Last Act of All (9 page)

‘
“Badman’s” latest victim?’ the largest of the headlines ran, ‘Or is it true love for TV’s anti-hero?’

Sickened,
she read every loathsome word. She knew who the woman was; Lilian Sheldon, a minor television star playing Bradman’s latest mistress in the series, and Helena could see the publicity machine grinding away behind it all. The public were to be led to believe that this might be, at last, the love of Harry’s life, and to help the thing along, rumours of True Romance would undoubtedly be generated. It had happened before.

But
always, she had been warned; always, Neville brought her into the act, feeding her the right lines to say to the press. She had even been known to enjoy these little bits of live theatre. Keeping her hand in, she called it.

This
time, he had said nothing. Perhaps, she tried to tell herself, he had hoped she wouldn’t find out, knowing her policy of avoiding sensational newspapers.

It
was only at that moment that the obvious question occurred to her. Where had the cuttings come from?

She
turned over the envelope. The printing was fairly neat, done with a broad felt-tipped pen, and the envelope was like a million others. But it had been delivered by hand, not by post.

Either
someone in the village had taken it upon themselves to spread a little misery — which would be in character — or Neville had left it himself, this morning.

She
was afraid she knew the answer; that Neville had chosen to tell her their marriage was over in the most humiliating and hurtful manner possible. She was, for once, underestimating her husband.

At
quarter past nine she managed to speak to him at the studios.

‘
Ah, Helena! Now, what little bird told me you would call?’

She
had phoned Neville, but it was unmistakably Harry who answered, silky and cruel, with a hateful smile in his voice. She had managed, she believed, to sound neither tearful nor accusatory with her opening, ‘Neville?’ but despite hours of agonizing she was still unsure what she would say next.

She
could have spared herself. Without waiting for her reply, the voice went on, ‘Terribly sorry, I just can’t talk just now — dozens of bods all breathing down my neck as I speak, darling — but I’ll see you next weekend. Chris is coming down with me, and perhaps someone else. OK?’

She
replaced the buzzing receiver slowly, and automatically switched the answering machine back on. The tape was already loaded with optimistic requests that she should contact this newspaper or that, with financial inducements attached. She could be a rich, if undignified woman by this time tomorrow.

It
was strange, she observed dispassionately, how much it did hurt. She had thought of divorce lately in much the same way as a sailor views the harbour lights at the end of a long and particularly stormy voyage. Yet here she was quivering in shock that the man she had lived with, and, in their fashion, loved for so long, could dismiss her as casually as an importunate telephone caller selling kitchens.

‘
Someone else’ — was it at all possible he meant Lilian Sheldon? Even with Neville locked into Harry mode, she found it hard to believe he would bring his mistress to meet his wife, but she no longer felt confident to predict his behaviour. They were entering new territory now and the old maps were useless.

*

Huddling her misery about her like a black cloak, Sandra Daley stared into the window of the Limber department store, at the anorexic dummies with their sinister white embryonic faces and their glitzy frocks, seeing nothing.

But
at least pushing past and round her were strangers whose eyes didn’t stick to her like vacuum cleaners trying to suck out her secrets. Radnesfield was laughing at her now, hidden cruel laughter behind faces as closed as the dummies’ were.

She
had fled here today because you needn’t think when you were shopping. You could look at the pretty things, and simple childish greed would blot out everything else. But today the brain-numbing magic wasn’t working, and she was still hurting as she had never hurt before.

But
then, she’d never been so high before, floating on a pink cloud. She had lived a paperback romance — the veiled looks, secret phone-calls, stolen afternoons at a little country hotel where there was champagne waiting for them. Best of all, he could have had anyone, and he had chosen her.

Oh,
she wasn’t dumb. She knew she was being given The Treatment, and he sure as hell hadn’t invented it just for her. She’d told herself all along it couldn’t go on for ever — but only three weeks! And no warning about the photographs with glamorous, sophisticated Lilian Sheldon.

Worst
of all, was the dark, poisonous suspicion that the great romance of her life had been just a squalid little affair where she had been used, unvalued, and then discarded like some cheap hooker. Well, you couldn’t say he was wrong, after what she had done to Jack, who was faithful and decent.

And
Jack knew. She had denied everything, of course, but once or twice Neville had been careless, and Jack knew as surely as if he had been a witness to their love-making. With her head full of impossible dreams, she hadn’t really cared.

But
reality was Sunday morning, with Jack rubbing her nose in the pictures in the paper. She had tipped her chin and said, ‘Must be a barrel of laughs for his wife, mustn’t it?’ but she knew she had gone white.

Jack
’s eyes had scorched her like a blow-torch. ‘That’ll put your little nose right out of joint as well, won’t it?’

