The Factory Girl (41 page)

There had never been anything like it, not for him, not even in that first flush of love for Geraldine. It had been Diana, with her beautiful, shapely, naked body wrapped around him. Those breasts, once free of the restrictions of the fashionable, flattening bra bursting onto his naked chest and burying his face to almost smother him, as she had transported him into the realms of ecstacy. So it had gone on, going to this hotel and that, stolen hours when he'd told Geraldine he'd been playing cards all night or had been sweltering at his smelter alone in the barn of the derelict farmhouse on the marshes, or had been talking business into the early hours. He'd always make sure to be home before dawn unless he could use the excuse of being too far from home to get back, as he had done this morning. But this morning something must have alarmed Geraldine. Was it something someone might have said to her?

He'd been very careful in the past, but there was always someone with a nose too long for their face, always the chance of a slip-up. There had been a couple of times when he'd been stupid enough to let himself be seen with Di when Geraldine hadn't been with him. Now and again he'd noticed the raised eyebrows and had vowed to be more careful, keep his eyes from wandering too often to Diana, stop appearing too attentive; but being absolutely head over heels with her, it was difficult, he wasn't the best of liars, had convinced himself that it was probably his imagination, that he would never be found out so long as he remained careful and that the odd glance wouldn't matter.

Then only a few weeks ago Paula had made a flippant remark loud enough to carry across an entire room as she was wont to do when she'd had a few, always enjoying the act of seeing someone ill at ease in any sticky situation, that there was a handy bedroom in her house he and Di could use if they felt that strong about each other. She'd quipped that if Gerry were to see them making eyes at each other, she'd be after him with a hot iron for his private bits and that'd cure him of his habit!

Surely being seen with Di Manners on occasions wouldn't have been enough to cause evil tittle-tattle. But Geraldine must have caught wind or why was she behaving like this, staring at him as if she knew every last thing that had been going on. He dared not let his fears show.

‘What's the matter with you, darling?' he blustered as she continued to bar his way. ‘I said I was sorry not getting home last night. What else can I say?'

Geraldine half turned as if to walk off but then turned viciously back. ‘No, Tony, I want to know where you really were last night, and who with.'

‘Who with?' He tried to sound aggrieved but his voice sounded squeaky. ‘What the hell are you talking about? I was with some business people. I know you're not always happy about those I associate with, but I don't see you shying away from the money it brings in, the good times I give you, the holidays, all this.'

He flung his arms wide to encompass the luxurious, art deco bedroom furniture, the fine furnishing, the two original paintings on the wall, the silky Chinese carpet, her dressing table with its litter of gold bracelets, rings, necklaces, earrings, expensive perfumes, his with its ivory-backed brushes.

She hadn't even blinked, thrusting aside his counter argument. ‘Tell me who it was you spent the night with.'

It was he who blinked before rage overtook him, rage borne of fear. ‘Blast you! Are you accusing me of going with another woman, of having it off with some tart or other?'

‘You could say tart.' Her tone was cold, like ice, and as unbreakable – not even fractured by tears. ‘I definitely say tart. That's what she is.'

‘Who're you talking about?'

‘You know who I'm talking about.' Her voice was beginning to shake a little. Perhaps if she broke down he could go to her, pull her towards him, cuddle her to him. He could tell her, soothingly, that she was a just being a silly, imaginative little fool, and she would melt into his arms, crying gently on his shoulder, and soon all would be well again. What vain hope.

Her voice pierced those hopes like a spike through a cotton sheet. ‘It was Cynthia who told me. She said everyone but me knew about it …'

‘How could Cynthia have known, the bloody vindictive gossip! And you're an idiot to take notice of what she said.'

Too late he realised that he had lain himself wide open by a few simple, unconsidered words. Even as he had blustered on he knew he had inadvertently revealed more than intended, what he'd said screaming out confirmation rather than denial. Geraldine instantly picked up on it.

‘
How could Cynthia have known?
' she echoed. ‘I take that to mean she knows and you're not sure how she could. Is that it?'

