Telling Lies to Alice (13 page)

“No, Lenny.”

He thumped the door. “For God’s sake, stop being so bloody childish— Oh, shit!”

There was a slopping noise. “Mind the fixtures . . . Five shillings extra . . . Used to see notices in the boardinghouses, on the doors of the rooms . . .
Wet bed or mattress, five shillings extra
. . . We asked, did they get many aphib . . . amphi . . . those hopping fuckers . . . but the stupid cow didn’t get the joke . . . you’re laughing now, aren’t you? At least I made you laugh . . . open the door, darling, I won’t hurt you . . .”

“
No,
Lenny.”

He bashed the door again. “Come
out
!”

“Just leave me alone, Lenny.”

“This was your fault in the first place, all of it . . .”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Go away, Lenny,
please
.”

“I’ll tell you what you are, Alice, you’re a conniving bitch, and it was your fault. I’m going to count to three, and if you don’t open the door, you’re going to regret it. One . . .”

“I’m not talking to you anymore, Lenny.”

“Two . . .”

“I’m not—”

“Three!” He started battering the door—it was strong all right, but the whole wall seemed to quiver with each bang. I curled up in a ball on the floor and put my hands over my ears. “Alice, come out of there!” He went on and on and on—sometimes cajoling me, sometimes shouting. Every so often he’d go off and get another drink, and then carry on. . . . I kept telling myself he’d have to go to sleep at some point, that he couldn’t keep it up forever, but it took a long time.

I pulled a blanket off the bed and wrapped it round myself and then I must have dozed off for a bit because I woke up feeling horrible, clammy and sweaty.
But
—everything was quiet. Even so, I waited the best part of an hour before I dared to stick my head out of the door. Lenny was slumped beside it with his back against the wall. His feet were stuck out in front, his head down on his chest, and he looked really out of it.

I’d thought he was in a deep sleep, but he must have been taking something—quite a few things—because I’d got my bag and everything together and I was just on the point of leaving when I turned round in the doorway for a last look at him, and he was staring straight back at me. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but I needn’t have worried. His eyes were open, but they were glazed and empty, and his face had this . . . sort of . . . dull look—no light in it. I don’t think he even knew it was me.

That was the last time I saw him alive.

I’d meant to phone his doctor the minute I got somewhere safe, but in the event, I didn’t. Partly because I wasn’t thinking straight, but also . . . well, I knew Lenny wouldn’t thank me if he ended up in a clinic. He’d been before and nearly gone out of his mind, and it wouldn’t have worked because it’s a decision you have to make yourself, having the treatment. It’s no good if you’re doing it because someone else says so. But to be honest, the main thing I was thinking was: Just get away from him as fast as possible. I got a milk train back to London—it took forever, but with every little station we passed, I thought, at least it’s a few more miles between us.

Four days later, I got engaged. Without knowing it. I’d answered the phone first thing, half-asleep, and it was one of my girlfriends singing that Cliff Richard song, “Con-grat-u-lations, and celebrations, when I tell everyone that you’re in love with me . . .”

“Penny?”

“Mrs. Maxted, I presume?”

“Penny, what’s going on?”

“You finally bagged him!”

“What?”

“Earth to Alice? Anybody there? You. Bagged. Him. Lenny Maxted—your fiancé, remember?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve just seen the paper, darling. You clever old thing . . . all right for some. I bet you’ve got a
gor-or-or-or-jus
ring, haven’t you?”

That was how I found out. Lenny’d telephoned the papers—or he’d rung Findlater and
he’d
telephoned the papers—or
something
—but anyway, there it was in the news, and I was horrified. A month before—a week, even—it would have seemed like a dream come true, but I just stood there and thought, how the hell did I get into this?

Then Jack phoned. “Lenny didn’t tell me.”

“Me neither.”

“What do you mean? You’re marrying him, aren’t you?”

“He hasn’t asked me. One of my friends rang and said she’d seen it in the paper.”

There was a long silence before Jack said, “What’s he playing at?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he all right?”

“Not really.”

“I see. Look, I don’t know why I’m even bothering to say this, but ask him to get in touch.”

