The Chandelier Ballroom (4 page)

Millie turned and fled back along the short landing and through the door to the passage behind. The way Celia had practically hung in his arms, he gazing at her with that silly grin on his face. In her bedroom, a demented wave of fury hitting her, Millie tore off the lovely evening dress. Hearing the seams rip prompted her to help the ruin along, screaming abuse at the top of her voice as she continued to rip. ‘Damn ’im! The bastard! Asking that bitch ’ere into me own ’ome, right ’ere in front of me. Bastard! And ’er … smarmy little cow … I’ll kill ’er … I’ll kill ’im … I will … I’ll kill ’em both …’

Hoarse from screeching, her voice finally giving way, she sank onto her knees in misery amid the shreds of her beautiful gown.

In bed she lay staring up at the ceiling, ready to go for him the second he came up to find her. But he didn’t come up. That made it even worse, the waiting. Later she heard the departure of the guests, voices calling goodnight and thank you, laughter, cars revving up and departing. She waited.

Ages passed and he still didn’t come up to bed.

Thoughts were playing around inside her sleepless mind, ears keen to the slightest sound from downstairs. The bitch hadn’t left with the others, she was sure of it. She imagined him having drawn her back into the house, or perhaps she had persuaded him to let her stay a little longer.

There was no sound at all from downstairs. Had he got into his own car amid the hubbub of people leaving, the two of them driving off into the dark, enjoying each other in some quiet country lane, he satisfying a longing she now guessed he’d been harbouring ever since meeting that hussy? They should never have gone on that damned cruise, but she knew that if it hadn’t been Celia Howard it would have been someone else in time. He with all his money beginning to fancy his luck, seeing himself as something of a blooming God’s gift to women.

Yet why ask Millie to come downstairs to the party if he’d intended that girl to be there? Or had she turned up uninvited? Then how had she heard about the party? Perhaps he’d spoken about it on the cruise. Like a sleuth, Millie turned the questions over and over in her brain, feeling worse and worse the more she thought.

She lost track of time, how long she lay awake, until startled by the bedroom door opening and him entering the room. She’d heard no car door click shut, no cautious closing of the front door, but suddenly he was staring down at her in the dim light through the half-closed curtains.

‘You didn’t come down,’ he said slightly accusingly as he bent and switched on the small lamp on his side of the bed.

‘I didn’t feel up to it,’ she said tersely.

‘I meant to come up and see if you were all right, but there was so much going on. Lots of fun.’

She couldn’t help herself. ‘Like entertaining a bit of skirt or two! That Celia Howard, for instance?’

She could have laughed at his stunned expression had she not been so livid.

‘How did you know she was here,’ he blurted, ‘if … if you didn’t come down?’ The words made him sound even guiltier.

‘I did. I saw you dancing with her. I was standing on the stairs.’

‘I didn’t realise.’

‘No, ’course you didn’t. You was too tied up with ’er!’

‘What I mean is you should’ve come and joined us all.’

‘You was doing well enough wiv ’er.’ Since the shock of seeing him with that woman, her improved diction had gone out of the window. She didn’t care.

He was staring at her in righteous indignation. ‘All I did was dance with her. She came with that Cyril Oliver we met on the boat. You remember, one of those chaps Celia and her friend were with. I got on well with him so I asked him and Celia to our party.’

Millie ignored the
our
bit.
‘This bloke’s ’er fiancé then?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ he muttered, calmer now as he began to undress for bed. ‘They were all just friends as far as I know, all four, just a small crowd of friends.’

‘And they all came ’ere?’

‘The other two couldn’t come.’

‘And did this Cyril dance with ’er?’

‘He don’t dance.’ Race heaved a weary sigh. ‘Look, it’s late. I’m tired and I need to get a bit of sleep. It’ll be light in a couple of hours.’

‘I thought everyone left ages ago,’ she persisted. ‘What’ve you been doing all this time?’

He paused in buttoning up his pyjama top. His expression in the light of the table lamp had tightened. ‘What’s the matter? Why the third degree?’

‘No reason,’ she said, and turned over on her pillow away from him.

‘You should have come down,’ he said, but she didn’t reply. She felt his side of the bed press down, movement as he turned off the lamp. ‘’Night,’ he whispered, but again she didn’t reply. For a while all was silent. She heard his breathing deepen, then jerky snoring. But she didn’t sleep until the first glimmer of morning stole into the room.

