Harriet (4 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

    ‘THAT was so gorgeous,’ she said next morning when they woke up.

    He grinned. ‘You’ll find it a perfect hobby, darling, and so cheap. I say,’ he added, ‘what’s your name?’

    She gave a gurgle of laughter.

    ‘Harriet,’ she said, ‘Harriet Poole.’

    ‘I’ve never had a Harriet before.’ He lay back and laughed, ‘Oh I’m just wild about Harriet,’ and then he pulled her down on top of him.

    For the next fortnight she had to keep pinching herself. Simon Villiers was her lover; the impossible had been 31 achieved. They hardly got out of bed, except for the occasional excursion to the Randolph for breakfast, or an excursion to Hinksey Hill to see what making love was like in the snow. Harriet found it extremely cold, and nearly died of a heart attack when a cow looked over the fence and mooed at her.

    Never in her life had she been so happy. Willingly she cooked for Simon, ironed his shirts rather badly, ran his errands, and submitted rapturously over and over again to his love-making.

    ‘You really do ad-dore it, don’t you?’ he drawled in amazement.

    The snow seemed here to stay. The ploughs came and scattered salt and sand on the roads, but the houses and the parks were still blanketed in whiteness. Harriet was doing absolutely no work. Simon had forbidden her to wear her glasses, so work gave her a headache anyway. She rang both Theo Dutton and Geoffrey and told them she’d got ‘flu. The weight fell off her; she lost over a stone living on wine and love.

    Never had she met anyone so witty, so glamorous, so glorious as Simon. Only one thing nagged her, at this supreme moment in her life: she felt unable to describe him adequately in her diary. There was an elusiveness about his character that she couldn’t pin down; he seemed permanently to be playing someone other than himself, and watching himself doing it at the same time. Although books filled his flat, he never appeared to read, except theatre reviews in the paper or the odd stage magazine. When he watched television he was far more interested in the techniques of the actors and actresses, and in who was playing whom, than in the story.

    It was only in the third week things started to go wrong. Simon had an audition in London with Buxton Philips. Not realizing it was early closing day, Harriet arrived too late to get his grey velvet suit out of the cleaners. She was shattered at the storm of abuse that broke over her when she got home.

    ‘But you’ve got hundreds of beautiful suits,’ she stammered.

    ‘Yes,’ hissed Simon, ‘but I wanted to wear this one,’ and he walked out of the house without even saying goodbye.

    Harriet was supposed to be writing her essay on the sonnets, but she couldn’t stop crying. In the end she gave up working, wrote a poem to Simon, and spent hours making a moussaka, which she knew he liked.

    He came back from London on the last train, if anything in a worse mood than when he left.

    ‘How did it go?’ she said nervously.

    ‘Bloody terrible! Buxton Philips didn’t show up.’

    ‘Oh no,’ wailed Harriet. How could anyone stand up Simon?

    ‘All I saw was some old bitch of a secretary. "Ay’m sorry, Mr. Villiers, but it’s always wise to ring Mr. Philips in the mornin’ to check he’s able to make it, he’s so busy." ‘

    ‘Oh poor Simon.’ She got up and put her arms round him, but she could sense his detachment.

    ‘Fix me a drink,’ he said, pacing up and down the room. ‘In a few years’ time, that bastard’ll be crawling to me. "Ay’m sorry, Mr. Philips, Mr. Villiers is far too busy to see you." He’ll regret this.’

    ‘Of course he will,’ said Harriet soothingly. ‘You’re going to be a big star, Simon. Everyone says so.’

    She handed him a drink.

    ‘I missed you so much, I’ve even written you a poem,’ she said blushing. ‘I’ve never written anyone a poem before.’ She handed it to him.

    Simon skimmed through it, his lips curling.

    ‘ "Our love is like a rainbow arched in shuddering orgasm against the sky",’ he read out in a deliberately melodramatic voice. ‘ "Orgasm" in the singular? I must be slipping.’

    Harriet flushed and bit her lip.

    ‘I also found this lovely sonnet, which describes exactly how I feel about you,’ she said hastily, handing him the volume of Shakespeare.

    ‘Harriet de-ah,’ sighed Simon, as he glanced at it, ‘if you knew the number of women who’ve quoted that poem at me! You’re in danger of getting soppy, sweetheart. I don’t mind women being romantic, but I can’t stand soppiness.’

    She tried once again.

    ‘I’ve made some moussaka for supper,’ she said. ‘I’m bored with moussaka,’ said Simon.

    She was still crying when he came to bed. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘I love you,’ said Harriet, in a choked voice. ‘Well, if you love me,’ said Simon softly, ‘you must like the whip.’

    He woke up next morning in a better mood, and they made love, sat drinking coffee and reading the papers in bed until lunchtime. Harriet had forgotten the insults of last night, aware only of a swooning relief that everything was all right again. Her euphoria was short-lived. She was looking at the horoscopes.

