The Chandelier Ballroom (14 page)

When he returned from golf they’d had lunch and settled back for a peaceful couple of hours. Mrs Evans had gone out for an hour or two to see a friend but would be back in time to prepare dinner for them. Around three, Arnold began to get restless and said he was going for a walk, asking if she wanted to go along but she’d declined saying it was far too hot.

Rather she sought the cool library away from the strong sunlight that streamed into the lounge. Passing the door to the big room, she felt stupidly relieved to see it closed.

It was pleasant in the library, reading, but for some reason she couldn’t relax. Deciding to take a walk in the garden, she went down the hall to the front door, passing the closed door to the big room.

It would have been quicker going through there to the garden, but she preferred not to go that way. Instead she used the front door, taking the path leading around to the rear of the house. Somehow, glimpsing the road at the end of the drive made her feel part of the outside world. It was very quiet. A solitary car passed but most people were hiding from the July heat.

For a while it was fine, but soon the heat drove her back indoors by the same route, but halfway down the hall she stopped short. The door to the big room now stood open, a faint draught touching her cheek.

Joyce’s heart missed a beat then began thumping wildly – there was only her in the house.

She stood, petrified, trying to fight the panic that threatened to take control, trying to tell herself she was a grown woman and this was her house, that the French windows must have been left open. A hot day, reason enough to leave them ajar, and forgetting to shut this door properly, a draught had caused it to open on its own.

Drawing a deep breath, she forced herself to peep into the room. They were indeed wide open, but she wasn’t going over to close them. She would shut this door firmly and go back to the safety of the library until Arnold returned home.

As she made to back out of the room, a movement caught her eye. There, lounging in one of the wickerwork easy chairs in the conservatory was the figure of a youngish woman. Joyce gasped.

‘Excuse me!’ she challenged sharply, raising her voice with some authority, no longer in fear but shocked that some stranger, probably off the road, had had the audacity to enter her home uninvited to plonk herself in her conservatory. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

The woman turned towards her, one slim arm draped over the arm-rest. She was extremely pretty from what Joyce could see of her, and she didn’t know why but for a second her mind went to that secretary of Arnold’s. The blonde hair like Gillian Daniels’ but shorter, maybe recently cut, slim like her, the same heart-shaped face, though from a distance and through panes of glass it was difficult to be sure. If it was her, what was she doing here? Before she could challenge her again, the woman rose and in one swift movement slipped out through the conservatory door into the garden.

Forgetting the odd feeling the room always gave her, Joyce bounded across it, into the conservatory and out through its now open door to the garden. On the patio she stopped, looked about. No sign of the person, whoever she was. But it could only have been Gillian Daniels. Who else? What about Arnold’s excuse of going for a walk – had it been arranged for her to meet him? Had golf this morning also been just an excuse?

Even as she chided herself for such silly ideas, her mind went back to that Christmas party, they standing far too close for mere work colleagues. Was that why he’d been so pleased at her taking a holiday abroad, so they could have things all to themselves? Her stomach crawled at the thought, her heart thumping like a piston. Despite the hot sun, her skin was cold.

To her confused mind, the sheer risk of those two actually thinking they could meet here in her own home and expect to get away with it didn’t occur to her. Nor did the fact that the person she’d seen in the conservatory wore a dress that hardly reached down to the knees where it should have been calf-length. And the hair – the last time she’d seen Gillian Daniels, it had been longer, a chin-length page-boy bob. So short a time to have taken it all in, maybe she only thought she saw what she did, but she
had
seen, and now her sole aim was to find Arnold and confront him with her suspicions.

Where was he now? Was he waiting for Gillian somewhere just beyond that small group of trees where the pond was, out of sight of the house? What would she do if she caught them together? She couldn’t face that prospect, losing her temper and making a fool of herself, an equal fool if she merely walked off in indignant silence. In the end, choked by tears, she went back into the house, furious with herself for the coward she knew she was.

He came back indoors half an hour later, smiling and at ease. She had to force herself to ask if he’d had a nice walk, where he had gone.

His reply was casual. ‘I went to the end of our land and hopped over the fence on to that little lane that runs along the back. It was so quiet and peaceful I just kept on walking. Had to turn back eventually, couldn’t be late for dinner. But it was really enjoyable. You ought to have come.’

