The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets (12 page)

‘No,’ I
confessed, ‘but I’ve seen her in the magazines.’

‘She’s
not a very nice person,’ said Harry. ‘She’s like a fox — she kills for the hell
of it. It’s like being in a terrible motor accident — one never imagines that it’s
something that might actually happen to you.

‘Where
did you meet her?’

‘The
Jazz Café.’ Harry picked up a silver cigarette box from the bedside table. ‘Oh,
it’s engraved. How touching.
To my dearest Lindsay with all my love Sarah.
Who
are they, please?’

‘Oh,
Great-Aunt Sarah,’ I muttered impatiently. ‘I never knew her.’ Now was not the
time to get into
that
story. ‘So you met at the Jazz Cafe?’ I prompted
him.
Marijuana, espressos and jazz, oh my!
I thought.

‘She
was talking to a friend of mine,’ went on Harry. ‘This guy from school I’d
never liked but I went up and said hello anyway. He introduced me to Marina and
that was it. The spell was cast. For a whole month we met every night — but I
never once saw her during the day. Well, it never seemed strange to me at the
time, but it
was,
of course. You have to see your lover during the day
at some point, don’t you? Otherwise the whole thing remains a dream. Perhaps
that’s what she wanted.’ He stared at me, as if he had only just considered
this. ‘She was absolutely hooked on magic,’ he went on, ‘and she never wanted
me to explain how I had done anything. She said that nothing in her life ever
surprised her any more except for watching me. And I’m a sucker for that sort
of flattery —everyone is, aren’t they? — so I carried on trying to surprise
her. I got addicted to the way her eyes lit up at the end of a trick. She knew
so many people — Americans, Italian counts, Indian princesses — and they would
crowd round the table to watch me. I suppose I got addicted to that, too, idiot
that I am. At the end of every night I drove her back to her parents’ place.
She never invited me in.

‘Why
not?’ I asked stupidly.

‘I wasn’t
exactly what they had in mind for Marina. She never said, but she didn’t need
to. But she liked me, I know that much. I was uncharted territory for her.’

‘Why?
Because you were a magician?’

‘Oh no!’
Harry grinned at me. ‘Because I was poor, of course. Rich girls always go
through a phase of lusting after men with no money. Haven’t you?’

I
flushed. His directness unnerved me. ‘I’m not rich,’ I said pertly.

Harry
looked at me as though I was mad. ‘Anyway, all this was six months ago now,’ he
said. ‘Just when I realised that I was in it up to my neck, she told me she
couldn’t see me any more.

‘In
what up to your neck?’

‘Love,
sweetheart. Love.’

‘Oh
that.
I see what you mean,’ I said, sounding absurd. ‘How did she tell you?’

‘Oh,
the usual. She cried a lot, as girls do, and told me that I would be better off
without her — which is true — then a couple of months later I pick up the paper
and read that she’s engaged to George Rogerson. The least magical man on the
planet.’

‘Why is
she marrying him then?’

‘He’s
loaded and has lots of important friends. I hear he’s a wonder on the golf
course. Irresistible, don’t you think?’

‘So why
did you go to dinner with them the other day? Wouldn’t it be easier not to see
her, to try to forget her?’

Harry
sat down on the bed and offered me a cigarette from Aunt Sarah’s silver box. I
had filled the box earlier that day so at least I knew they were fresh. It
wouldn’t do to refuse one; I could see that Harry wanted me to join him.

‘Thank
you,’ I said, taking one.

‘I
had
to see her with him,’ he explained, flicking open his lighter for me, ‘even
if it was only to make sure it was really happening. She sat at the other end
of the table giving me these odd looks. I couldn’t make out what she was trying
to say.

‘Couldn’t
you — I don’t know — turn George Rogerson into a toad, or something?’ I asked.

‘I
thought of that. But then of course someone else got there before me.

I
giggled.

‘I’m
going to get her back,’ he said calmly.

‘How?’

Harry
stood up and wandered over to the window. From the back, I could see that the
ends of his trousers had been trodden down by the heels of his shoes. He looked
as though he could have done with a Selfridges session with Mama. Yet for all
his dishevelled appearance, he remained peculiarly stylish. He was, like
Charlotte, the sort of person who could wear a cardboard box and make it look
right.

‘Well,
it’s like this,’ he said. ‘There’s one characteristic Marina has that she could
never hide whenever we were together — her Achilles heel, if you like. I want
to play on it until she breaks. Use it until she comes back to me.

‘What
is it?’ I asked, imagining Marina with a fearful stutter or an inability to
read.

‘Jealousy,’
said Harry. ‘The green-eyed monster. She could never relax when other women
were around. She used to say that if she ever saw me with another girl, she’d
curl up and die.’

‘And
you
want
her to do that? She wouldn’t be much use to you dead.’

He
looked surprised by my insolence and frowned. ‘What she meant is that she’d
find it very hard to take,’ he said as though speaking to a small child. ‘Do
you understand? She needs to think that I’ve moved on, that I’ve found someone
even more fascinating and thrilling than her.’ He inhaled very deeply. ‘Good
God, it’s an English smoke, of course. How stupid of me. Wills, is it?’ he said
lightly, opening the window and crushing it to a’ pulp on the virginal snow on
the window pane.

‘I’m
sorry,’ I said.