“It’s a bit difficult . . . he hasn’t got a phone down there.”

“He can go to a call box, can’t he?” Jack sighed. “Never mind. Anyway, congratulations and all that.”

“Thanks.”

“Well . . . I’ve given up expecting him to phone. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, he doesn’t. It’s fucking ridiculous. . . . Oh, forget it. Bye, Alice.” He hung up. After that I tried to phone Marcus Deveraux at Ivar, but no one answered.

I sat by the phone for two days waiting for Lenny to call, but all that happened was friends kept ringing up saying congratulations, when’s the wedding? Are you having a big do? I had no idea what to tell them. There were journalists calling as well, wanting details . . . the phone was on a little stand with a mirror above it and I kept hearing myself say how happy I was and then catching sight of my bruises and thinking, this is
mad
.

On the third day I gave up trying to get hold of Marcus and got the train back to Wiltshire. I’d slapped on half a ton of makeup, a floppy hat, and the largest sunglasses I could find, but even that didn’t hide the mess my face was in. All the way people kept staring at me and by the time I got off the train, I was ready to boil over. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my life as I was then. I got a taxi from the station but when we got to the cottage all the curtains were drawn—this was lunchtime—and Lenny didn’t answer the door. I asked the driver to take me to the nearest pub to look for him. Full of locals, and the minute I walked in—
silence
. It was all men except for this old battle-axe of a barmaid, and when I asked her about Lenny, she said, “Oh yes, we know him all right,” and looked me up and down as if I was a hooker or something. Then one of them called out, “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll take you home,” and they all started laughing and whistling. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

The taxi driver told me there was another pub up the road, so we went there—same story—and then he took me to another one, about a mile away. He must have realised I was upset because when I started to get out he said, “You’d best stay here, dear. I’ll go. What’s his name?”

“Lenny Maxted. He’s tall, and—”

“Oh, off the telly. I thought it must be.”

“Why?”

“I had another one from London the other day, after him.”

“Another woman?”

“Man. Day before yesterday, it was. Told me to wait. He was only in there ten minutes before I took him back to the station. I didn’t see Mr. Maxted open the door. ‘Who do you think’s in there, then?’ the bloke asked me. He was all like that, very cocky. I said, ‘I don’t know,’ because it could have been anyone, so I said that, then he said, ‘It’s only Lenny Maxted, what do you think of that?’ Very full of himself. I said, ‘What are you visiting him for, then?’—just making conversation—but he said, ‘Oh no, I can’t talk about that.’ I don’t know what he wanted to tell me for in the first place.” The driver hesitated for a moment and then he said, “I don’t like to say this to you, dear, but I thought it might have something to do with drugs. He had that look to him—Cockney accent—not that that’s . . . well, I’m not being funny, but he was a bit, you know . . . bit of a
spiv,
that’s the word I’m looking for. Don’t hear that much nowadays, do you? Not that you’d remember, of course . . . I’ll just be a minute . . .”

He went into the pub and came out shaking his head. “Never heard of him. Mind you, this one’s a bit of a walk from the cottage, especially if you’ve had a few . . .”

“Never mind. Thanks. Can you take me back to Ivar—to the big house?”

“Right-oh. Don’t look so worried, dear—we’ll find him.”

But we didn’t. Marcus wasn’t there, either. This young guy—smart suit, but rough-looking—answered the door and the first thing he said to me, before I could get a word out, was, “Marcus with you?”

“No, I was hoping—”

“Then where the fuck is he?”

“I’ve no idea. Do you know where Lenny is?”

“Lenny?”

“Maxted. He’s staying at the cottage.”

“Not you as well. I’m not the fucking butler, darling, so why don’t you just fuck off?” He slammed the door.

I got back in the taxi. “Nothing doing. Can you take me back to the cottage, please?”

“Going to wait for him, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

People often say they have a premonition about suicides, but I didn’t. I thought I’d find Lenny passed out on the floor and I was angry with him, and that’s why I did what I did, because I wanted him to bloody well pull himself together and sort things out with Jack.

