Odd Girl Out (3 page)

With the blinds up, sunlight the colour of melted butter filled the hotel room, making its pastel discretion seem drab. Prince Radamacz got up from his solitaire and wandered to the balcony.
Outside, the postcard sky – mercilessly blue – made the lake hyacinth, and the little sailing-boats upon it seem like a brand new set of toys as they scurried about in their aimless and
miniature manner. The thought of being in one of them both bored and exasperated him. It was infuriating to have lost such a pleasure simply through being nearer death, and he had recently
discovered that chronic comfort (or luxury) made him think a great deal about that.

‘What happened to my diamanté glasses then? Come on, Markham, out with it.’

‘It’s not for me to say, my lady.’ In spite of Clara currently being a Princess, Markham unfailingly used this appellation; had, indeed, done so throughout Clara’s various
marriages; to Edmund’s father – a professor of philosophy (English), to Arabella’s father (Scottish), to a violinist (Hungarian), to an ornithologist Count (French) and to a
film-star (American). But she had once, when Markham had first been engaged, been briefly allied in wedlock to an incredibly old Scottish baronet who had managed to die before even Clara could tire
of him – he fell down half of a spiral staircase in his nasty gothic castle on their honeymoon – and so however much Clara might change her ways or her station, Markham could, or would
not.

‘Markham!’

‘Heythrop-Jones allowed the dog to eat them, my lady, if you must know.’

‘Not
eat
, Markham, surely.’

‘Crush them between his jaws, my lady. They will never be the same again.’

‘How foolish of him.’

Markham looked sanctimonious. ‘Heythrop-Jones is given over to matters that do not appertain to your ladyship’s affairs.’

‘I didn’t mean Heythrop-Jones, Markham: I meant Major.’ She finished the last pill and yawned. ‘Vani! Let’s leave this evening. This place is far too good and dull
for us. Tell them we’re leaving, Markham. Tell Heythrop-Jones to have the Rolls ready by three. Arrange a train for yourself to Paris. Don’t bother with those wigs I had sent yesterday
– have them sent back: I look like some ’sixties actress pretending to be some ’twenties actress in them. Cancel the masseur. Put in a call to Mr Cornhill at his office in London.
Draw me a bath. And the Prince would like his watch collected from Piguet. Or sent round – whichever is easiest. And you’ll have to take Major in the train with you. Have the hotel pack
him a decent meal. And one for yourself, of course.’ She thought for a moment, while Markham stood unblinking before her. ‘I’ll wear the beige Chanel, the lizard boots – the
beige ones, of course, and the Carrier topaz set. You choose my bag and gloves. I know I can rely on you for that.’

‘What about the Battenbergs?’

‘Oh, them. Call them, Vani, and say we have to leave. Say anything. Say I’m having trouble with Arabella – say anything.’

‘She is not in Paris, is she?’

‘I really haven’t the slightest
idea
where she is. I am relying on good, dull Edmund to tell me.’

Christ – why don’t they get
on
with it?

She seemed to have been lying on a high, hard, humiliatingly uncomfortable table for hours. They had spread her legs apart, some hard-faced foreign bitch (probably a virgin, you bet) had swabbed
her arm and casually and rather painfully stuck a needle into it. After that, they had seemed to retire to one corner of the room and simply confer – like extras in an opera, waiting for the
leading characters to act. But nothing had
happened.

‘You may get up now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It is finished.’

‘Famous last words,’ she said dreamily, very much disinclined to move, but the foreign bitch was approaching her with what she felt could only be described as brisk sadism.

‘You will have to wear two sanitary towels. Here is the belt.’

She found herself hoisted off the table. ‘If you would like to go in there, Miss Smith.’

