War Damage (24 page)

twenty-five

R
EGINE DRESSED AS CAREFULLY
as ever for her December Sunday, the first since Freddie's death. One had to keep up appearances, even if the effect desired was a slightly unconventional one. Yet the very phrase ‘keeping up appearances' had developed a sinister undertone, as if she were performing an act. Appearances might change; she might be a different person underneath. She might not be at all the person she pretended to be.

And of course, she wasn't. Wasn't
really
– at least legally – Mrs Neville Milner. She was a bigamist. She was a fraud. She was Mrs Eugene Smith – and probably not even that, for the name Eugene Smith was likely another fiction.

She'd lied to herself as well, pretending the first few times that she was just doing Eugene a kindness, that he'd had a hard time, that she somehow owed him something, that she should return all the favours he'd done her long ago – the passport, the place on the ship out of Shanghai – and in her turn help him to get away to Ireland.

Only he hadn't gone to Ireland. He wanted more and more – as anyone could have told her he would.

It was sinister and uncanny, the way he'd guessed, the way he
knew
she had it. There it had been, so slyly and seductively coiled in the box among Freddie's cuff links. She hadn't meant to take it. She'd just picked it up for a moment, to pass the beads through her fingers like a rosary. Then somehow it had slipped into her bag.

After all, it was hers. Only it wasn't. She thought back to those last hectic days in Shanghai and that evening, the last time she'd seen him. And it was true – he'd mentioned the necklace; he'd told her to leave it behind.

On the whole she'd planned to ignore that instruction. Yet if it was so valuable, why hadn't Eugene been there to make sure it was still in the flat? Something had happened – he'd had to go away, another of his business trips … But the decision, to take or leave the necklace, didn't arise, because when she came to pack, she couldn't find it. It wasn't there. She'd been in a hurry then, hadn't time to make a proper search.

Freddie could have found it after she'd left. Yet she had to admit he might have taken it at the first opportunity. She'd shown it to him. He might have understood, which she didn't then, how valuable it was. She'd been so careless of things in those days, so heedless. You couldn't blame Freddie – if that's what he'd done.

Yet it seemed like a betrayal. At the very least it was a deception, a cheap ploy. He'd exploited her thoughtless naivety.

Now that she'd made the terrible mistake of quarrelling with Neville, of breaking the unspoken pact, the
arrangement
– his illusion that she shared his fantasy – the necklace had become important. She'd been a fool to alienate him like that, at the very time she needed him most. He was still angry and
hurt
. He sulked. She knew she should have abased herself. She should have been a clever wife and created a situation in which he could punish her, take his belt to her arse so he could get his erection. Somehow she couldn't. She'd stopped pretending. She'd destroyed the illusion, that she was asking for it, and it couldn't be recreated. She'd rejected his fantasy; and if the marriage that after all wasn't a marriage had really been based on that – her whole future was thrown into question.

If only Freddie had been there. He'd have known what to do; except that her trust in Freddie had also gone. It hadn't sunk in, when she first found the jade, but he'd deceived her. Whatever had happened in the flat in Shanghai, he'd had the necklace all along and he'd never told her. He'd kept it. He'd effectively lied to her.

As she chose her old bottle-green dress – lengthened with navy blue insets in the skirt to make it more New Look – and fastened her amber and coral and ivory necklaces (but not the jade, of course not the jade) round her neck, she was not looking forward to her Sunday afternoon. On this damp, dingy December day she almost hoped no one would come.

She found Ian Roxburgh in the library with Neville. They looked up, startled, from their contemplation of a barrel-shaped vase, which stood on the desk. With its dull, pearly, undecorated grey glaze it looked far more modern than Neville's other Chinese ornaments with their multicoloured flowers and figures, but she had a feeling it was much older.

‘Isn't that someone at the door?' said Neville.

As she left the room, he was saying to Roxburgh, ‘The museum couldn't possibly … and I couldn't really afford …'

Phil had opened the door to Charles. ‘Oh, it's you. How lovely,' she cried with false brightness. ‘Is your mother with you? Is she coming too?'

‘I want to talk to you—'

Another knock on the door interrupted him. He followed Phil into the dining room.

This time it was Noel with a young woman in tow, the kind of girl Regine thought of as arty tarty, in narrow black slacks and black polo neck sweater, to which her bleached hair and scarlet lipstick made a striking contrast. The Wentworths were close behind. The afternoon was under way. If anything, more guests than usual traipsed up the path, but Regine sensed something was wrong with the atmosphere – or perhaps it was just with her. She felt febrile and jittery. It wouldn't do for a hostess to be depressed or anxious, but as usual her guests were too preoccupied with themselves, their projects and their social triumphs, to notice anything wrong with Regine.

‘I'm Jeannette,' said Noel's new girlfriend. ‘Why do people give these boring parties? Have you been dragged along too? Isn't it awful, they're all talking shop, I might as well not be here.'

‘Let me get you a drink, that'll make you feel better,' said Regine, stifling her fury, and led the girl into the dining room, where Charles, leaning against the sideboard, looked a bit squiffy already, thoroughly debauched in fact. He was deep in conversation with Phil and ignored the two women.

Regine was feeling so tense that she considered retreating to the bedroom to lie down for a few minutes, but as she came into the hall she almost bumped into Ian Roxburgh. His smile was foxier than ever. ‘Come into the library,' he said.

Neville had left and the vase wasn't there either.