He was lying, rambling aimlessly. Liars ramble and that was what he was doing. They flush, and she was sure he looked flushed, though it could have been the heat. She merely nodded and went off upstairs, needing to get away from him and his lies. Whether he noticed her coolness she couldn’t say, though she was sure he would eventually begin to wonder at her distant attitude.

Over their evening meal she could hardly look at him as they ate in relative silence. At one time he looked up from his dinner to regard her and ask if she was not feeling well.

‘I’m … fine,’ she managed, hardy able to keep her voice steady. ‘It’s this heat.’

‘It’ll be a pretty hot night,’ he said, but she couldn’t trust herself to answer. The food was like sawdust in her mouth, almost refusing to be swallowed. Near to tears, she dared not let them show and have to explain herself. What if she was wrong? But she had seen that woman as plain as could be. Who else would it have been but that secretary of his?

In retrospect she was growing surer than ever that the woman she’d seen had been her. If Arnold noticed the trouble she was having in eating he gave no sign, continuing to eat steadily himself, enjoying the stewed pears and cream that followed, though Joyce refused hers, aware of the surprised frown on Mrs Evans’ brow.

As soon as dinner was over, she pleaded a headache from the warmth of the day, saying she needed to lie down. She did not stir when, as daylight faded, Arnold came up to bed, asking if she was feeling better, she pretending to be asleep.

A few days later it seemed her suspicions had been realised when he took her by surprise by voicing concern about the holiday they were to have in September, saying he was wondering if they should really think about cancelling. The arrangements had been to drive through Germany, on to Switzerland and back home through France. The hotels already booked, it was a strange move. He’d also intended they go on to Italy, but as she had already gone there with her mother, there was no point to it. Now he was looking to cancel it altogether.

‘I’m worried about the way things are going in Germany just now,’ he told her as she raised a querying eyebrow at him. ‘The papers are reporting enormous Nazi rallies and demonstrations against Jewish citizens. It seems Hitler and his Nazis are beginning to throw their weight around a little too much. And the way Mussolini’s fascists are behaving … Well, you said yourself that you saw some of it while you were in Italy, didn’t you?’

He was talking too much, as if trying to fill a void of which he was now becoming aware. He paused for her response, forcing her to answer.

She had to say something. ‘I saw quite a few soldiers about, that’s all,’ she said tersely, unable to look at him without her fingers curling into small, tight balls.

‘You said they were rather off-putting and it worried you.’

‘They might have put me on edge a little, yes.’

‘Well, I don’t want to have you put on edge again if we go. In fact I’m not happy taking you to anywhere near any countries like Germany with the present state of things. I think it might be best to cancel.’

Under normal circumstances she’d have been deeply disappointed, would have pointed out all that money lost through cancellation. As it was she hadn’t been looking forward to sharing any holiday with him, with what she now suspected, and anyway she’d had a lovely holiday in Italy with her mother. When asked if she’d be too disappointed if he was to cancel, all she said was that it was up to him.

If he detected hostility he gave no indication, which to her mind only accentuated his guilt. Sooner or later she was going to have to tackle him on that person she’d seen in their conservatory. She was now sure it had been Gillian Daniels. The way she had fled had been proof of something going on between him and his secretary – his ex-secretary. He’d told her a couple of weeks ago that she’d left her job, was now working for a firm of solicitors, still in the City. It all sounded innocent, but of course he could now see her without others knowing. The fact that he intended to get out of taking his own wife on holiday was, if anything, even more proof.

She couldn’t help herself. ‘Do you still sometimes see Gillian?’ she asked, trying to make it sound casual. She was sure he’d coloured a little even as he shook his head, but there was little more she could ask on that score without looking as if she were prying, or worse, portraying mistrust.

She felt all alone in her suspicions, needing someone to talk to and be reassured that Arnold was trustworthy, and her thoughts turned to Jennifer Wainwright. They’d become good enough friends for Joyce to confide in her, and so long as she swore Jennifer to secrecy she knew she could rely on her to observe it, and maybe give good advice too.

‘You do tend to live on your nerves,’ was her advice, which she wasn’t exactly expecting. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t someone off the road with cheek enough to look for a cool place to sit down for ten minutes?’

