Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (30 page)

‘Well – are you going to do it?’ Adele’s voice was impatient.

Noni looked at her thoughtfully. She was so touchy, these days, so easily upset. Geordie’s extended absence had made her worse; now that he was coming home in a few days, she was raw with anxiety. It probably wasn’t a very good idea to do the job for
Style
, encroaching on her mother’s territory, a territory she was no longer very confident about. And there was no way she really wanted to be a model; it was a pretty silly way to make a living. But she had been fascinated by what had been done that day, a few quite ordinary-looking garments turned into a brilliant visual idea. And it had been fun too—

‘Noni ! Do concentrate. They’re waiting on the phone.’

‘Oh – sorry. I’ll speak to them, shall I?’

It was the downtrodden assistant, Mary Louise; Noni had rather liked her. She was clearly used to being kept waiting.

‘Oh that’s perfectly all right,’ she said in her nervous near-whisper. ‘It was just that Miss Proctor-Reid would like you to work for us again. She wants to do a feature on spring jackets, couture, mainly, and she wants to shoot them in Paris—’

‘Paris!’

‘Yes. Next week. Just before the real Christmas rush starts. I realise it’s short notice, but Miss Proctor-Reid really wants you.’

‘I’m not sure—’

‘Oh Miss Lieberman, please say yes.’

‘Noni, I do rather need the phone. Please hurry up.’

Noni looked at her mother. She was on edge; Geordie was coming home in just a few days, war would be breaking out again, her mother crying, Clio upset, Lucas sulking . . . although Lucas was changing, was somehow happier, a bit easier these days, beginning to grow up at last. But he wasn’t going to welcome Geordie.

Adele banged down a coffee pot very loudly, turned the cold tap on full.

Noni looked at her tense, aggressive back. ‘Yes, all right,’ she said, ‘I’d like to come, very much, thank you.’

Adele walked out and slammed the kitchen door.

Elspeth was working hard at telling herself that she was very lucky really; she was having a baby, a much-wanted baby, she had a husband who loved her, she had her own home. Thousands, millions of girls all over the country would have envied her. Of course the home wasn’t very big, in fact it was very small, a one-bedroom flat in one of the new high-rise, council-owned developments which were replacing the slums and the bomb-damaged areas on the outskirts of Glasgow, but it was modern, and only on the third floor of the building. When she had first seen it, when Keir had proudly shown it to her, she had been so appalled, she hadn’t been able to disguise it. He had stopped short in his guided tour, had been first upset then angry.

‘Of course, it’s not what you’re used to, I can see that. It’s not a plush flat in Chelsea. But I have to pay for it and it’s the best I can afford. You know about that, Elspeth? Paying your way? It’s an odd notion, I give you that. Maybe you’ll learn in time. It’s not a rich publisher you’re married to, it’s a struggling supply teacher. Sorry. Perhaps you should go home to Daddy and the Lyttons right now and admit you were wrong.’

‘Keir don’t. I’m sorry. Very sorry. I can’t – can’t help being a bit worried.’

‘Oh indeed. What are you a bit worried about? The neighbours? Not quite your style? The decor? Sorry about the curtains. Or rather the lack of them. You’ll have time on your hands for a bit, perhaps you could lower yourself sufficiently to make a few up. My mother will help you. She offered to make them, as a matter of fact, only I thought you’d want to do it yourself.’

‘Keir, stop it,’ she said, fighting back the tears. ‘Don’t be so angry. I’m sorry. Of course I like it, it’s – it’s sweet. But it is a bit – small.’

‘I don’t see that. It has a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen and a bathroom. You’re lucky, I looked at a few with an outside toilet.’

‘Yes, but – but where will the baby sleep? There’s no room for a – a. . .’ ‘Nursery’ was the word struggling to get out. She crushed it just in time. ‘For its – his room.’

‘Well, he can sleep with us. What’s wrong with that?’

‘With us! Keir, we can’t have a baby in our room.’

‘And why not? He won’t take up much space. He’ll still be able to sleep and breathe, all that sort of thing.’

‘Well because – because – ’

‘What you mean is that your sort, people like you, don’t have babies in their rooms. They have nurseries and nannies. Well, I’ve told you, Elspeth, if you want that sort of thing, you’ve married the wrong man. This is the best I can do. If it’s not good enough for you, then I’m sorry.’ She saw, suddenly, a dangerous brilliance in his dark eyes, realised how upset he was. She went up to him, put her arms round him, kissed him.

‘Keir, I’m so sorry. It’s all right, really. You have to forgive me, make allowances for me. I’m just a spoilt brat, as you’re always saying. I love the flat, really I do. It’s sweet. And I’ll make curtains, and – and everything. It’ll all be fine. Please forgive me, Keir.’