She
had been bred tough. ‘That just shows what a small-town mind you’ve got. I’m sorry for you, really. I told you before – big stars go on the way he does all the time, and it doesn’t mean a thing. Maybe now you’ll believe me.’

But
now she was left with the pain, the agony of loss and humiliation and shame. The sequins on the dummies’ dresses shimmered into a blur as hot tears came to her eyes.

‘
Goodness, Sandra, surely you don’t need another new dress!’

The
tone was arch, the voice that of the vicar’s wife. Startled, Sandra swung round, blinking rapidly.

‘
Oh, just window-shopping,’ she said, attempting a side-stepping withdrawal.

With
the expertise of long practice, Marcia Farrell had positioned herself so that without physical contact it was almost impossible for her victim to escape.

‘
That is smart, that black dress, isn’t it? I’d love to be tempted, but of course...’ she sighed, but then continued brightly, ‘Still, I really mustn’t complain – it’s not one of the important crosses one has to bear, is it? When you see the trouble other people have—’

Was
there a knowing look in the sharp black eyes? Mrs Farrell was such a busybody that no one in Radnesfield told her anything, so perhaps she hadn’t heard the latest nasty whispers.

‘
The poor Fieldings!’ she went on. ‘Isn’t it appalling what they print in papers these days, probably without a scrap of real evidence?’

The
question mark hung in the air, and Sandra stonewalled. ‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure.’

‘Of course, he’s such a charming man, women must absolutely throw themselves at him. And Helena, well, she’s absolutely sweet of course, but between ourselves it has just once or twice occurred to me that she’s a teeny bit shallow, perhaps? Just a fraction lacking in the sort of spirituality that such a sensitive man might need.’

Sandra
had no option but to listen, as the gushing torrent flowed on.

‘
He saw at once, you know, at once, how burdened I was with practical problems, said he must liberate me to use my real, God-given talents. He’s made the most wonderful offer but I mustn’t say too much! Except that not many people with his wealth would be so ready to see it as a privilege to use for others. “Peter,” I said to the vicar, “he has a great soul.”’

Then
what could only be described as a simper crossed her face. ‘Not that one could be blind to his other attractions! “It’s lucky I’m not a jealous man,” the vicar said to me.’

She
gave a girlish giggle, and Sandra stared in sudden, contemptuous comprehension. The silly cow was in love with him herself, and was dumb enough to imagine that he fancied her too. And for all her yammering about spirituality, it wasn’t Christian love she was on about.

Suddenly,
the image of Neville shortening his own upper lip in an imitation of Bugs Bunny, as he called her, struck Sandra with such painful force that she thought she might either laugh or cry hysterically. The fear gave her strength to extricate herself, almost pushing the other woman aside.

‘
I’m sorry, I’ve got to go, Mrs Farrell.’

Sandra
heard the cry behind her, ‘Oh, just Marcia, please! Mrs Farrell always makes me feel like the vicar’s wife!’ as she scurried thankfully away.

Chapter Five

By Friday afternoon, Radnesfield House was well prepared. For the unidentified visitor, Helena had chosen the yellow bedroom, opposite their own. Chris she would put in his usual room which, by no coincidence, was as far away as possible at the other end of the house. At least he had now found a cottage; perhaps next time he would be staying there.

When
she went upstairs to change, Helena was almost certain Neville and Chris would be alone. She was resigned to Neville’s eyes sweeping round in triumph as he noted the signs of preparation that would show his bluff had been successful.

But
she had, once again, misread her husband. It was, she reflected bleakly, becoming a habit. As she smoothed her hair in front of the glass on her dressing-table, she heard the wheels of Neville’s Jaguar crunching on the gravel below and, feeling foolish, stepped behind a curtain to peep out.

Neville
’s eyes flickered immediately to the window as he stepped from the car, but he did not see her. While Chris, stretching, climbed from the back, he went round to help his other passenger gallantly from her seat.

Lilian
Sheldon was wrapped in a luxuriant pale fur, its deep collar making a frame for her golden cap of hair. She laughed up at Neville as he opened the car door.

As
Helena crossed the upper landing, she recalled her old drama school coach’s advice. ‘Deep breaths, petal — take it in, let it out slowly. Three of those and you’re ready for anything.’ She was, she felt, about to make the most difficult entrance of her career.

*

Lilian was experiencing a certain reluctance to get out of the car. She was like a cat in her appreciation of comfort, and in here the seat was soft, she was warm, and the atmosphere was peaceful.

One
of her few consistent principles was never to go looking for hassles, and meeting Neville’s wife struck her as the perfect scenario for heavy hysterical scenes. She’d given those up for Lent ten years ago and managed to stick with it.

