Bond Street Story (45 page)

Mr. Rammell clapped his hands down firmly on his knees and started the long struggle to get up.

“Tell him not to worry,” he said. “Tell him I'll guarantee it.”

“Guarantee it?”

“That's what I said. How much?”

This was really worst of all. Marcia had never been quick at figures. Certainly not in her head. All that she knew was that the horrible little statement from the bank simply kept on coming out in red. And the bank kept writing her letters that she couldn't bear to open. Carried them about in her handbag for days, in fact.
And there were all the other things that would have made the statement so much redder if she had ever dared to write out the cheques.

“Would ... would a hundred be all right?” she asked, adding quickly before Mr. Rammell could reply. “It's just ... just too wonderful.”

“I'll see to it in the morning,” he told her.

It was obvious that Mr. Rammell wanted to get away. He seemed suddenly to have grown distant somehow. That was one of the things that Marcia hated about money. It had such a way of coming between friends.

“It's terribly sweet of you,” she said vaguely. “Really, it is. I ...”

But it was obvious that so far as Mr. Rammell was concerned, the evening was now over. He did not appear even to be listening. And, when Marcia raised her face to his, it was hardly a kiss at all that he gave her. Merely a pressure.

“Time you were in bed,” he said heartlessly.

But Marcia did not go through to the bedroom at once. She sat there, gazing romantically into the twin elements of the electric fire. Her life past, present and future flowed through her mind in chance, uneasy instalments. For no reason at all she remembered the time when she had been just a little girl and had been watching some pigeons ... Then her American husband came back to her. Of all the men whom she had ever known, he was the one who used by far the nicest kind of after-shaving lotion ... Next it was old Mrs. Tutty who suddenly became so real that she might have been in the room there with her. And Marcia knew exactly what her mother was thinking. She was wondering when the next postal order would be arriving. Soon. To-morrow perhaps? Next week? The week after? Never? ... But, like the pigeons and the American, Mrs. Tutty did not stay for long. She faded. And in her place it was young Tony who was there with her ... This was worse. Much worse. It wasn't merely that Marcia could see him. She could
feel
him, too. If she arched her neck ever so little, there were the backs of his fingers passing gently backwards and forwards across her hair. Even though she despised herself for it, she began crying ... Then Tony, too, returned where he belonged, somewhere three thousand miles away right over on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. And Marcia was left by herself in that top service flat off Sloane Square with the unpaid-for furnishings. She shivered. Not from cold, but from sheer downright loneliness.

“Oh, God,” she began thinking, “I might as well be dead. I hope Mr. Rammell doesn't forget. I could ...”—there was a slight stammer, an impediment, even in her thoughts—“could mean so much to him. Even if he doesn't know it, he still needs me. It stands out a mile. I'm what he's been waiting for. There's so much I could do, if only he'd let me ...”

She didn't feel tearful about Mr. Rammell, however, Merely miserable. It was nice about the hundred pounds, of course. But, after that, what was there? Something lasting and permanent—and, if she could have her way, beautiful too, perhaps? Or nothing. Just more loneliness. And more debts. And more birthdays. Where would it all lead to? A nervous breakdown? In a Home somewhere? Suicide?

Marcia got up and began patting the cushions back into their right shape, straightening the covers. She was humming. That was because she had just remembered that the agent had told her that her new picture was going to be released to-morrow. It was of Marcia in a sun-suit. She would be on the back of all the buses. In the Underground. On hoardings. In the newspapers. Everywhere. It would be like waking up to a new life knowing that the sun-suit photographs would be appearing.

For the moment she had forgotten even Mr. Rammell.

 

The news of Irene's engagement had come as a great relief to Mrs. Rammell.

