A Woman of Courage (3 page)

She had long given up any thought of coming to love her husband but nevertheless had tried to play her part: she had been dutiful, always there when he wanted her, had attended functions on his arm, had smiled as required. She had been the public face of his marriage but in private they were strangers meeting occasionally in the desert of their lives. A dozen times she had told herself she must leave him, but had never had the courage to do so. Marriage might be another word for unhappiness but was nonetheless a safe harbour; over the years she had got out of the habit of independence and the world outside her prison seemed full of terrors.

Davis enjoyed twisting the knife; now, as he left for work, he was reminding her yet again of the lunch date debacle. ‘Let's see if you can get it right tonight,' he said. ‘Seven-thirty, and it's important we're not late. Henry is a stickler for punctuality.'

Henry Hawthorn QC was Davis's head of chambers and as close to God as either of them was likely to get in this life, so Jennifer understood how important it was not to offend him in any way.

‘I shan't forget,' she said.

‘Make sure you don't.'

Jennifer hated it when her husband spoke to her like that but had never been one for the smart comeback. The one time she had tried to stand up to him it hadn't gone well.

‘I am not your tea girl,' she had told him.

‘I thank God daily for that,' he had said.

As she did so often she told herself to be patient; lots of people were not at their best at the breakfast table. The trouble was Davis had nothing much to say in the evening either. And lately, even more troubling, he'd been coming home late several nights a week. She didn't like to think what that might mean.

She heard the Lexus disappear down the drive. She went upstairs, and did what she did so often: she inspected her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

She had been a pretty child; she still remembered the warm glow when strange women had stopped Mother in the street to compliment her on her daughter's sweet looks. She was thirty-six now, but when she looked in the mirror it was the chocolate-box prettiness she saw, and not the plump face and discontented mouth that looked back at her. Not bad for my age, she thought. Perhaps a kilo or two overweight but she'd read that men liked girls to have a bit of meat on them. To ease her conscience she had even enrolled at the local gym but somehow had never found the time to go. There was always something: friends to meet, the book club and the wives' lunch club to attend and a dozen other activities. But today, she told herself, she would be on her best behaviour. She would visit Miranda's – always a treat – and buy a new dress. Something stylish and distinctive. Never mind the cost: creating the right impression was what mattered.

To Miranda's she went. Halfway there the car started coughing and emitting horrifying quantities of blue smoke and she remembered she was supposed to have taken it in for a service. What with one thing and another it had completely slipped her mind. Not to worry: she got there anyway, and shutting her eyes to the price she bought an outfit that the assistant assured her would wow the most fastidious host.

Jennifer stared doubtfully at her reflection. ‘You don't think it's a bit… revealing?'

The well-endowed assistant assured her it was not. ‘It is the latest fashion,' she said.

With the bag stowed safely in the car Jennifer phoned Tessa and arranged to meet her for coffee at their favourite rendezvous in Bayside Avenue. There they enjoyed one of the wide range of coffees imported from various parts of the world. Tessa claimed to be an expert on coffee as on everything else and today had decided they would drink an Arabica coffee from Colombia.

‘It is divine,' Tessa said. ‘Intensely aromatic.'

Jennifer found her friend's pretensions exasperating. In truth she thought it tasted no different from instant coffee. She did not dare say so but her doubts must have shown.

‘One needs an educated nose to obtain the full benefit,' Tessa said.

As good as saying Jennifer didn't have one, but once again she warned herself to be patient. Tessa was a friend and friends were important. With Davis the way he was she would be alone without them and Jennifer could imagine no fate more terrible than that. If being patronised was the price she had to pay then pay it she would.

She smiled brightly. ‘I'm sure you are right, sweetie.'

To comfort herself she went to the counter and selected one of the café's delicious chocolate cakes.

‘So decadent,' she confided to Tessa when she returned to their table. ‘You should try one.'

But Tessa, beanpole thin, stuck to toast.