It
was, she had suspected, one of Neville’s little Harry-games. She didn’t usually mind Harry-games, which had a faintly sadistic edge that she found exciting; she’d never been what you might call a nice girl, and nice men made her eyes glaze over.

She
didn’t really understand Neville. He and his wife seemed to have sort of a weird relationship; the way he talked about her was like the way some guys talked about their mothers, and she’d really rather they cleaned this up with her included out.

Neville,
however, had been hell-bent on her coming, and for the moment at least, what little Neville wanted, little Neville would get. Neville was her current meal ticket, and Lilian had her stomach set on some pretty fancy gourmet banquets in the future.

She
wasn’t at all sure where the relationship was headed, on screen or off, but for the moment the press attention was doing her nothing but good. She’d string along, and if he did divorce his wife — well, marrying him would surely be good for an extended run in ‘Bradman’, and he was as attractive a man to play serial monogamy with as any other. Better than most, in fact: in lots of ways, they were two of a kind, with strong appetites and few illusions, products of the same tough upward struggle. They played by the same selfish rules though Neville seemed to prefer a nice layer of cosy self-deception between him and the naked truth which was always her own bottom line.

She
sighed, and prepared to swing her long, expensively-stockinged legs out of the car. He hadn’t said anything, and she had picked up only the sketchiest indication about the way Neville wanted her to play this scene; she would have to busk it. His wife’s reaction was Someone Else’s Problem.

*

The hall was dark, despite the tall lamp on the chest at one side, which Helena always left burning in this shadowy part of the house. Neville and Lilian were laughing and talking as they came in, with Chris behind them. She moved to the chest to set down her handbag, and consequently appeared, as it were, spot lit.

Helena
had believed herself prepared, and the newspaper photographs had not lied about the good looks or the glamour. What they had entirely failed to transmit was the resemblance.

Like
a clever caricature of me, Helena thought wildly, with just that mild exaggeration of everything: the hair a more metallic shade of blonde; the features coarser; the complexion more highly-coloured; the eyes a more strident shade of blue. She was taller, of course, but the likeness was there, in the curve of the cheek, perhaps, or the line of the eyes. She felt the superstitious dread of the
doppelgänger
, as she descended the last few steps.

Then
Neville, too, stepped into the pool of light, ready to take Lilian’s coat, and Helena had to suppress a gasp. His hair, thick and straight, had always been worn combed back from the temples, but for Harry it was, as now, brushed forward to fall across his brow. His tweed jacket was of a pattern Neville would once have dismissed as crude.

A
blessed sense of unreality descended. From somewhere a long way off, she saw herself walk across the hall to greet them, all serene confidence.

There
was admiration in Chris’s eyes, and for once she allowed him to kiss her without forcing him to arm’s length.

She
did not go to kiss Neville, and he made no move towards her. He did not take his eyes of his companion as he said, ‘Lilian, sweetie, you’ve heard all about Helena.’

Helena
smiled, saving nothing, experiencing only a mild curiosity as to how the other protagonist would react.

Reaction
was too strong a word for Lilian’s behaviour, suggesting that another person’s attitude had impinged on her consciousness. Lilian operated like an emotional tramcar along the grooves of her own needs and desires.

She
surged forward gracefully, a tidal wave of fur and expensive scent, putting out both hands to Helena and kissing the air four inches above her right ear.

‘
Darling, what fun to meet you at last! And what a wickedly amusing house! Neville’s told me all about it, and you simply must show me every last horror.’

Astonishment
almost overcame Helena’s sense of detachment, but catching Neville’s eyes upon her, dead as glass, she found a professional social smile.

‘
Have you had a reasonable journey? Do come in to the fire. Or would you prefer to go upstairs first?’

‘
Oh, a fire, and tea — is tea by any remote chance on the schedule? Oh, angel! I’ve been dreaming of a cup of tea all the way down, haven’t I, Neville darling?’

She
drifted past Helena into the drawing-room, slim as a wand in her cream suede suit, her head set like some exotic flower on her long neck, then collapsed gracefully into a chair, stretching uninhibitedly, cat-like, in the warmth. Helena could almost fancy she heard the rumble of a purr in her lazy, low-voiced laughter.

*

The extraordinary thing was, Helena found that she could not entirely dislike the woman. There was something almost refreshing in her frank enjoyment of her creature comforts and the naked egotism of her conversation.

She
called Neville ‘darling’, ordered him to light her cigarettes, and blew him kisses when she went to change for dinner. On the other hand, there was none of the emotional or sexual tension between them which would have made the evening hideous with embarrassment. It even crossed Helena’s mind that this was meant to demonstrate that there was nothing between them after all.

Almost
she might have believed it. But Neville’s eyes never met her own, and his behaviour seemed cold, yet excitable, as if he were waiting, with ill-restrained impatience, for the next act of the social drama to begin.

