was Jessica’s birthday. Fortunately her mother rang me the day before to remind me, thus avoiding what would inevitably have been yet another showdown between us. Her mother was also good enough to suggest what I could buy her.

I was at the Old Bailey all day, engaged in legal arguments for a fraud case. I had thought we might finish in plenty of time for me to get to Christie’s, where I was going to bid for a plique-à-jour pendant, but the judge wanted to know far more than a judge normally did in these cases, and it was past four-thirty when we came out. The auction wasn’t until six, but I had to call in at chambers on the way to see if there were any returns for the following week. There were, so it was another three quarters of an hour before I got away. I dashed out to Fleet Street and flagged down a passing taxi. The traffic was especially bad, as it always was when it had been raining, and I was already racking my brains for an alternative plan if I didn’t get to Christie’s on time. However, after a few neat back-doubles and even more near-misses, the driver got me there.

‘Hope it’s worth it,’ he said, as I jumped out.

‘So do I,’ I laughed, as I delved into my pocket, for the fare. I was on the point of handing it over when my eyes were drawn to someone standing further along the pavement, outside Spinks.

The cab driver leaned over and took the money. ‘Something the matter, guv?’ he called.

When I didn’t answer he must have driven off, because I was standing alone, people pushing past me, hurrying to get out of the rain. My briefcase fell against my legs, and still I stood there.

And then I started to run. I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t aware of what I was doing or what I intended, I just ran. As I turned into St James’s Square I saw her disappear into Duke of York Street. I think I called out her name, but she couldn’t have heard because she didn’t turn round. I ran faster, until there was no more than ten yards between us. Then she stopped, took down her umbrella and ran up the steps to Jules’ Bar in Jermyn Street.

The bar was crowded, and when I looked round I couldn’t see her. Someone behind me vacated a chair, so I sat down. The waitress came and I ordered a Scotch. Five minutes passed, then ten. I looked down at my glass and told myself I had been a fool. I’d been so sure it was her, but even if it had been, what then? Damn it! What kind of idiot was I, running down the street after strange women? My hand curled tightly around the glass, my eyes searching every face that passed.