Spare Brides (33 page)

‘Didn’t he? I think he should have been there. With everyone else.’ Lydia looked panicked but certain. ‘I wish I could think of it differently, but I can’t.’

‘If he’d gone, he might not have come back.’

Lydia tried not to move her face, not a fraction of an inch. She did not want her features to betray her, expose her. It was accepted that a man not coming back was an utter tragedy. Who wanted more death? One more death was one too many. Her own husband’s was unthinkable.

Yet she did think about it. If he had gone and not returned, she would have loved him more.

‘Oh, Lydia.’ Sarah reached for Lydia’s hand and tenderly squeezed it. She wanted to be patient. ‘No good comes from looking back. We ought to go forward.’

‘I agree with you. Edgar is all about the future.’

‘You are deliberately misunderstanding me. You constantly judge Lawrence’s past actions.’

‘What else am I to do with them?’

Sarah roughly dropped Lydia’s hand, almost threw it away. Her friend was being such a bloody-minded fool. The heat and the conversation produced tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip and lines of concern etched across her forehead. She wanted to shake Lydia, slap her. Anything to stop her messing it all up, throwing it all away. When she did speak, her breathing was hard and fast. ‘I’ve felt such unmitigated jealousy of you. For years. Your man is safe and well. He didn’t drown in mud, mashed into pieces fighting a war that had no purpose. You have no idea how easy things are for you. The money you have, the status you enjoy. You’re welcome at every home. Gifts and perks are lavished on you; the rest of us grub around for less, so much less. But it’s not enough for you, is it? Tell me, Lydia, what would be enough?’

Lydia had never heard Sarah speak so angrily, not even in the very early months of grieving for her husband. She had always remained patriotically, stoically, properly quiet. If she thumped her pillow or shredded and smashed possessions, memories or ideas, she did so privately.

Lydia didn’t think she could do anything other than meet honesty with honesty. She whispered, ‘I don’t love Lawrence, so rather than having it all, I have absolutely nothing.’

Sarah gasped as though someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over her. ‘You fool, you total fool, Lydia. Where have you been the last seven years?’

‘Right here, exactly where you have, and I know what they fought for. A home.’

‘You have the most marvellous home.’ Sarah gestured around her unnecessarily.

‘No, I have the most marvellous house.’

‘Lawrence is a good husband. He doesn’t deserve this.’

‘I’m sorry for that.’

‘I bet you are. This would be infinitely easier for you if he womanised, or drank, or gambled, I suppose,’ snapped Sarah sarcastically.

‘He never would.’

‘No.’

‘Too extreme for him. He didn’t even fight. The defining moment of his generation and he was behind a desk.’

‘Safe.’

‘Yes.’

‘You make it sound like a bad thing.’ Lydia forced herself to meet her friend’s eyes, and it was all there. ‘I see,’ said Sarah. A very bad thing.

A
VA WAS GLAD
to close the door of her apartment behind her. The drive back from West Sussex had been hot and bumpy, her skeleton had rattled and she felt the beginnings of a headache. She dismissed the thought; there was too much to do in London to waste time being frail. Ava’s will was more than a match for motion sickness. Her veil had failed to keep the most minute flies from her face and a quick glance in the mirror confirmed what she feared: dead insects were splayed like a rash. She removed her hat and used a handkerchief to brush off the tiny carcasses, and started to imagine the pleasure of slipping into a cool, refreshing bath. The maid, hearing her mistress in the hallway, appeared from the kitchen. Ava noted that she didn’t demonstrate any sense of urgency, more a touch of insolence; her weight was all on one hip, as though standing straight was too much effort. No doubt she’d been enjoying a glass of fresh lemonade with the housekeeper and considered the arrival of her mistress an inconvenience. The thought, ‘One can’t get the staff nowadays’ drifted across Ava’s mind, but she was so bored with hearing it she refused to articulate it.

She believed herself to be somehow different from those who did fling out this lament with regularity and bitterness. Perhaps the long hours she’d spent as a girl in her father’s factories had adjusted her perception of working people in some intangible way. She looked the very epitome of aristocracy and yet she was not. It wasn’t the American thing, or the new money thing; Ava knew she had beauty and spirit enough to overcome either variance. She wondered whether the crashing of the machinery in her father’s factories, that had been the lullaby of her childhood, had somehow altered the rhythm of her thinking in many a profound way. It was as much of a mystery to her as it was to everyone else: why the most beautiful and successful debutante of her year, perhaps of the decade, had no interest whatsoever in marrying. But she did not. She saw opportunity and possibility in singledom; she saw only drudgery and confinement in matrimony.