‘You know, Regine, if your husband plays his cards right, he could be of enormous benefit to the museum. With my contacts I could put him in the way of some wonderful pieces. He's a cautious man, isn't he, but I thought you could persuade him … you see, now the war's over and things are getting back to normal, the museum will be able to increase their acquisitions once again. Of course money's in short supply, but I'm in a position to offer exceptionally favourable terms.' He smoothed the crisp frill of his moustache. ‘There's something else. It's about Freddie. I was wondering if you'd like to come over to the house sometime, to choose something to remember him by. He had so many lovely little objects … perhaps Mrs Hallam would like to come too as she was another great friend of his.'

‘That's very kind.' But Regine could hardly keep her bitter resentment from bursting out: that this stranger should have such rights, when she was excluded.

‘There were also one or two things I need to discuss with you about Freddie's will. Perhaps it might be a better idea if we meet at my office? Why don't I take you to lunch? Neville says you're at home on your own in the day. You must get lonely. And you really are the loveliest woman I've met since I've been back in London.'

‘Oh, nonsense, Ian.'

‘Do say you'll have lunch. We've so much to talk about – you know, about Freddie.'

Curiosity won out. ‘That would be lovely.'

In the dining room arty-tarty Jeannette had sidled up to Charles and was trying to flirt with him. Moving towards the window, Roxburgh said in a low voice, ‘Boys like that – you can see why Freddie raved about his beauty, but in a few years' time he'll have over-ripened, like a rotten peach.'

‘What an extraordinary thing to say.'

‘Debauchery always shows in the end.'

In the drawing room Edith Blake was talking to Neville, another cause for alarm. God knows what Neville might say to her soon-to-be employer. When she reached her husband's elbow he was questioning the older woman about a memoir of the concentration camps, one of the first, but when Regine came alongside, he changed the subject. ‘So you've seduced my wife into working for you. I hope you're not going to give her a hard time. I hope you're not a strict disciplinarian.' Edith bridled slightly. ‘And what am I going to do without her? I need her here at home.'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Neville.'

‘But who's going to look after Cato?'

‘I've sorted all that out with Phil, darling.'

‘Cato must be a dog?' suggested Edith in a strained tone of voice, but the expression on her face changed as she looked beyond Regine's shoulder.

It was Vivienne. Edith's manner changed too, as she gripped the dancer's hand and gushed: ‘It is such a privilege to meet you, Mrs Evanskaya, I've long been a devoted admirer.'

Vivienne was paler than ever. ‘I'm Mrs Hallam now,' she said faintly. She walked up to Regine. ‘Is Charles here?'

‘Yes … he's somewhere about.'

‘I must talk to you. Where can we go? In the garden?'

‘It's raining.'

‘No it isn't. It's stopped.'

They stood outside. Rain dripped from the bushes and the trees. Vivienne looked quite ill.

‘The police called round to see us again. They asked John all these questions. As if they thought he was jealous of Freddie. And the thing is … John
was
terribly jealous, you know, because I wouldn't give up dancing. Even after Charles. Ballet dancers don't have children, he said. He was right! I was the only one! The company travelled a lot. I wasn't always in London. I think John even thought for a time that Charles might not be his. Of course that wasn't true. It was just his jealousy. Jealousy's such a terrible thing.'

‘I'm sure they don't suspect John!'

Vivienne was smoking frantically. ‘No, but – he was always jealous of Freddie, you know. But never mind about that. That's not what I've come about. It's –' She paused, then burst out: ‘I don't want you seeing Charles any more. There've been so many unhealthy influences – Arthur says – Arthur's been a tower of strength. But he … he told me some things about Freddie I hadn't realised. He's made me understand what Freddie was really like.'

‘Oh, Vivienne, we all know what Freddie was like.' Regine tried to speak lightly, but the woman seemed unhinged. Was everyone going mad? Freddie's death had blown everything apart.

The dancer frowned. ‘You encouraged Freddie, didn't you. You brought out the worst in him. So far as you were concerned all his excesses were just some kind of frivolous amusement.'

‘That's rather unfair, isn't it? You were close to him too.'

‘I might have been once. And anyway Arthur told me things. He showed me … He said it was his duty. I had to know.'

‘Know what? What did he show you?' Charles himself spoke from behind them. He must have stepped silently across the grass. ‘What are you doing out here in the wet and cold? I'm leaving, if you don't mind, Regine. I'm sorry not to stay longer, but we're reading a Jacobean play at school and I have to prepare one of the parts.' He looked a bit drunk. ‘It's about a woman who plots to be rid of her husband so she can marry her lover. She has this hideous servant, de Flores. De Flores agrees to poison the husband, because he's mad about her. But he only commits the murder so he can make her sleep with him in return; a kind of blackmail. The irony is, she ends up infatuated with him, in spite of his having killed her husband and more or less raped her.' His gaze moved between them.

His pale face … a rotten peach … but peaches weren't white … would he decay … Freddie's fingers bruising the flesh, his body crushing the marble limbs …

‘One doesn't talk about such things,' cried Vivienne. ‘And it sounds most unsuitable for a school play. I shall speak to Arthur!'

‘I don't think that'll get you very far.' There was a sneer in his voice.

‘Do stay a bit longer, Charles.' But he wasn't listening, he was staring at his mother.

Cato bounded from the house barking hysterically. He must somehow have escaped from the prison of the boxroom. Released into the garden, he leapt on his hind legs ecstatically, trying to embrace Vivienne, who recoiled with a shriek, stumbling backwards and lurching into her son who only just managed to remain upright himself.

Regine dragged Cato away by his collar. ‘Bad dog! Bad boy!' She jostled him upstairs, pushed him back into the boxroom and slammed the door. His furious barks echoed through the house, then he began to whine and cry, which was even worse.