I’m not called Smith, you silly bitch, Arabella thought in the lavatory. She ached a bit and felt faint – with relief? The injection? And with some distant misery. She’d
arranged things and it was horrible. When she didn’t arrange things they got boring
and
horrible. What on earth was the alternative? She felt old and used-up. Remarkably little could
happen to one, it seemed, excepting squalid, day-to-day mishaps. She betted that smarmy little Rumanian doctor didn’tn’t know what Christ had said on the Cross. But at least He’d
been
on
the Cross – feeling, or perhaps knowing, that the whole death was worth a billion candles. This recent little death, if you could call it that, had been worth a hundred and
fifty pounds. He had insisted on half the money beforehand, and would doubtless be waiting for the other half now. She had cashed the money this morning in fivers – she hated counting money
and almost never did, but on this occasion she had needed more than this episode had cost her. Supposing he had cheated, and hadn’t done it? But she was bleeding; he must have done
something.
And I don’t much care what, she thought.

When she emerged from the lavatory, he was waiting for the money, which she gave him by putting the fivers on the table. When she reached the end – seventy-five pounds – he patted
her shoulder, put the money in his white overall pocket and told her that she would be quite all right now, but must go home and rest. He had a reddish moustache and very dark eyes: for a moment
she wondered what the rest of his life was like. He must be stinking rich.

Outside, the sun seemed so strong that she fumbled about in her bag for her dark glasses. Home, she thought, ha ha. A strange house somewhere that she had never been in in her life. But there
was something familiar about
that
, as a prospect, when she came to think about it. She saw a cab and stopped and got into it just as her knees began to turn into melting wax.

Edmund sat in his handsome and dignified office, the comfort of which was temporarily, but lengthily being destroyed by pile-drivers and pneumatic drills. They were building an
underground car park in the square outside, an operation that seemed to have been going on for months, and that showed no signs whatever of completion, or even of progress. In consequence of this,
the windows had to be shut, and even with the Venetian blinds half drawn (making irritating bars of light and shade all over his papers) the place was far too hot.

‘… I am afraid that planning permission for rebuilding on a more convenient part of the site having been refused comma substantially detracts from the present value of the property
full stop. We can comma of course comma appeal against the Council’s decision comma but this would comma I am afraid comma take at least six months full stop. Perhaps you would care to
consider what you would like done in this matter comma and if I can help you with any further advice will let me know comma otherwise I shall await your further instructions full stop. I am et
cetera.’

Miss Hathaway looked up from her pad: her blonde but visible moustache was beaded with sweat. ‘Shall I send this to Brown’s Hotel, or to the Malta address?’

Edmund consulted the spidery writing on dark-blue paper. ‘It’s quite unclear where she is at present. The paper is from her old house, and she has simply put Tuesday at the head of the
letter. Better ring Brown’s and see whether she is still there, and if she isn’t airmail it to Malta.’

The telephone rang. Miss Hathaway picked it up: her hands were nearly always moist – even in winter or when the windows were open – so that Edmund knew that the receiver would be
clammy by the time it reached him.

After some delay, Miss Hathaway announced, ‘It is a personal call for you from Princess Radamacz.’

‘Thank you, that will be all, for the moment: I’ll buzz if I want you.’

He took the receiver, and when she had left the room, carefully wiped it with the dark-blue silk handkerchief that Anne had not chosen for him that morning. A feeling of worldly excitement
touched him: it was interesting to be somebody who calmly got calls of this nature.

‘Clara?’

‘Darling!’

‘Where are you?’

‘Darling, it’s so silly, but still in Lucerne. But only for a moment. We’re setting off for Paris, but I wanted to know that my darling girl was safely ensconced with you
before we go.’

‘What?’

‘
Arabella.
I told her to go straight down to you. Isn’t she there?’

‘She hasn’t got in touch with us; with me, anyway,’ he added, wondering, if she had been supposed to, why on earth not.

‘Oh – I expect she’ll just turn up then.
Do
tell me when she does. We’ll be at the Ritz tonight. It is
so
maddening – the way she doesn’t tell
anyone what she is doing until after you’ve found that she’s done it.’

A Swiss operator broke in with a lot of unintelligible information. Over this, Clara said, ‘She’s simply longing to stay with you. But
longing.
And you are an
angel
to
have her. Only do be firm. Don’t let her exploit you.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You know, darling – like
I
always do. She’s only twenty-two. Far too young to be that sort of nuisance. Anyway, let me know. Must fly now. Bye now darling. Call me in
Paris.’