She heard of it first from Nancy. Breathlessly and eagerly imparted. And, as she listened, she felt her whole mind lightening. Not that she approved of her sister's newly-revived friendship with Mrs. Privett. On the contrary, the mere thought of it made her shudder. She winced every time she remembered. Because it only went to show what Mrs. Rammell had all those years kept on trying so hard to make herself forget—how common at heart poor Nancy really was. Common and insensitive. Any woman with real feelings would have recognized that there was only one thing that could have been done after that unfortunate chance encounter in Mrs. Rammell's own drawing-room. And that was to drop Mrs. Privett again as soon as she had rediscovered her.

But it was not of Nancy that she was thinking. It was of Tony.

She knew nothing of the Marcia affair. And with Irene out of the way, it meant that her poor, darling Tony could come home again. His exile among all those dreadful New Yorkers was no longer necessary. He could return at once to Eaton Square. And Mrs. Rammell would see to it that he could pick up again the suddenly sundered strands of his young life ... interior decoration, ballet production, print-collecting, or whatever it was for which his starved lonely soul was craving. This time Mrs. Rammell was determined. She was ready, if necessary, to carry the issue to a straight fight with her own husband.

She was, in point of fact, particularly critical of Mr. Rammell at the moment. And more than critical. She openly despised him. Hitherto, she had felt a mild sense of obligation. Of gratitude, even. That was because—even though he had absolutely no charm, no feelings—he had at least always been generous. Whenever she had been forced to speak first at Charity Committee meetings saying that she would take a dozen seats at five guineas, or a full-page in the programme, or throw her house open for the reception afterwards, he had supported her. Financed everything. Without even asking what it was all about. Anything so long as he didn't actually have to attend it himself. It was this freedom of action on her part that had made her so dynamic, so much sought-after. It was what had brought her to the very pinnacle of patronage. And, only this morning, she had toppled. Just when the
Opera Guild and the Ballet Group and the Friends of Chamber Music were all beginning to turn the corner she had suddenly been demoted. Snubbed in the only way that really matters to any lifelong Charity patroness.

The insult had appeared in all the daily papers. In the second column of the Honours' List. Just where everyone would read it. And really she had scarcely been able to believe her eyes. Because the husband of her own Appeals Secretary, the insignificant little Mrs. Tom Davey, who always attended meetings carrying a small limp notebook like a typist's, had actually been knighted. For political services, too. It was unbearable. Even though Mr., so soon to be Sir Tom, Davey was a shoe manufacturer in quite a large way of business, wholesale as well as retail, Mrs. Rammell could not stand for it. It showed how hopelessly, irretrievably, her own husband had failed her. If she had said it once, she had said it ten thousand times that he ought to have asked more politicians to the house. Not only Ministers. Junior Ministers as well. Parliamentary Private Secretaries, too. The whole run of them. And what had he done? Nothing. All that he had ever thought about was Bond Street, Bond Street, Bond Street ... She realized now that she didn't only despise him. She hated him.

And she saw so little of him. That was another thing. Mrs. Rammell always took her breakfast in bed. Mr. Rammell, on the other hand, ate his downstairs. Naturally, he was out all day. The small luncheon parties that Mrs. Rammell gave to visiting singers, artists, dancers, choreographers, took place entirely without him. And nowadays he was scarcely ever in even during the evening. He arrived back in Eaton Square towards midnight, gave himself a final whisky and soda followed by a draught of two Alka-Seltzer tablets and slipped up silently to bed.

Just like to-night. It was after eleven already. Mrs. Rammell had long ago changed into a loose house-coat. And with her books and brochures, her magazines and folders, her Glyndebourne prospectus and her Festival Hall calendar spread around her, she was killing time waiting up for him.

She was at her most masterful, too. Felt the little electric thrills of nervous energy tingling through her. To-night she intended to get
everything
cleared up. As soon as she had arranged about Tony's return passage—and that immediately—she wanted to draw his attention to silly little Mrs. Davey's husband's absurdly undeserved title. Put things to rights for the future, as it were.

Even though he wasn't actually there beside her, Mr. Rammell himself wasn't far away. Only just off Sloane Square, in fact.