‘Don't be ridiculous.' He had no time to think what else to say. ‘You know what she's like. And you're a fool to take notice of damned wicked rumours like that.'

‘Am I?' It was a challenge more than a question, said so quietly and for no reason it promptly promoted something akin to panic inside him.

‘You're bloody mad!' he yelled at her. ‘What d'you think I am? I'm not standing for this!'

Leaping towards her, he swept her aside with one arm so viciously that she fell against the wall as he raced on past her. Flinging open the door of the flat he tore downstairs to the shop below, in his haste almost missing a step and taking a tumble. It took ages to calm down enough to unlock the shop door in preparation for the day, praying that no customer would detect the sick thumping in his chest as they looked into his passive face. But then, customers hardly ever looked at the one behind the counter, even when asking about something outrageously expensive.

It was an awful half-hour, he expecting her to follow and continue her accusations. When she didn't appear, he spent the time until Mr Bell came at nine, hardly able to apply his mind to anything other than making all sorts of contingencies against whatever might now raise its ugly head, dreaming up excuses to vindicate the mess he'd obviously but innocently, he told himself, got into. He almost deluded himself into believing that he was the wronged one, the falsely accused, the one who ought ultimately to be begged forgiveness once Geraldine came to see how misguided she'd been to listen to idle gossip.

When Bell did arrive, he yapped at him that he had to go out and to mind the place, and with that jammed his trilby on his head, flung on his coat and fled, glad to be out of danger. In the car he furiously pushed the throttle, stamped on the accelerator. The vehicle roared into life and swept down Bond Street in the direction of Knightsbridge and the apartment where Diana would be, most likely sleeping off their night of passion.

Some time went by before Geraldine felt able to move from the spot where she had been pushed by Tony's retreating arm. She stood against the open door as if needing its support.

The truth now glared at her. It must have begun soon after Egypt. All this time – two years, two whole years and she'd had no inkling. Those times he'd been away on his so-called business he'd been with her, Di Manners. How could she have been such a fool as not to ever suspect what was going on? He'd even had the disgusting cheek to come home here to make love to her. It made her feel sick thinking of him inside that woman then inside her. Her stomach suddenly heaved making her fling herself away from the door and rush to the bathroom, but little came up except bile as she crouched over the toilet. Pouring a glass of water to wash away the taste, she went into the kitchen, automatically putting on the kettle for a cup of tea.

As she stood waiting for it to boil, slow anger began to consume her. His parting shot as he'd flung open the door to leave had been to bellow, ‘So what're you going to do about it?' but not even waiting for her reply.

The anger was like a coldness rather than heat, induced by not being able to reply what she was indeed going to do about it.

Questions – she could divorce him for adultery, a long and painful business, her name dragged around her society friends, her family with their inevitable I-told-you-so attitude, the humility of proclaiming herself the betrayed wife, it all following her around like a ghastly shadow.

She could keep quiet, say nothing, endure in silence, hope that one day he'd tire of his lover and come back to her. Would she still want him then? Did she still want him now despite everything? That was a hard question. Not easy to shrug away love that until a few days ago had felt so strong, so enduring, so comfortable. But her marriage was broken and did she really want to mend it at all costs or would she be prepared to see it go?

Tony's words as he left the flat had thrown down the gauntlet, she could either put up with it, fight for him or divorce him. Was it the third option he was really looking for, freedom to marry Di Manners? It was that thought which decided her. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. It was only later that the thought came that, divorced, she'd be free to marry Alan. He'd said he was in love with her. But did that include marriage? He had proved himself to be a confirmed bachelor since his own divorce, a once-bitten twice-shy attitude. Otherwise he would have suggested she divorce her husband and marry him. And he hadn't, had he?

It was then there came a fourth option. With no one to turn to who could truly offer her sanctuary, not Mum, not Alan, certainly not her society friends, this fourth idea came like the opening of a door onto bright sunlight. Revenge.