The front door of the cottage was locked. I went round the back, but that door was locked as well. The driver followed me.

“Any luck?”

I shook my head. “I’m sure he’s in there. There’s a window in the kitchen I can get through, but I’ll have to break it.” I think he was about to argue but something in my face must have stopped him because he said, “Well, dear, it’s your decision, but they’re not going to be very pleased. . . .”

I picked up a brick, and he said, “Here, let me. You’ll hurt yourself.” I remember he took off his cardigan—it had leather patches on the elbows—and wrapped it carefully round the stone before he did it, and then he bashed out all the bits of jagged glass round the edge so I’d be able to climb in without cutting myself. I paid him, and he said, “I hope you know what you’re doing,” and held the curtain out of the way while I scrambled through—not easy in high-heeled boots—and jumped down into the kitchen.

Even for midafternoon it was pretty gloomy because all the curtains were closed. I suddenly felt frightened.

“Are you all right in there, dear?”

“Fine. Just trying to find a light switch.”

“I’ll be off, then.”

I stepped forward and bumped my hip against something big, with edges—kitchen table—then back and straight into a row of empty bottles that rolled across the lino like skittles. “Lenny?”

Silence. The sitting-room door was open. The darkness was dense, almost menacing, and I couldn’t bring myself to walk into the middle of it, in case . . . what? I don’t know, really. Perhaps it
was
a premonition, but I was almost too frightened to move. I reached inside and patted the walls beside the door for a light switch, and then I remembered it was by the bedroom door. I’d been nose-to-nose with it a week earlier. “Lenny?”

I slid round the door and began inching my way along the wall. I was going slowly, trying to avoid chairs and things, but I must have missed the switch because the next thing I knew, I put out my hand and there was nothing there. The bedroom door was open—it took me by surprise. I lost my balance, and then my face and neck hit something soft, bulky—cloth, but solid underneath, cold—
body
—and then I looked up and saw his eyes. Gobstoppers, with a dull gleam like something congealed . . .

That’s when I must have started screaming because I remember the taxi driver—he’d waited to make sure I was all right—pulling me back through the window and taking me down to the police station. I don’t remember much of what happened next—being wrapped in a blanket, seeing the blood on my knees, being given sugary tea, and a policewoman with nice eyes telling me to keep still while she dabbed my hands with TCP, and then the interview, round and round in circles, not being able to take it in . . .

I got to my feet and blew my nose. Lenny had died at Ivar Park—so had Kitty. His car was in the lake.
Don’t blame the camels
. . . . And Jack knew. More than he was willing to admit, anyway. And he was hiding. I’d run away from Lenny. I’d been young, but all the same . . . I’d failed, hadn’t I? Perhaps if I’d stayed with him . . .
Jack needed my help
.

Perhaps he’d received that cutting, too, and that was why he’d recognised the handwriting. . . . But if he did want me to help him, why not ask? Why the pretending? Perhaps he couldn’t. He’s almost like two different people, I thought. There’s the old Jack—but then all that business about
Charley’s Aunt
and not being able to do it . . . almost as if he’d given up. Reckless, that was it. As if he’d come to the end of the road and he didn’t
care
what happened. “I don’t understand,” I said to Eustace’s rump, which was sticking out from under the valance. “I don’t think I
want
to understand.” I felt so confused. Why couldn’t Lenny just have
waited
? I thought angrily. I know that’s not how it works, people commit suicide when they’re so desperate that waiting isn’t an option, but . . . Eustace wriggled out from under the bed and sat down beside me. “You’ve got fluff on your ears,” I told him. “You can’t go downstairs like that.”

I knew that if I started to cry I wouldn’t be able to stop, so I bent down and hugged Eustace instead. He struggled in my arms, indignant at being squashed, then squirmed away from me and sat, eyes narrowed, scratching his ear with a hind foot.

I pushed the box well under the bed and went back to the barn. By the time we got there I was still shaky but pretty certain I wasn’t going to cry again. Jack was squatting beside the pen, staring at the guinea pigs. “Lenny must have told you about that film we were working on in the States.”

“Not really. He never talked about it.”