Jennifer got home a little after twelve. She hung up the new outfit, poached herself an egg for lunch and afterwards put her feet up for an hour, telling herself it was important she should be at her best for the Hawthorns' dinner tonight.

At five o'clock she had a lovely long bath. It was one of life's luxuries, she thought, to soak in scented warm water. Afterwards she put on the new outfit and stared dubiously at herself in the mirror. Had she really shown so much cleavage in the shop? She supposed she must have done, but somehow it seemed more noticeable now. She remembered reading advice given by some American woman.
If you got 'em, show 'em
. She was certainly doing that.

Davis would be home any minute. She wondered what he would say about the new dress or whether he would even notice… but time passed and Davis did not come. It was after six now, leaving him little time to shower and change before they had to set out for the Hawthorns. That was bad news; having to rush made him snaky and as always he would blame her for it.

The minutes ticked by. Six-thirty and still no sign of Davis. Something must have happened to him. She hated unexpected hitches, imagining heart attacks, road accidents, even mugging. She had always been burdened with a vivid imagination; it was the curse of her artistic temperament. For an artist she was; before she got married she'd known several and even been in love with one, and over the years many friends had complimented her on the watercolours she displayed every summer at the community art exhibition.

Davis hated her phoning him at work; after an argument a few months back he had categorically forbidden her to do so. But if he didn't come home in the next ten minutes they would be late whatever they did. She mustered her courage and phoned Davis's chambers. There was no answer. With mounting desperation she tried his mobile but it was switched off.

Now it was a quarter to seven. She didn't know what to do. If she went without him he would be furious. She daren't ring the Hawthorns. She knew how important they were to Davis's career and was terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing.

Five to seven. She made up her mind and rang for a taxi.

There were no taxis. It was the busiest time of the evening: what had she expected?

She hated driving at night, especially alone, but knew she had no choice. Did she know the way? Of course she did. Jennifer went out to her car, climbed in and drove down the road, the engine coughing like a bronchial old man.

It was a nightmare journey. She found she was not as sure of the way as she had thought and every time she slowed to check the signposts someone behind her would hoot. She became increasingly flustered. The congestion was horrible, particularly in Toorak Road; more than once she was afraid the poor old car would conk out on her and was terrified she might miss the turning altogether. By the time she arrived in Hopetoun Road she was a nervous wreck, but at least now she was safe. The Hawthorns' house could not be far away. She pressed her foot on the accelerator and the engine coughed and died. She pulled in to the side of the road – at least she managed to do that – and tried to start the car again. The engine did not fire. Tears perilously close, she looked at her watch (the clock on the dashboard didn't work). Seven-forty. Ten minutes late already and the car refused to budge.

‘You wretched, beastly thing!' said Jennifer.

Again she tried the starter. Nothing doing.

‘I shall have to walk,' she said.

And did so, grimly. Her high heels didn't help but somehow she managed. Luckily her destination was nearby: an imposing sandstone mansion, its entrance flanked by white stone pillars. She walked down the driveway and rang the bell.

‘We were afraid you'd got lost,' said Mrs Hawthorn, ever so sweetly. She was looking at Jennifer's new outfit. Or perhaps at what it did not quite conceal. ‘Interesting,' she said.

‘I had car trouble,' Jennifer said.

Davis, glass in hand, was scowling and she knew she would be in for it later. There were several other people she did not know. All of them staring; all of them waiting.

‘I am so sorry,' she said.

Mr Hawthorn looked at his watch. ‘Perhaps if we are all here now we might go in.'

They trooped in like sheep, Jennifer not knowing where to look. She tugged surreptitiously at her dress, hoping to lift the bust line a little, but it was too tight and she couldn't shift it. Dratted thing! She wished now she'd not let Miranda's assistant talk her into it. And the price! Davis would go ballistic when he found out.

She found herself sitting next to a man she didn't know but who introduced himself as Anthony Belloc.

‘Are you a lawyer, too, Mr Belloc?'

‘I'm a businessman.'