How easily she could wreak revenge on him, he with his underhanded dealings, he on the wrong side of the law most of the time. When she'd asked him to be careful he had so many times taunted her with all it bought her – fashionable clothes, the fine jewellery, the good times, the fabulous holidays and great parties, her comfortable home; had flayed her with her own greed. But not any more. To get back at him now she would walk the gutters. To see him brought down after blatantly taking her for a fool with his affair was now her main aim. She'd come to mean nothing to him and he hadn't even had the decency to tell her so, or even to cease making love to her between making love to Diana Manners. He was vile, filthy and he sickened her.

Again the bile rose in her throat making her fight to control it. Yes, all she wanted was to pay him out. But how? To shop him, that was how.

Her mind in a turmoil, still in shock, but slowly beginning to think straight at last, she took the now boiled kettle off the hob and with purely automatic movements began to make herself some tea.

The interior of Charing Cross Police Station struck dim to eyes that a moment earlier had battled with bright if chilly sunshine. With her heart stifling her by its thump-thump against her ribcage, Geraldine approached the desk as the middle-aged constable behind it looked up.

‘Yes madam?' he enquired, and when she continued to regard him dumbly, added, ‘Can I 'elp you, madam?'

‘I … yes, I think so,' she stammered. How to explain? What did she think she was doing anyway? But then a vision assailed her of Di Manners with her bare legs wrapped about Tony's body. This was her revenge.

‘I want to report … my husband receives stolen goods, has been doing it for years and … and I want to report him. He's …'

The man didn't even blink, reached for a form and looked at her, pen poised. ‘What's the name, madam?'

‘Tony … Anthony Hanford, he …' She paused seeing the man begin to write.

‘And this is your husband. You are Mrs Hanford. Christian name?'

‘Do you need my name?' she asked, panic beginning to mount.

The question was ignored ‘You're saying he's a receiver of stolen goods?'

‘I—' She broke off, fear taking hold. She couldn't do this. ‘Look, it don't matter.' Fear broke down her grammar. ‘I shouldn't of come here. I made a mistake.'

The man was now blinking rapidly, obviously thinking her mad. ‘This is a serious crime you're reporting, y'know. I must make out the report, madam. I can't just let it go, y'know.' He was beginning to look stern. ‘We can't 'ave people walkin' in off the streets saying their 'usband's a criminal – that's what you're saying, isn't it, madam? – and then saying it don't matter, they've made a mistake.'

‘Yes, I understand, but—'

‘Do you know if your 'usband works with a known criminal gang?' He was now giving her an amiable smile. ‘Do you know any of their names?'

‘Yes, but … No, please, I'm sorry.' Realising what she was getting herself into, she began backing away. ‘I don't know what got into me.'

Seconds later she had turned and bolted from the building, hurrying away until lack of breath forced her to stop. She was shaking and despite the chill air, her forehead under the cloche hat was damp with sweat. Her hands were too, under the gloves she wore. She tried to think but nothing would come; tried to think of what to do but again nothing came into her head.

People were looking at her in a strange way, or was it merely her imagination? The thought of revenge was one thing, carrying it out was entirely another. And still she couldn't stop the trembling, as if her very blood and nerves were jiggering about of their own accord.

One thought began to penetrate her muddled mind. That was to run to Alan. He would help her to calm down. He'd probably tell her that no harm would come of her actions, the police wouldn't investigate such flimsy information from an apparently distraught woman – not even an address given, she remembered. He'd tell her not to worry. But she needed
him
to tell her that even though she had already come to those conclusions on her own. At this moment she wanted Alan more than she'd ever wanted anyone in her whole life.

Collecting her wits, she hailed a passing vacant taxi, waited for it to rumble to a stop at the kerbside and got in, giving the address of Alan's place of business.

The man at the desk watched the departing woman narrowly. Even after she had gone he continued to stare at the exit, his eyes still narrowed to slits, the amiable smile he'd presented to her having faded to leave the lips to form a contorted, contemplative, almost malevolent slit in those square features.