Chris,
too, was ill at ease. He seemed to be out of patience with Neville’s more boisterous exchanges.

Helena
could, very nearly, derive sardonic amusement from it, shielded by the detachment that had fallen about her like a protective cloak. In this surrealistic situation, she had discovered that playing the role of a mother meeting her son’s girlfriend for the first time meshed perfectly with Lilian’s performance.

But
Neville’s eyes, still and watchful as a snake’s, chilled any laughter, and despite Lilian’s artlessly selfish prattle, the evening limped slowly and awkwardly away.

At
last the clock chimed eleven, and Lilian rose, stretching luxuriously in her tactile pink cashmere, and patting a yawn that showed neat white teeth.

‘
Definitely my bedtime, darlings,’ she proclaimed. ‘I simply love my bed, Helena, and I can’t wait to get below that puffy comforter — such heaven! Wherever did you find it?’

Helena
knew better than to reply, Lilian by now being engaged in blowing streams of tiny kisses to the men. ‘I’ll show you up,’ she offered, seizing the opportunity to get herself out of the room. ‘Lock up, will you, Neville, when you’re ready to go to bed.’

He
had hardly directed a look or a word to her all evening; now he stared at her silently. He had been drinking steadily; his face was flushed and his eyes glittering.

It
was Chris who got to his feet. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Does that earn me a good-night kiss?’

‘
Oh for goodness’ sake, Chris,’ she said, closing the door before he could move.

Lilian
yawned again, much less delicately, as they crossed the hall. ‘Don’t you think Chris is gorgeous? He always looks as if he might beat you up, if you didn’t do exactly what he wanted. It gives me the most delicious shivers up my spine when he calls me a stupid cow on the set.’

‘
I’m afraid I don’t find that sort of thing appealing,’ Helena said flatly. She felt exhausted by her efforts to sustain this ludicrous, artificial atmosphere, and, like the anaesthetic wearing off after a tooth extraction, the comfortable feeling that all this was happening to someone else was beginning to disappear.

Lilian
did not pursue the conversation; she withdrew to the yellow bedroom, leaving Helena, her body suddenly leaden, to drag herself through her bedtime routine.

This
couldn’t go on; she must talk to Neville. But she felt sickening uncertainty as to his reaction, and as a roar of inebriated laughter rose from below she shivered. She had learned the painful folly of arguing with Neville when he was even slightly drunk.

Her
courage failed her. He would be no more convinced by a pretence of sleep tonight than he had been other nights, but if she were in bed with her eyes shut and the bedside lamp at her side switched off, it should not provoke an outburst. Unless, of course, that were part of a plan over which she had no control.

*

It was after midnight when she heard the loud good-nights on the landing, and Neville came in. He sat heavily on the bed to take off his shoes, and opened drawers and cupboards noisily as he undressed for his shower, but he did not speak. When the rushing of water told her he was safely in their bathroom, she risked sitting up to stretch her cramped limbs, before lying back in the same position on down pillows that felt like concrete. In the silence that fell when the shower was turned off, she found her hands clenching in tension.

After
the bathroom door opened again, she could hear no sound, though she strained her ears for any stir of movement. Perhaps he was standing, staring at her: by a huge-effort of will, she stopped her eyelids flying open to look. But she lay still, and heard at last the bare footsteps rustle on the soft pile of the carpet, moving as slowly as a big cat stalking its prey, round to her side of the bed.

Still
she did not move, and barely breathed, until without warning his hand, hard as bare bone, gripped her chin.

In
one movement, she jerked upright, her eyes blazing. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she said, her voice automatically lowered, but savage in its intensity.

He
loomed above her, his eyes almost as dark as the navy of his bathrobe. ‘So you are just indifferent, not actually clinically dead. I did wonder.’

‘
What do you want, Neville?’ She shrank back, at bay against the headboard.

‘
Oh, I don’t know. Just a little reaction, to show you care, perhaps? Just some sign that somewhere, under all that perfect self-control, there actually is a flesh-and-blood human being. Why didn’t you fight for me, Helena? Why didn’t you scratch the bitch’s eyes out?’

He
was almost shouting as he bent closer, and outrage gave her courage. ‘Neville, you’re drunk. I’m not going to talk to you now. We can discuss it in the morning — if you can tolerate the sound of anything other than an Alka-Seltzer fizzing in the glass.’

The
emotion went out of his face, leaving it expressionless, and his voice was flat as he said, ‘No, Helena. No, I don’t think we will.’

Suddenly,
as if a switch had been thrown, his mouth curved in Harry’s malevolent, mocking smile. ‘Come on, darling, give us a good-night kiss. It’s every wife’s duty to kiss her husband good-night.’