‘Good evening, Jane. Will you draw me a bath, please. I need to get these bugs off instantly.’

‘Lord Harrington is here to see you, miss. I put him in the drawing room.’

Inwardly Ava fumed. What was Charlie doing here? She hadn’t invited him; she didn’t want to see him. However, she could not allow the maid to see her frustration.

‘Thank you, Jane.’ She glanced at the wall clock; she’d give him fifteen minutes. ‘Do you remember how to mix martinis?’

‘Gin and dry vermouth?’ Jane sounded unsure.

‘Yes, into a mixing glass with ice cubes, stir, strain into chilled cocktail glasses, and garnish with a green olive or a twist of lemon peel. Got it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mix some and bring it to us, will you. Be sure there is plenty.’ And then, under her breath, ‘I’m going to need it.’

Charlie was splayed out on the chaise longue. His masculine body looked out of place in Ava’s fashionable but distinctly feminine room. He somehow seemed staid and utilitarian compared to her turquoise silk throws and gleaming mirrored furniture. She’d had fun with Charlie last autumn; he’d been a rather attentive lover and had showed surprising stamina. He’d amused her, possibly even charmed her for a fleeting period of time, but her relationship with him had dragged on far too long. She’d begun to grow weary of him perhaps as far back as Christmas; she’d taken a new lover since and yet the man still hung around rather like a stale odour.

‘Charlie, what an unpleasant surprise.’

He laughed, assuming, incorrectly, that she was joking. He jumped up and pulled her in to a tight hug, landing repeated kisses on her face. They were sloppy and inexpert; there was a tinge of desperation about them.

‘I’m hot.’ She pulled away.

‘I know,’ he laughed.

Ava flopped into a high-backed chair which gave her space; Lord Harrington had no alternative but to step away from her. He turned to the gramophone and lowered the needle on to a thick wax record.

‘Must we? My head aches.’

‘We must. We always must.’ He turned up the volume and started to jig, alone, oblivious to her mood. He always was. It was one of the most useful and annoying things about him. Useful because he had no chance of getting under her skin; annoying because if he’d had the slightest understanding of her, he might have left her alone tonight.

‘I’ve just got back from a funeral, Charlie. Be reasonable.’

‘The Earl of Clarendale?’

‘Yes.’

‘Knew him, did you? Were you particular friends?’ Charlie seemed to bite the word ‘particular’ and Ava couldn’t be sure if he was asking whether she had slept with the old earl; an incredible thought, but Charlie did have a rather vicious jealous streak running through him that flared up at the most inopportune and extraordinary times. He suspected almost everyone she spoke to.

‘His daughter-in-law is a great friend of mine,’ she said coolly.

‘Oh, yes.’ Lord Harrington sounded both relieved and a little bit ashamed of himself. ‘Lady Chatfield. Or rather should I say the Countess of Clarendale?’

‘Yes.’

‘So how was the send-off?’

‘As one would expect. Dignified. Lots of lilies, hymns, some decent readings.’

‘Let me guess. Did they sing “Jerusalem”?’

‘Yes.’

‘And they read the one hundred and twenty-first Psalm?’

‘They did indeed.’

‘How very expected.’

‘He’d have loved it. I was always rather fond of the earl. I like rich men, nearly all of them, but I really liked Lydia’s father-in-law because he didn’t give a damn about anyone else.’

‘Ava, you shouldn’t talk ill of the dead.’

‘I’m not. I’m just saying he had a magnificent pair of jowls that amalgamated with his neck. He always looked like he was thinking about himself and that he was more than content with what he was considering.’

‘My, you are a wonderful girl. So original.’

Ava didn’t acknowledge the compliment; instead she reached for a cigarette. She was grateful when Jane brought in the cocktails; she needed something that would take off the edge of irritation. She couldn’t trust Charlie to behave in front of the staff; he’d been brought up to ignore their existence and therefore was dangerously indiscreet. He seemed strangely excitable and unruly this evening, and she didn’t want a scene to be witnessed, so she dismissed the maid and poured two generous martinis herself. They swiftly knocked them back. He poured them both another, which were drunk with equal haste and lack of counsel. Then Ava asked, ‘So, why the unexpected visit?’

‘I have left Lady Harrington.’ His shoulders straightened a fraction, but his eyes betrayed wariness; despite his innate confidence, he wasn’t one hundred per cent sure about his actions in this case. Deserting a wife wasn’t the thing his sort did easily.

‘Your wife?’

‘Exactly so. For you,’ he clarified.