‘It’s
all right. I would never have noticed that sort of thing before I met Marina.
She taught me the most infuriating habits that I just can’t shake. I can’t
smoke anything but Lucky Strike, I can’t sleep without a dose of Southern
Comfort, I call men “guys” and I have this awful suspicion that without the Americans
we might not have won the war. It’s hell, I tell you.’

I
laughed, though I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to. Harry grinned and
carried on talking. ‘But what does that matter? The point is that when
Charlotte turned up at tea with you in tow, I just knew you were the one.
Everything about you — it’s perfect. Your height, your hair, your house. All
three fit together to make the perfect nightmare.’

‘Hang
on a minute! I don’t think I know what you mean,’ I spluttered.

‘You
can help me, Penelope.’

‘What
on earth are you talking about?’ I asked suspiciously, picturing myself
sideways in a wooden box, about to be sawn in two.

Harry
stretched out his arm and pulled something out of his suitcase. It was a large
cream envelope with Harry’s name on the front. ‘Open it,’ he said, handing it
to me.

I
pulled out a thick piece of card. It was an invitation.

Mr
and Mrs Hamilton request the pleasure of your company at a party to celebrate
George and Marina’s engagement,
I read.
7p.m.
Dorset House, W1. Carriages at dawn. Cocktails and dancing. 3 December.
‘Gosh!
That’s in two weeks’ time!’ I handed it back to him. ‘Well, I hope you have a
good time.

Harry
shoved the envelope back into his bag. ‘You’ll do it, won’t you?’ he asked
softly. He didn’t look at me this time; he kept his eyes to the floor and his
hair fell forward as he waited for my reaction. I took my time before speaking
again because I still wasn’t quite sure what to say.

‘So you
want me to go with you, to get her to realise how much she really loves you?’ I
asked slowly.

‘Something
like that. You know, you’re just the sort of girl she would
really
hate,’
said Harry with feeling.

‘Charmed,’
I said icily. I wasn’t at all sure about this boy. First, what he was
suggesting seemed ridiculous. And rude. And thrilling. Second, he had found one
of his own wretched American cigarettes in his coat pocket and was using the
silver cup I had won for Best Cleaned Tack aged nine as an ashtray.

‘She
can’t stand tall, blonde girls like you — and you’re younger than her, too. If
anyone’s going to get her back up, you’re the one to do it. That’s what I
thought when I first saw you. You were just too perfect for the job.’

I
opened my mouth to say that it was an extraordinary idea and really, who on
earth did he think he was, rolling up to my house and asking me to go around
pretending to be madly in love with him, but I was interrupted by Inigo yelling
up the stairs that there was a bat in the library, and could I come and deal
with it? Off I went, leaving Harry hanging.

Although I am adept at
getting bats out of a house, it took quite some time to rid the library of this
one. Rushing upstairs and changing for dinner at breakneck speed to avoid
freezing to death, I felt strange knowing that Charlotte and Harry were in the
house too. I had imagined the moment of their arrival ever since I had replaced
the phone to Charlotte ten days ago and had pictured myself chic in my mother’s
scent, drifting downstairs carrying a vase of flowers or a small pile of
relevant books, while Mary opened the door to them both and took their coats.
As it happened, Mary seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth, Inigo
had made a fool of me and I had been caught out in a knitted cardigan with a
huge hole under the arm.

I sat
down on my bed and stared out of the window, thinking of Harry and Marina
Hamilton in the Jazz Café (which required quite a lot of imagination as I had
never been to the place myself, nor had I ever even drunk an espresso), and
wondering if this was one of those Key Moments in life where you are offered a
chance to do something out of the ordinary that will mean nothing is Ever The
Same Again. I wondered if he had said anything to Charlotte about his idea —
perhaps it was her suggestion? If I was entirely honest with myself, there was
a greater proportion of me that was flattered and excited to be asked to help
Harry than there was irritated by the idea. Yet extending that honesty further,
this excitement came much more from the possibility of seeing Dorset House
again and attending a truly marvellous American-style party than it did from
spending time with Harry. Perhaps Johnnie would be there, I thought, then
scolded myself for being so silly. It was starting to get dark now; the
branches of the lime trees at the top of the drive glowed ghostly pale. The
snowfall had altered the scenery for our weekend, had opened up more
possibilities, made memories of it before the first nightfall. I would take
Charlotte to meet Banjo tomorrow. I smudged on the tiniest bit of lipstick and
slid into my new Selfridges shoes. They were already bitterly uncomfortable. My
mother was always talking about ‘wearing shoes in’, but what she really meant
was breaking through the pain barrier so that you no longer notice how much
they are pinching. I wondered how she was, and whether she was regretting her
hasty exit from Magna.

‘Snow
on snow,’ I muttered to myself.

‘Are
you ever coming down?’ yelled Inigo.

I
wobbled dangerously in my heels and thought how lost the effect would be now
that my guests had seen me at my scruffiest. I paused for a moment, then kicked
them off and pulled on my usual scuffed red flats. Racing down the stairs,
three at a time, I forgot about carrying flowers and looking intellectual and
smelling grown up. There would never be any point in pretending in front of
Charlotte. What’s more, I thought wryly, Harry was a magician so he was always
going to be able to see through me.

Charlotte
was sitting by the gramophone in the drawing room, changed into black trousers
and a thick white jersey. She had pulled the sleeves down over her hands.

‘You
got my requests then,’ she said with a grin.

‘What?’

‘Snowfall
and forty-fives.’

I could
put up with Harry, I thought, as long as it meant I could spend more time with
Charlotte.

Chapter
6