Worst Fears (13 page)

“I’ve come to take Diamond for a walk,” Jenny Linden said. She brushed past Alexandra and went through to the kitchen. She unlocked the utility room door, apparently accustomed to the difficulty with the lock—you had to push before you pulled—and called Diamond. Diamond staggered out, fresh from sleep, and seeing Jenny, leapt up at her, instantly expectant.

“Walkies,” said Jenny Linden.

“Get out of my house,” said Alexandra.

“Please can’t we be friends?” asked Jenny Linden, pathetically. “I hate you being so hostile to me. If I meet aggression I go completely to pieces. We’ve both of us lost Ned. I’m holding on by a thread. Please be nice to me.”

“No,” said Alexandra.

Jenny Linden began to turn nasty. Her voice went even softer.

“But I made Ned happy,” she said, “in the last days, his last hours, while you were off in London with Eric Stenstrom. But you don’t care about that, you only care about yourself. You don’t know what love is.”

“You’re polluting my house,” said Alexandra. “Get out of it.”

“You’re so self-centred,” said Jenny Linden. “I used to defend you but I see now Ned was quite right. And where’s Sascha? Don’t tell me you’ve just shuffled him off again? Is he with your mother? The Romanoff of the Golf Course? That’s what Ned always called her. Not even him being dead makes a dent in you, does it? The gloss is so hard. You ought to have treatment, Alexandra. You’re not fit to be in charge of that child.”

“I don’t know where you get all this information,” said Alexandra, “but it certainly wasn’t from Ned. It’s all just sleazy gabble, and evil. As for Eric Stenstrom, he’s gay, and everyone knows it.”

“That’s not what Ned said,” positively whispered Jenny Linden. “And why are you so defensive? Are you feeling guilty or something? I’m really sorry for you, Alexandra. You must be feeling ever so bad. I expect what happened is that you were in bed with your Eric when Ned died in my arms.”

“It won’t work,” said Alexandra. “You’re not going to lure me into any kind of discussion about anything. Just go away or I’ll call the police.”

“I’d have a thing or two to tell them,” said Jenny Linden. “Call away.” Alexandra lifted her hand to strike the other woman, but Diamond growled. Diamond growled at Alexandra. Alexandra’s hand fell. “Diamond knows the truth of it,” said Jenny Linden, smiling a smug little smile, her plump bottom in its dreadful skirt wedged against the Ludds’ kitchen table. “Diamond knows what you’re like. Animals always know. When you want to talk to me, Alexandra, in a calm and friendly way, you know where to find me. Ned brought you round to visit me in my studio once. I was rather flustered; I hadn’t expected it. He and I had only been out of bed about twelve hours. Well, twelve hours and twenty minutes. I was still sore. Ned could be quite vigorous, couldn’t he? Perhaps he wasn’t when he was with you: he said I was the only one really turned him on. Don’t believe me if you don’t want to. It’s true.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“We’d had this argument: he said you were so insensitive to atmosphere you’d never even guess: I said I didn’t believe that, you were an actress: he said actresses were as thick between the ears as they were between the legs.”

“Actors,” said Alexandra, automatically.

“So he brought you round to my place, took me by surprise, and he was right, you didn’t notice a thing. Not even when we went out together to look at photographs and you stayed behind and stroked Marmalade and looked bored. He was right about that too. You can do a lot in three minutes if you’re really turned on; if it’s dangerous.”

“My mother had a marmalade cat,” said Alexandra. It seemed her mind could only react to detail.

“Marmalade’s one of her kittens,” said Jenny Linden. “Ned gave him to me. Why did you take my photographs away? Ned liked me to have them. It doesn’t make any difference. I’ve got lots more and they’re there in my heart anyway. Sealed in memory. You can’t take that away from me. And Mrs. Paddle told me: you made copies of my diary, and address book. I was angry at first: not now. It just keeps you closer to me. Connected, like. We’ll be friends in the end. We’re part of each other, through Ned. I think you ought to try and be nice to me. I can make life a whole lot nastier for you if I choose.”

“Piss off” said Alexandra.

Jenny Linden smiled at Alexandra. This time Alexandra hit her: a hard slap on the cheek. Jenny wailed and ran off, a dumpy little thing pottering on too small feet. Alexandra hoped she would overbalance. Then Alexandra would jump on Jenny Linden and kick her to death. But Jenny kept going. Diamond, suspecting a game, leapt and barked around her legs. Then Hamish was standing beside Alexandra, his hand on her arm. He was wearing only pyjama bottoms. His torso was bare, fluffy with blond hair. His shoulders were broader than Ned’s. Perhaps, unlike Ned—at least with Alexandra—Hamish favoured the missionary position, thus strengthening the forearms.