He was up before her, saying he had to go out, wouldn’t be back until sometime late afternoon. The catering staff and cleaners would be coming in to clear up the debris from the party, so she’d have to get up and let them in.

‘Where you off to?’ she asked, ignoring his instructions, her mind still thrashing over last night’s events, full of suspicion and accusation.

‘Just into town,’ he answered as he dressed. ‘Some business I need to do – a meeting of sorts.’

She sat up to look at him. He was putting on one of his really good suits. Instantly her mind came alive. ‘Who’re you meeting?’

‘Just some people – a bit of business I’m after, that’s all.’

‘What business?’

He turned to her, his expression annoyed and impatient, his tone sharp. ‘What does it matter what business?’

She didn’t reply. Why had he become so suddenly angry? He was a man of quick temper, but why get angry at such an apparently innocent question? Or maybe it was the tone she’d used to ask it, or more to the point maybe she’d touched a raw spot, filling him full of guilt.

‘I won’t wait for you to get up,’ he said, his tone still sharp. ‘I’ll get me own breakfast and be off. See you later!’

It was late when he came back. He didn’t say much and she didn’t ask. Usually he was full of his day, especially if he had achieved results from any deal, and if things hadn’t gone right for him there would be a string of complaints, everyone else in the wrong but himself. But there was nothing.

When she asked him how his day had gone, all he said was, ‘It went alright. Why?’

‘No reason,’ was all she said and left it at that, but she knew well enough now that there’d been no business meeting.

Nor was this the only time; it seemed that almost every day he was having to go up to London.

‘I’ll be holding another party soon,’ he told her, ‘something really big. It needs a lot of planning, a lot of sorting out.’

It was a poor excuse. He’d never before had to spend time in London just to throw a party. But by now she knew why he was there, though she said nothing in case she was wrong.

Then two days before the planned party, Millie saw him through the wide lounge window, getting out of his car and moving round to open the passenger door.

It was Celia Howard who got out, sliding her long legs forward to reveal slim calves, trim knees, high-heel shoes. She stood up, her beige suit and blouse perfection, a dainty little matching hat perched on the side of her head, her make-up immaculate, her red lips smiling at him as he took her arm to lead her to the front door. She seemed to lean against him as they came, far closer than mere acquaintances.

Millie shot out of the lounge and up the stairs, in no way prepared to welcome the girl in. With two days still to go before the party, why was she here so early?

Something didn’t sit right, but it was hours before she could bring herself to ask, ‘Why’s
she
here?’ knowing she sounded huffy.

‘Had a row with the bloke she was living with, Cyril Oliver,’ Race told her, not the least bit ruffled by her demanding tone. ‘He got stroppy with her so she walked out. I don’t believe there was anything there between them.’

Why should that last bit need to be said
, came the thought, but Race was still talking. ‘She needs to find other digs but until she can I suggested she could stay here with us for a while.’

Cosy
, a second thought came, but all she said was, ‘Until the party then and that’s it!’, stalking away before she betrayed herself further.

But Race followed her, he himself growing angry. Catching her up, he put a rough hand on her shoulder, swinging her round to face him. Ever a man of quick and sudden temper, he glared at her, his voice raised.

‘What’s the matter with you, Millie? Can’t I ask a friend of ours to stay a few days? The place is big enough. We’ve five bedrooms – five bloody bedrooms – four of ’em never used!’

‘
Our
friends!’ she blazed back at him, her own anger rising. ‘Not our
friend, y
ours
! You’re the one what likes to dance with ’er. You’re the one what’s asked ’er ’ere, not me. If you want the truth, I don’t like ’er. And if you want ’er to stay, for God knows ’ow long, because that’s the way I can see it turning out, then she won’t be the only one to walk out on someone.’

‘What d’you mean by that?’ he shot at her.

‘I mean you seem ter fancy ’er, the way you looked at ’er when she got out of the car, the way you put yer arm through ’er’s walking ’er to the front door, gazing into ’er face. You ain’t done that ter me fer years.’

‘Why should I? We’ve bin married for years!’ It was such a stupid answer that Millie burst into bitter laughter, but he seemed to take it differently.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘she’s a friend, that’s all. She’s a nice, friendly girl. You were okay about her during our cruise. Why’ve you changed?’