Ava shuddered. ‘But I told you not to. I’ve often told you not to.’ She put down her empty cocktail glass on the polished table and then thought better of it; she walked to the pitcher of martini and poured herself a third. ‘I don’t want this.’

Charlie moved quickly towards her and wrapped his arms tightly around her. ‘Darling,
you
can’t be afraid of a scandal. You’re not the sort to care what other people will say. We’ll keep your name out of the courts and papers. That goes without saying, I promise. I’ll have to provide evidence of adultery, naturally. I can’t expect Dorothy to take the fall. We’ll do it the usual way. Pay someone to come to Brighton with me, have a detective follow us, pay a maid to bring in a breakfast tray and say she saw me at it. All that sort of thing.’

The mechanics as to how, exactly, one secured a divorce in 1921 were something Ava was familiar with. She thought the process was repugnant; not because it was sleazy, although it was that, but because it was hypocritical. The real offenders were rarely named in court. Prostitutes were hired to provide evidence.

‘Even so, Charlie, I think you ought to go back to your wife.’

Lord Harrington did not let his grip on Ava loosen. He held her awkwardly; she couldn’t move her arms. It was all too, too embarrassing. ‘Darling, I don’t think you quite understand. I’ve told her about us.’

‘I’m sure she knew before. She’ll take you back.’

‘But there was a terrible scene. I did it all for you. Don’t you want me?’ The question sounded pathetic coming from a man who had fought on the Somme. Ava was embarrassed for him. Charlie’s weakness quickly transformed into mistrustful anger. ‘Is there somebody else? There is, isn’t there?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘I heard that you danced all night with Victor Renold at the Duke of Marlborough’s party.’

‘Who?’ Ava genuinely couldn’t recall. She danced with lots of men and boys; she didn’t always catch their names.

‘Is it Bertie Hetton? I heard you partnered him for the scavenger hunt that ended in Margate.’

Ava smiled brightly, hoping that she could still ease her way out of this ghastly embarrassment. ‘That was the most enormous fun. I sat in the flapper bracket on his motorcycle. We won thirty pounds, you know.’

‘You bitch.’ She felt the blow in her ear and jaw as his huge hand swiped at the side of her face, then, almost instantly, she felt pain in her knee as she banged it against a side table; he had literally knocked her off her feet. She found herself staggering on her high heels, sucking deep breaths of air but not finding any oxygen. Straightening, she brought her hand up to the side of her face and glowered at Charlie. He was tall, big and broad. He seemed bigger than she’d ever thought of him before. She considered slapping him or throwing something at him but she was horrified to find she was frozen, afraid. He looked crazed with fury. Mad and large, he could do some terrible damage. Her hands were shaking; she wished they weren’t. She told herself it was adrenalin, not fear, but she wasn’t sure, and either way she appeared weak.

‘Go home now, Charlie.’ Ava didn’t recognise the quiver in her own voice.

He picked up his glass, and for a moment she thought he was going to top it up; instead he threw it into the fireplace. It was too hot for a fire to be burning, but the shards of glass flew up the chimney and across the rug; the martini splashed over the hearth. Ava was mesmerised by the mess. She couldn’t understand how such a thing was happening in her drawing room. Then, like a lion, he pounced and grabbed the back of her head, crushing his lips down on to hers. She became aware that he must have cut her when he struck her, because she could taste the iron of her own blood on his lips. She struggled away from the kiss, wriggling and ineffectually kicking his shins.

‘Don’t make a fool of me!’ he yelled. He seized her hair and brought her face crashing down on to a mirrored console. The pain of the impact was excruciating. Ava thought of accidentally belly-flopping into a lake as a child; hurt and shock invaded her body. Then he shoved her backwards with such violence that her feet lifted up off the ground and she went flying through the air. She could not control her limbs; she crumpled and fell to the floor. Frenzied, he kicked her, two, three times before she scrambled behind a chair. He chased her, but his aim was less true, and the furniture and skirting took some of the blows, causing him to roar in frustration. She covered her head and stomach, a tight protective ball, but she felt his heavy shoe on her ribs and spine. For a moment she believed she was outside her body, looking down on this ghastly, uncivilised scene of terror and fury, but with each fresh heavy kick or strike she entered back into her body with the outrage of searing pain. She became conscious of every individual cell and blood vessel bruising or bursting, each nerve ending anticipating, then taking, a blow. She could hear and feel her heart thumping thunderously in her ears but she couldn’t hear her own voice. Was she crying out? Why wasn’t anyone coming to help her? No, she had not shouted for help. She
had
to find her voice. Her eyes were squeezed shut, but she forced them open; with tunnelled vision she glared at him.