    ‘It says I’m going to have a good day for romance,’ she giggled. ‘Perhaps I shall meet a tall dark stranger. I always dreamed I’d fall in love with someone tall and dark. Funny you should be small and blond.’

    ‘I am not small,’ said Simon icily.

    She knew by the idle drumming of his fingers on the bedside table that there’d be trouble, that he’d bide his time and then retaliate without scruple. He started to read a piece about some famous actor’s sex life. When he came to the end he said:

    ‘That’s why I want to make it to the top. Apart from telling Buxton Philips to get stuffed, just think of the birds one could pull. Once you become a big star, you can virtually have any woman you want.’

    There was a pause. Harriet felt faint at the thought of Simon having another woman. A great tear fell on to the paper she was reading, followed by another, and another.

    ‘What’s eating you?’ said Simon.

    She got clumsily out of bed; not wearing her spectacles and blinded by tears, she bumped into a table, knocking off a little Rockingham dalmatian that she knew Borzoi had given Simon. It smashed beyond redemption. Harriet was appalled.

    ‘I’ll buy you another, Simon, truly I will.’

    ‘As it cost about Ł80, I think that’s extremely unlikely,’ he snapped. ‘For God’s sake stop snivelling. It’s bad enough you breaking it, without making that Godawful din. I’m hungry. Go and put on the moussaka, and then have a bath, but don’t forget to leave the water in.’

    Harriet lay in the bath, trying not to cry and wondering what it would be like to be married to Simon. "Harriet Villiers" had a splendid seventeenth century ring. Could she cope with being the wife of a superstar? Some stage marriages she knew lasted for ever. She wouldn’t be a drag on him; when he was away acting, she’d have her poems and novels to write; she might even write a play for him.

    She could just see the first night notices:

    ‘Simon Villiers’s wife is not beautiful in the classical sense, but there is an appealing sensitivity, a radiance about this brilliant young playwright.’ Unthinkingly she pulled out the plug.

    Simon walked into the bathroom, yawning, hair ruffled, to find Harriet sitting in an empty bath, dreamily gazing into space.

    ‘I thought I told you to leave the fucking water in.’ Harriet flushed unbecomingly.

    ‘Oh God, I’m frightfully sorry. Perhaps there’s some hot left.’

    There wasn’t.

    Even worse, she went into the kitchen and found that, although she’d turned on the oven, she’d put the moussaka into the cupboard instead, so when Simon came in, shuddering with cold and ill-temper, there was nothing to eat. The row that followed left her reeling. He really let her have it. She had no defences against the savageness of his tongue.

    Once more she went and sobbed in the bedroom, and she heard the front door slam. Hours later when he came back she had cried herself to sleep. He woke her up.

    ‘You’re too sensitive, Harriet baby. You overreact all the time. Poor little baby,’ he said gently, ‘poor, poor little baby. Did you think I wasn’t coming back?’ Never had he made love to her so tenderly.

CHAPTER SIX

    HARRIET woke up feeling absurdly happy. True love could only be forged on rows like that. It was the first of March, her meagre allowance had come through. She got up, leaving Simon asleep. She cashed a cheque at the bank, and bought croissants and orange juice. In spite of a bitter east wind, the snow was melting, dripping off the houses, turning brown and stacked in great piles along the road.

    It would be spring soon. She imagined herself and Simon wandering through the parks with the blossom out, or punting under long green willows, and dancing till dawn at a Commem ball. All great love affairs had their teething troubles.

    When she got back to Simon’s rooms, she took his mail into his room. He was still half asleep, so she went to the kitchen and made coffee and heated up the croissants. She was worried about a large spot that was swelling up on the side of her nose. However much make-up she put over it, it shone through like a beacon; she must start eating properly.

    When she took breakfast into his room, he had woken up and was in excellent form.

    ‘Buxton Philips’s written me a letter saying he’s sorry, he’s coming down to Oxford to take me out to lunch,’ he said, draining a glass of orange juice.

    ‘Oh darling, that’s wonderful,’ said Harriet.

    Simon drew back the curtains. Harriet sat down on the bed, with the spot side furthest away from him, pouring out coffee.

    ‘I think you’d better start packing, darling,’ he said, liberally buttering a croissant.

    ‘Oh God, is your mother coming to stay?’

    He shook his head, his face curiously bland. ‘I just think it’s time you moved out.’

    She looked at him bewildered, the colour draining from her face.

    ‘But, why? Was it because I smashed your dog, and letout your bath water, and forgot about your suit, and the moussaka? I’m sorry. I will try to concentrate more.’

    ‘Darling, it isn’t that,’ he said, thickly spreading marmalade. ‘It’s just that all good things come to an end. You should live a little, learn a bit more about life, play the field.’

    ‘But I’m not like that, I’m a one-man girl.’

    Simon shrugged his shoulders.

    ‘W-when will I see you,’ she was trembling violently now. ‘You’re making this very difficult for me,’ he said gently. She sat down.