She could find nothing to retort. It now seemed so silly getting upset over one dance. Him putting an arm through Celia’s today, maybe it
was
just friendliness, yet she couldn’t bring herself to see it that way. Fear and jealousy bit into her like the taste of a sour lemon as she gave a sigh of capitulation and walked off before she said anything else to make matters worse. But a barrier had come down between them; she could feel it, though nothing more was said.

Race was hardly talking to her, nor she to him. But she watched when he thought she wasn’t looking, and yes, he was making too much of Celia, far too much. They seemed to be together all the time, she hanging around him, and him lapping it up.

Just now she’d come in on them in the lounge in time to catch the sudden movement of two people springing urgently apart, Celia staring innocently down at a newspaper on the coffee table, he looking into the fire in the grate. But that hasty movement, to her, spoke louder than words.

In that split second Millie had backed out of the room in one smooth and swift movement. Now she tapped on the door before re-entering to find them on opposite sides of the room. It looked so obvious. Celia had already regained her composure as she turned from the window through which she’d apparently been staring at the cold grey sky with its fine drizzle, her greeting far too bright to be convincing.

‘Oh, hello there, dear! What a terrible day. I do hope it won’t be like this for Race’s fireworks on Saturday. I suppose we all do, don’t you?’

‘Are you comfortable in your room?’ Millie replied coldly, ignoring the false friendliness.

‘Oh, yes, very,’ Celia answered readily. ‘And thank you so much for putting me up. Race should have told you he was asking me back here for a few days beforehand, but it was all on the spur of the moment. I really hope you don’t mind.’

‘Why should I mind?’ It was a challenge rather than a palliative, but Celia gave a sweetly innocent smile.

‘I’m so glad,’ she said easily as she came across to the door, touching Millie’s arm in a friendly fashion as she passed. ‘I think I will just go to my room and freshen up before lunch.’

To Millie’s mind, the way she said it made it sound as if it was her own room to lay claim to, permanently.

Moments later Race followed her, passing Millie without a word to leave her standing alone in the lounge, staring at the spot where the two of them had so noticeably sprung away from each other, each hoping that she hadn’t noticed.

Had they been kissing? She was sure they had, the girl’s lips lifted to his, bodies close so that he would have felt the firm lift of her breasts, she aware of his hips, his groin maybe? Had he been aroused?

The thought made her feel sick. All she wanted to do was leave this house, leave him. But where would she go? Back to the East End where she had always been comfortable? It was what she would have liked to do, and she was sure one of her old neighbours would have taken her in. Except that she would have to explain herself to them and she didn’t think she could bring herself to do that – airing her dirty washing!

It came to her that she had never been that happy here, not from the very start. The place was too rambling, too posh. She didn’t enjoy having a cook, Mrs Dunhill, from the village coming in every day to cook for them and do a bit of housework as well. Cook-General, Race called her, him trying to be posh, stupid old twerp! But it left Millie with nothing much to do. True, she’d never been given to housework and the place in London had usually been a mess, but here she felt a need to occupy herself, if only with housework or a bit of cooking. Now that even this was denied her, she felt it. She was bored.

And all these parties – she’d been brought up to simpler things. Her idea of enjoying herself had been going to the pub with friends or to the pictures a couple of times a week. Then they’d been silent films. She’d only seen a couple of talkies before Race came into all that money and spoiled her life.

Yes, she missed going to the pictures every Tuesday and Friday night. She missed the Saturday matinees at The People’s Palace or the Palladium up West. She missed sitting in the local of an evening with a few half pints of stout, with friends of her own sort who knew how to enjoy themselves, joining in a sing-song, all the old tunes. Then popping into the fried fish shop on the way home for a tuppenny bit of cod and a penn’orth of chips, eating it out of newspaper, trying to read the oil-soaked print as she did so, fingers all greasy, the acrid tang of vinegar assailing her nostrils – eating it off a plate came nowhere near the same joy – or buying a plate of cockles or whelks from the cockle stall outside the pub itself, swapping rude jokes while they sprinkled salt and pepper and vinegar over the chewy, juicy shellfish. Later, having married, she and her friends would pop into each other’s houses for a cuppa and a natter and talk about their husbands.