It was so ridiculous a suggestion that Joyce broke into unintended laughter until her friend was obliged to join in with her.

‘No, I am sorry,’ she said, recovering her composure. ‘But seriously, did you really think your Arnold would be having an affair with someone? He loves you. He wouldn’t dream of two-timing you. But I don’t know what to say about who you saw. It was all I could think of. I’m sorry.’

Sitting over coffee in Joyce’s library, Jennifer thought awhile then said carefully with a small self-evasive smile, ‘I don’t want to sound as if I think you’re being stupid, Joyce, but I wonder if you might have seen your own reflection in the conservatory glass. It could happen,’ she ended hastily, seeing Joyce’s lips tighten. ‘I mean it could happen to anyone.’

‘And see my reflection get up from that wicker chair and walk out?’ she queried. Jennifer thought a moment then shook her head, smiling at the foolishness of the suggestion.

‘Well, I don’t know, but maybe …’ She fell silent, the silence going on for so long that Joyce found herself forced to prompt her.

‘Maybe, what?’

‘Well …’ she hesitated, then, ‘What if it was … well, a ghost?’

‘Oh, come now!’ Joyce smothered a false laugh to cover the shudder that ran through her knowing how often she felt some strangeness about the big room. ‘Why should the place be haunted?’

‘Well …’ Again Jennifer hesitated then ploughed on. ‘Those people who owned your place previously. I’ve told you about the man who drowned in your pond and …’

‘It was a woman I saw,’ Joyce broke in almost savagely. ‘Not a man.’

Jennifer sighed. ‘Well, I really don’t know what to say. But I don’t think your Arnold would be unfaithful to you. He’s not the type.’

Joyce relented, wanting to believe her. ‘Maybe you’re right. It could have been someone who shouldn’t have been there, taking advantage of a cool place to sit. Maybe I am being a bit silly, imagining Arnold going off with someone else.’

‘Of course you are. He’s a lovely man, your Arnold. And he loves you, I know he does. I mean, there he is taking you away on a lovely holiday on the Continent in September. You don’t know how lucky you are to have a husband like him.’

She sounded so wistful, obviously reminded of the husband she had lost to some scheming woman, that Joyce hastily changed the subject. Even with no real advice forthcoming, she did feel a little better for having talked it over with her friend.

Yet despite Jennifer’s reassurances, as the days went by, what she now swore she had seen that afternoon was beginning to build up again in her mind. All the little things put together slowly multiplied into a renewed gnawing suspicion; one she felt she could not prove, in fact one she found herself fearing to prove, all imaginings of ghostly presences swept away.

With the autumn nights drawing in, Arnold was coming home later and later from the City – for reasons other than work, she painfully suspected now.

It hadn’t upset her that he’d cancelled their September holiday for the reasons he had explained at the time, and with which she had agreed, not caring for the uncomfortable feeling Italy had given her when she and her mother had been there. Nor was she sorry. The thought of having to endure his pretence at faithfulness would have been intolerable, even though there was still no proof of any infidelity, nothing to go on except what she suspected, he certainly not about to confess all.

The woman she’d seen that day in summer had not been here again, maybe having realised the danger of discovery. For the time being it was well to let them both believe she was still in the dark. But it constantly disturbed her peace of mind. While not having courage enough to face Arnold with what she was convinced was going on, in a way so long as she remained unsure there was the hope that it was all in her imagination, although that was not exactly any consolation.

October gave way to November and rain. Tonight she could hear it drumming on the conservatory roof, so loudly it was even audible in the hall. Coming from the lounge where she had been trying to read to take her mind off the fact that Arnold was again late coming home, having rung to say he’d been delayed at work, she became aware of a draught from the now half open door of the big room. She could have sworn it had been shut earlier, and surely the French windows must be closed. Who’d need to open them this time of year? She couldn’t exactly remember when she had last closed them, days ago perhaps. Back in the summer the catch had proved to be faulty. Arnold had said he would have it fixed and she assumed he had. Even so, it still refused to respond to anything but a firm slam. At the time she thought he should have had a proper lock made with a key, but he’d said there was no need. ‘The door to the garden already has a lock and a key, so there’s no point.’