    ‘Mind my shirts,’ said Simon hastily, removing the shirts she had ironed from the chair.

    She stared at him. ‘What did I do wrong?’

    ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, you didn’t do anything wrong.’

    It must be a bad dream, it must be. She felt her happiness melting round her like the snow.

    ‘Why can’t I see you any more?’

    ‘Darling, for everything there is a season. You’re a lovely warm crazy girl, and we’ve had a ball together. Now I’ve broken you in nicely, you’ll be a joy for the next guy, but it’s time for us both to move on.’

    ‘But I love you,’ she stammered.

    He sighed. ‘That’s your problem, sweetheart. I never said I loved you. I never pretended this was going to last.’

    Her face had a look of pathos and stricken dignity.

    ‘I don’t believe it,’ she whispered.

    Simon was not finding this as easy as he had expected, rather unpleasant in fact. Oh God, why did women get so keen on one? He was nibbling the skin round his thumb nail. He seemed to Harriet to have shrunk in size; there was something about his eyes like an animal at bay.

    She licked her dry lips. ‘Will you find someone else?’

    ‘Of course I’ll find someone else,’ he snapped, anger with himself making him crueller towards her. ‘Borzoi’s coming back. I got a letter from her this morning.’

    ‘And so I get d-dumped like an unwanted dog on the motorway.’

    Slowly it was dawning on her that his future didn’t contain her.

    He tried another tack. ‘You’re too good for me, Harriet.’

    ‘I’m not,’ she said helplessly.

    ‘Yes, you are. I need a tough cookie like Borzoi.’

    The sun, which hadn’t been seen for ages, suddenly appeared at the window, high-lighting the chaos of the room - the unmade bed, Harriet’s clothes strewn over every chair, the brimming ashtrays.

    ‘Cheer up,’ said Simon. ‘At least it’s a lovely day. Come on, lovie, get your things together; we haven’t got much time.’

    As he threw records, scarves, papers, make-up into her suitcase, she felt he was getting out an india rubber and carefully erasing every trace of her from his life. He was hard put to contain his elation. Even his goodbye was absent-minded. He patted her on the bottom and told her to behave herself. She could almost hear his sigh of relief as he shut the door and rushed back to tidy up for Borzoi.

    She went straight home and dumped her suitcase. For a minute she lay on her bed and listened to the clocks striking all over Oxford. Only eleven o’clock. A whole day to be got through, a whole lifetime without Simon stretching ahead. She got up, turned on the gas and knelt down beside it; after ten seconds the meter ran out.

    Mrs. Glass came in and started to shout at her for the rent, then she saw Harriet’s face and stopped. ‘White as a corpse, poor little thing,’ she told her husband afterwards. "Er sins must have catched up with ‘er.’

    Harriet got up and went out and walked round the town, the slush leaking into her boots. She didn’t notice the cold even in her thin coat. She had nothing of Simon’s. He had written her no letters, given her no presents. How crazy she had been, how presumptuous to think for a moment she could hold him. It was like trying to catch the sun with a fishing net. She walked three times round the same churchyard, then took a bus to Headington, looking at the trees, their branches shiny from the melting snow. She got off the bus and began to walk again, thinking over and over again of the times Simon and she had spent together, illuminated now in the light. Never again would she tremble at his touch, or talk to him or gaze at him. All she would hear was stupid people yapping about his latest exploits, that he’d landed a part in a play, that he was back with Borzoi.

    It couldn’t be true. Borzoi would come back, Simon would realize they couldn’t make a go of it, and send for Harriet again. Wading through the cold grey slush, she walked back to her digs and fell shuddering into bed.

    Everyone said, ‘I told you so.’ Geoffrey was magnanimous, then irritated that she wouldn’t snap out of it, then furious that Simon had succeeded where he had failed, and made violent attempts to get her into bed. Her girlfriends, who had all been jealous of her and Simon, were secretly pleased it was over. Theo Dutton was vitriolic about the badness of her essay.

    The child looked in terrible shape. She was obviously having some kind of crisis.

    ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Who is it?’

    ‘No one, nothing,’ she muttered. ‘Simon Villiers.’

    ‘Oh dear, oh dear. He was the nasty bug all my girl students caught last summer. I thought he’d gone out of fashion now. I must say I’m disappointed in you, Harriet. I thought you had better taste. He was one of the worst students I’ve ever had; his mind is earth-shatteringly banal.’

    Then, like Mrs. Glass, he saw the stricken look on her face and realized he was on the wrong tack.

    For days she didn’t eat, wandering round Oxford getting thinner and thinner, gazing for hours at the river, wondering whether to jump, hanging around Simon’s digs at a respectable distance hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Mostly she saw him come out and sit in his car, impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, revving up the car, lighting cigarette after cigarette. Then Borzoi would come spilling out, spraying on scent, trailing coloured scarves, her gorgeous streaky gold hair tumbling over her face. And they would drive off arguing furiously.