He was sitting as far back as he could manage—which wasn't far enough—in one of those ridiculous chairs that he disapproved of, quietly reflecting on the fact that Marcia had the most beautiful shoulders that he had ever seen on any woman. Smooth. And white. And rippling. Like a schoolgirl's. Only without any puppy-fat, of course. Just the firm, delicate bone structure showing underneath. Mr. Rammell had a particularly good view of them because Marcia had seated herself on a cushion at his feet.

He wondered dimly what thoughts, if any, were passing through that lovely smooth head of hers. As he wondered, he stroked. Gently, as one strokes a cat. And, like a cat, Marcia responded. Mr. Rammell could feel a faint, answering quiver coming back through his finger-tips.

“That's what she needs,” he told himself. “Affection. Starved for it. Absolutely starved. Just love and be loved. That's her formula. Does something to her. Like rain and sunshine. Brings her out.”

And as he sat there, still indolently stroking, it occurred to him that affection was what he had been in need of, too. The thought had never struck him before. But he saw it clearly enough now. Not that he would call his marriage a bad one. Or a particularly good one. Scarcely a marriage at all, in fact. No common interests. No topics of conversation. No friends in common, even. No sense of relief and relaxation when he got home.

And really it was incredibly restful just being here. Restful in an unpassionate, middle-aged fashion that completely lulled him. There were moments, of course, when it was otherwise. But were they, he had sometimes asked himself afterwards, entirely spontaneous? Or were they because the other partner had felt somehow that it might be expected? Whatever the cause they were not frequent. Not overwhelming. For the most part it was like having a darling daughter, grown up and still entirely dedicated to him.

The last three months with Marcia—and it was only during the last three months that he had really come to know her at all—had made him strangely introspective. He was now aware of emotions that he had not previously known that he possessed. Complicated, unfamiliar ones. Like compassion. And apprehension. And solicitude. He woke nowadays wondering whether Marcia was safe. Happy. Contented.

And even though she was there beside him—leaning right up against his knees in fact—he still had to ask her.

“Everything all right, dear?” he inquired idiotically. “No worries?”

It was another of those terrible double questions that Marcia dreaded. But this time it was easy. There was no need even to attempt to answer. Instead of replying, she snuggled closer to him and pressed her left cheek lingeringly against his kneecap.

“Anything you'd like?” he went on, snatching at the last few crumbs of reassurance before it was time for him to go.

Marcia did not reply immediately. She turned and placed her other cheek up against his knee. Now she was facing him.

“Only to ... to go away somewhere,” she said.

“Go away,” Mr. Rammell repeated. “Where?”

“Anywhere,” she replied. “Anywhere that's ... that's right away from here.”

“How long for?” Mr. Rammell asked.

“Months and months,” she told him. “For ever.”

He had stopped stroking by now and was looking at her in amazement.

“You mean you want to move?” he asked.

“I want to go away,” she said again.

Mr. Rammell paused. He recognized that it would be no use trying to rush her. This was one of those moments when she needed to be helped along. Prompted.

“You mean somewhere like Brighton?” he asked her.

Marcia shook her head.

“Farther,” she said. “Right away.”

Her clear, deep eyes were staring up into his as she spoke. They were profound, beautiful eyes. Mr. Rammell felt sure that there was a meaning behind them somewhere.

“South of France,” he suggested. “Get some sun.”

But again Marcia shook her head.

“Farther,” she said. “Everyone goes there.”

For a moment Mr. Rammell became suspicious. He wondered whether Marcia was slowly, tortuously trying to tell him that she wanted to go to New York. To Tony. But her next remark reassured him.

“An island,” was what she said. And, to explain her meaning, she added: “An island in the sea somewhere.”

“You name one,” he told her.

Naturally, she hesitated for a moment. She didn't want to say the wrong thing. And she had never been good at names. But it was all right this time. She had seen it written right across the beach-wear advertisements in big capital letters that were easy to read.

“Bermuda,” she said.

“What would you do there?” he asked.

“I'd have you,” she answered.

“You mean you want me to come along too?” he asked.

Her eyes were fixed on his more deeply than ever now.