‘I have often wanted to ask,' Jennifer said brightly. ‘What exactly does a businessman do?'

Anthony Belloc laughed loud and long. ‘We try to make money, Mrs Lander.'

‘And how do you do that exactly?'

‘I have an interest in a number of companies.'

‘Just like my mother. And do you make lots and lots of lovely money like she does? Not that I see any of it, unfortunately.' It was her turn to laugh; it might have been the joke of the year.

‘I try,' he said.

Jennifer often wished she'd married a businessman. Davis made pots of money – they had a holiday home in the Whitsundays as well as the lovely house in Brighton – and that was what she'd always wanted, but the idea of the law had always bored her. Having your hands on the money itself seemed far more exciting.

Mr Belloc was a delightful dinner companion, both charming and handsome, with neatly groomed dark hair. She guessed he was in his early fifties, which she had always thought the ideal age for a man, mature yet young enough to be interesting, and he was wearing a beautifully made suit. He looked like a million dollars. A million dollars that was now inspecting her with frank admiration. Jennifer's new outfit no longer embarrassed her. Mr Belloc's smile made her feel young again, and desirable, and she loved it.

She had never had a nicer meal. Afterwards she could not have said what they ate or even what they talked about but during dessert he had said there was something he would like to discuss with her and she, sipping her second or was it third glass of wine, had given him her telephone number. Of course nothing would come of it, she would make sure of that, but it was an unfamiliar experience and she welcomed it, especially since Davis always made her feel like a middle-aged frump with her best years behind her.

It was enough to make anyone rebellious; she was not even
forty
, and Anthony Belloc's appreciative eye showed she still had what it took to please a man. She felt excited and a little breathless, like a teenager on her first date.

The party broke up at ten o'clock. She went through the motions, offering her host and hostess extravagant thanks for
a wonderful, truly memorable
evening. She kissed the air beside Mrs Hawthorn's cheek, fluttered her fingers at Anthony Belloc and followed Davis into a black and rainy night. Then there was hell to pay.

‘Where is your car?'

Her ears singing with wine and excitement, she laughed. She felt braver than she had for years. ‘It broke down. I had to walk.'

‘I suppose you never took it in for a service?'

‘I had things to do.'

‘And why were you so late?'

Ignoring the rain she stopped and glared at him. ‘I waited for you. I was ready at six o'clock but you never came –'

‘For heaven's sake, Jennifer! I told you before I left this morning that I would meet you here.'

Careless of the other guests who were also leaving, she raised her voice. ‘You did no such thing.'

Davis gritted his teeth. ‘Stop making an exhibition of yourself.'

‘I am not making an exhibition of myself. You said to be sure I was ready. You said nothing about meeting you here.'

Some of the guests were listening to what promised to be an out and out slanging match. There were smiles.

‘Get in the car.'

Jennifer sensed an advantage. ‘If you open the door for me I shall.'

He did so, slamming it as soon as she was seated. The tyres screeched as he took off. He drove down the drive and turned right into Hopetoun Road with a violence that pressed Jennifer back in her seat.

‘Are you trying to kill us?'

He did not answer. They passed her car parked forlornly at the side of the road. They drove home in a fanged silence that did not last beyond the front door. Davis strode to the phone and rang for her car to be towed in. Then he turned on her. ‘Are you trying to ruin us? You arrive late wearing a dress like that…'

‘What is wrong with my dress?'

‘It makes you look like a trollop. And then behaving the way you did at dinner –'

‘I am going to bed,' Jennifer said and headed for the stairs.

‘I have not finished talking to you.' Thunder roared beyond the window as he followed her into the bedroom. Thunder in the street; thunder in the house. He snatched up a hand mirror and thrust it in front of her. ‘Look at yourself! You turn up late and half naked at what I told you was an important dinner…'

That was what had annoyed him. He wanted her to be a mouse and mice did not wear dresses like that. Suddenly she was glad she'd had the courage to wear it. A gesture of defiance, she thought. No wonder he's so mad. ‘You never told me –'