The line went dead. He put back the receiver thoughtfully. A wave of responsibility engulfed him. What ought he to do? Logic, and a faint sense of grievance, came next: how
could
he do
anything if he hadn’t the slightest idea where the girl was? Loyalty, and what he considered to be his unique understanding of Clara, ended the brief procession of his thoughts: the girl was
clearly yet another example of the younger generation, thoughtless, irresponsible and selfish. Clara was simply being – as he felt she always really was – marvellous about her. There
was nothing to be done, he decided with some satisfaction. This was his favourite conclusion about most things, and like most people’s favourite anything, he was not able to indulge himself
as often as he would have liked. Better get on with the booklet about Lea Manor. A large number of competent photographs had been taken, and it was now his business to choose which were most
suitable for reproduction and to write – from his measured and statistical notes – an appealing text. There were seven hundred acres of reasonable dairy-farming land, and three
farmhouses let with a fair return. But the house itself had dry rot, wood-worm, no proper damp-course, archaic plumbing, and what even an Eskimo would have regarded as laughable central heating.
Although, probably, like so many of those primitive people, they were a damn sight better at essentials than was generally supposed. Sometimes he wished that he had travelled more: had a wider
experience of life. Then he thought of his charming and comfortable house so admirably run by the admirably satisfactory Anne, and knew that one could not have everything, and that on the whole he
would rather be him. At least he could depend upon her, and his work, and what was going to happen from one week to the next. He smiled, because this sounded drab and only he knew that it
wasn’t, and pressed the buzzer for Miss Hathaway to bring in the pictures of Lea Manor.

When she had stopped crying, Janet yelled to the kids to shut up, and climbed wearily up from the dark little room on the ground floor to what had been – and presumably
was to start being again – her bedroom with Henry. In front of her dressing-table, she looked at herself. She had not washed her hair since he had left, and by God, it looked like it. She
looked at least thirty-five, she thought despairingly (in fact she was twenty-four, and had the kind of face – like most people – that does not take kindly to chronic unhappiness). The
trouble was that she did not any longer
love
Henry: he’d been too much of a bastard for too long for that: but the children and lack of money had eroded her appearance and her
personality so that she could easily see why he did not love
her.
If he could be like he used to be; if he even pretended that I was all right for a bit, Pd get better. If I wasn’t so
bloody tired all the time. I’d like going to bed more: I’d have more initiative and we could go to the pub because I’d damn well find a baby-sitter. If we had a bit more bread
I’d feel better about shorts, and in the pub we always end up with shorts. If I go on drinking beer which I’ve never liked anyway, he says I’m a killjoy. That’s what I am. I
can’t go back to the theatre – never was much good anyway – and I’ve lost my confidence. If he would just
start
the being nice, I might be able to follow it up.

There was practically nothing to eat in the house. She had to choose between getting some sausages, or washing her hair. She hadn’t had anything new to wear for – oh well –
before they’d had Luke. Luke was screaming now. The maisonette – in Belsize Park – had been cheap when they got it, and they could not now be turned out. But this, in turn, meant
that the landlord did bugger-all about any maintenance. Water poured through the half-landing roof into the children’s room: the house smelled of cats and most of the rooms were dark from
lack of sun. They were also too large to heat adequately, so that much of the year was always spent scorching (or not) before or away from some hopelessly expensive electric heater. The water was
hardly ever hot: the place had ostensibly been furnished, which meant that nearly everything in it was gimcrack and ugly. The kitchen was a dank cave of inconvenience and discomfort. If only some
television series would turn up for Henry, they might be able to get out of here: start a better new life. Or at least get on with the old one against fewer odds. Janet was not by nature
domesticated: she was not wonderful at inventing, running things up, decorating and making the best of a bad job. Nobody had taught her these things and she had neither the initiative nor the
intelligence to discover such tricks. So the flat stayed as awful as when they had first moved in except that things like the roof and the hot water got worse.