“Just let Jenny go,” said Hamish. “She’s very upset. The whole thing must have been traumatic. And no understanding at all from you, which is what the poor woman needs. You’re behaving very badly towards her: in your situation it’s not wise.”

“What situation and what about what I need?” asked Alexandra.

“It’s hard for women when their married lovers die,” said Hamish, piously. “Rightly or wrongly, the widow has the sympathy of the world: surely you could afford to spare a little for her?”

E
VERYONE WHO WAS ANYONE
called that morning, by phone or in person.

Three people got through from the theatre: one to say Daisy Longriff was wonderful, Alexandra shouldn’t worry; two others to say Daisy Longriff was perfectly dreadful, Alexandra shouldn’t worry. She mustn’t come back to work until she was beginning to mend. They were all thinking of her. There was no matinee on Monday so most would come down to the funeral. But perhaps there’d be a memorial service in London later?

The postman came to the door and wept a little and said he missed Ned’s smiling face. He was a thin young man with cropped red hair and a little red moustache. He usually called before eight and Ned seldom smiled before ten, and least of all did Ned ever smile at the postman, whom he suspected of dropping letters behind hedges if it didn’t suit him to deliver them. But forget that; think the best. Alexandra made the postman a cup of tea. He asked for more sugar than she provided. He said if Ned’s shoes were going spare he could do with them. Alexandra picked a pair out of the cupboard and handed them over. It was true they were expensive shoes and nearly new: but she had to be practical, as did the postman. Not that the postman did much walking: he had a van.

The postman sat in Ned’s chair and took off his own shoes, which were indeed battered, and put on Ned’s. They fitted well. Then he asked Alexandra where the bin was and threw his old shoes in it. He went away in Ned’s shoes, pleased as Punch, having won some kind of final victory. Diamond growled, but did not bite.

The
Mail
, the
Express
and the
Telegraph
called to say they didn’t want to intrude into private grief, at which Alexandra put down the phone.

The Sun
called to say they wanted to send flowers to the funeral, when was it? “Such a fine critic, such a loss to the theatrical profession.” Alexandra laughed before she put down the phone.

Dr. Moebius left a message to ask Alexandra to call to see him, and please could she put Mrs. Linden in touch: Mrs. Linden wasn’t answering her phone.

Sheldon Smythe called for Hamish. Hamish took the call in the other room. I’m the wife, thought Alexandra; he’s only the brother. But it seemed men liked to deal with men.

The postman who took Ned’s shoes had left letters: coloured square envelopes, handwritten, instead of the long white ones which usually came. Alexandra glanced through a few of them, letters and cards of condolence. How wonderful Ned was, how charismatic; their hearts went out to Alexandra. They meant it, too. She was grateful, even while beginning to consider their judgements faulty. But then she herself was apparently without judgement and noticed nothing, so what had she to complain about? Insensitive to atmosphere.

The Romanoff of the Golf Course. Ned had never described Irene thus in Alexandra’s hearing. She would have laughed if he had. Would Jenny Linden have the wit to make up such an epithet? It seemed unlikely. But she could have got it from Abbie, or Vilna, or anyone, who got it from Ned. It sounded like Ned. He’d just never said it to her.

“Marmalade”; a gift from Ned? No. Most likely simple chance: lots of orange cats in the world. And Ned, perhaps, on some innocent professional encounter with Jenny Linden, had happened to say, “My wife’s mother has a cat just like that,” thus enabling Jenny Linden to concoct her story.

Oh, clutching at straws!

T
HERESA CALLED AND DUSTED
round a bit, crying. She didn’t like doing housework, feeling she was employed to look after Sascha, but was always prepared to help out in an emergency.

Hamish came out of the study and asked Theresa to clear out the utility room, and put the dog’s blanket through the machine; so Theresa sulked and told Alexandra she could only stay till midday. Alexandra told Theresa that Hamish was from Scotland and was used to telling people what to do, Theresa was not to take it badly. “He talked to me as if I was a servant,” complained Theresa, but agreed to stay: she could do all the house except the utility room.

Alexandra herself put the blanket through the machine. Hamish was right. The blanket was thick with dog hair, and smelt of warm wet dog even when Diamond wasn’t in his basket. Diamond growled at Alexandra when she took the blanket away. Diamond was becoming more and more disaffected. He missed his routine, he missed Sascha, he missed Ned. Alexandra found herself mistrusting and almost disliking Diamond. The fact was, in going for walks with Jenny Linden, Diamond had betrayed her. Perhaps Alexandra wouldn’t keep Diamond, in spite of the fact that everyone obviously expected her to? Perhaps she would give him away? What sort of guard dog was he, anyway, who wouldn’t bark at a knock at half-past seven in the morning, but sleep until he was called? By Jenny Linden.

In the bottom of Diamond’s basket Alexandra found a chewed plastic bracelet—bright red. Not her own. Diamond cringed and looked guilty. Alexandra lifted the bracelet out and called Theresa and asked if it was hers. Theresa said it wasn’t hers though Alexandra was pretty sure it was. But why should Theresa lie?

Diamond took the bracelet under discussion in his mouth and went upstairs and stood outside the closed door of the master bedroom, and when Alexandra opened it went inside and laid the bracelet on the brass bed and stood with his head bowed in shame. It was Diamond’s habit thus to return chewed objects to the place of taking, when his misdemeanours were found out. Of course Diamond might have got it wrong, this time. Who was to say a dog had a perfect memory? Like humans, presumably they could get muddled.

Alexandra aimed a kick at Diamond: she couldn’t help it. Diamond yelped. Alexandra was instantly sorry and guilty. Diamond returned and licked her hand and growled. “Diamond’s guilt trip,” she and Ned would say. Diamond’s self-humbling made Alexandra squirm and Ned laugh.

Ned laughed a lot.

“It isn’t mine, honestly,” said Theresa. “Honestly. Cheap old thing. It might be Mrs. Linden’s, from the look of it.”

It didn’t seem in the least Jenny Linden’s style, though, not at all. And the “honestly” seemed wrong.

“I expect Mrs. Linden came here often,” said Alexandra, as casually as she could. “When I was away? She helped Mr. Ludd quite a lot with his work.”

Theresa was not deceived. All Alexandra did was to humiliate herself.

“She’d come to work with Mr. Ludd sometimes,” said Theresa. “They did those books together. But there wasn’t anything in it. I wouldn’t want you to think there was.”

“I should think there wasn’t!” said Alexandra. “Good Lord!”

“He loved you so much,” said Theresa, bursting into more tears: she was unrestrained in her weeping. “And you loved him, and now he’s gone. That poor little innocent boy, orphaned! It makes you think!”

“It does indeed,” said Alexandra, and left Theresa to weep alone. Even her tears seemed on a larger scale than the rest of humanity’s.

Hamish came out of the study and put his long thin arms round Theresa’s bulk to comfort her. She lay her giant’s head upon his shoulder, in trust. Ned would never have done that.

Of course guests sometimes used the master bedroom to leave their coats; at parties. The bracelet might have been pulled off with someone’s sleeve. Yes, that was it. Most things had a harmless explanation. The whole world, including Jenny Linden, could believe Ned was having an affair with Jenny Linden, and be wrong. Just as the whole world could believe she and Eric Stenstrom were having an affair, and be wrong.

Lately Alexandra had come to see her mind as a computer. It searched for distant and improbable connections. It took its time: what it was doing was difficult. There were not enough megabytes installed. The egg-timer that meant “wait, wait, I’m searching, I’ve got a problem” was nearly always up on screen these days, thwarting her.

Alexandra found that lately she’d blinked more than usual. The thoughts and ideas that came to her no longer drifted vaguely and easily here and there: each one had to be caught, translated into words, registered. Each registering was indicated by a blink. Information, blink. But she had to use some kind of mind keyboard to type in problems and propositions. Hours, even days later, conclusions were reached. One came to her now.

“How did Ned come to think I had some kind of sexual relationship going with Eric Stenstrom?” Why, because Jenny Linden put it into his head that it was so. “Why did Ned not confront me with this?” Because it suited him not to: because he was proud and would not lower himself to enquire. “Would I have taken the part of Nora opposite Eric Stenstrom’s Torvald if I thought for one minute Ned believed we had had, were having, or ever would have an affair?” No. “If Ned believed I was betraying him with Eric Stenstrom, would he have fucked the next woman who practically lay down in front of him with her legs open? Yes. Probably.”