She was crying herself, now; he looked down at her and relented, smiled suddenly at her.

‘All right. I forgive you. And I’m sorry it isn’t – bigger. When I’m a headmaster, I’ll buy you a fine house. Meanwhile, maybe the bairn can sleep in the living room at night. I’m told cots are quite easily transportable.’

Danger was averted: for the time being.

But now they had moved in, into the tiny space, where she felt like a caged tiger, pacing up and down much of the day, for want of anything else to do. Naturally energetic, intensely hard-working, she was desperate with boredom. She had hoped to be able to carry on with her editing in a freelance capacity, but even Celia had found herself unable to convince Jay that this would work and especially not with a book as important as the Clementine Hartley novel; that had hurt her almost more than anything else.

She cleaned the flat each morning, carefully and energetically at first, then with increasing listlessness, and usually found herself at ten or eleven o’clock with endless empty hours ahead of her. She would have gone for long walks, had she been in London, but it was hardly walking territory, endless streets, leading to more endless streets; and then the neighbourhood was not exactly rough, but it was very lower class, and she was already teased by the children in the block. They called out ‘hoity toity’ when she walked past them and stared and giggled at her, and their mothers regarded her, she knew, with a mixture of curiosity and scorn. She had tried to be friendly at first, but it hadn’t worked, they assumed she was being patronising and, at best, ignored her, at worst, were outwardly rude, staring at her from their cosy groups of three or four, standing at their doorways in the block’s long concrete corridors or in the shops. And there was the problem of understanding what people said to her; their accents were very thick and unfamiliar; she had to keep saying, ‘I’m sorry?’ or ‘What did you say?’ and it emphasised horribly the difference between them.

Shopping, trips to the greengrocers and the butchers and the corner shop, had become a dreaded ordeal; she had tried to do it at times when the shops were empty, leaving it really late until the children were home from school and having their tea, or early in the morning before most of the mothers were about, but they were almost always about and anyway, she was even more nervous in the dark evenings.

She had already told Keir that next time they went down to London, she was going to bring her car up with her; she told him it was so that she could be more efficient with the shopping and so on, but it was actually so that she could feel less of a prisoner. He had argued with her briefly and then given in; she resisted the temptation to point out that he too would benefit from having the car.

She felt quite frightened by her loneliness and isolation; she felt she had somehow landed in a completely foreign country, where she knew nothing of the customs, didn’t speak the language and had no point of contact with anyone. Sometimes whole days went by when the only person she spoke to was Keir; she tried to tell herself it would pass, that it would get better, but she couldn’t see how. She filled the hours with reading, and writing letters to her mother and Celia, but the awful emptiness of her life provided very little material for that and she was horribly aware of their forced cheerfulness and increasing brevity.

The only outings she actually enjoyed were to the ante-natal clinic at the hospital. There, among other young women in the same situation as herself, nervous, excited mothers-to-be, many of them for the first time, she managed to cut through the barriers of class, of her accent, her clothes, and to feel one of a group, discussing the problems of sickness, sleeplessness, heartburn, the baby’s kicking, the anxiety about the pain of labour, the debate over breast-versus-bottle feeding.

She thought of asking a couple of these girls, with whom she became genuinely quite friendly, to visit her in the flat, but rejected the idea. At the hospital they were on neutral ground, in her home where, modest as it was, there were expensive ornaments, family photographs in silver frames, piles of books with no shelves to put them on, she knew she would be branded immediately as different, posh, stuck-up. Safer to keep things as they were, herself at a distance.

But visits to the infirmary were only monthly; she was wretched most of the time, her loneliness and boredom emphasised by a visit home. Keir had insisted that they spend Christmas alone together, in their own home, and he had been right, it had been surprisingly and sweetly happy, but they did go to London for New Year. There, in the warmth and busyness of her family, she had looked at the icy solitude of her new life and wondered, for the thousandth time, whether she was actually doing the right thing. She dreaded going back as if it were to some ordeal. As indeed it was.

The worst thing, of course, was the effect it had on her relationship with Keir; depression and a sense of isolation hardly made for a happy atmosphere. She tried to be cheerful, to express interest in his day (not often very happy either, but at least busy), and always had supper ready for him. But after that – which he liked, and she hated, to have early, at six – he disappeared into the bedroom where he had a small desk, to do his marking and preparation work for the next day, leaving her to face another two hours of solitude. She became resentful and irritable with him, which in turn increased his truculence, his constant references to the difference in her circumstances, his observations that she was not enjoying her new life; and as for sex, a continuing nausea, and the discomfort of the growing baby, made it something she dreaded rather than welcomed. Which shocked and distressed her more than anything.

She was unable to regard her marriage as a success: to put it mildly.

‘Oh,’ said Lucas. ‘Oh, hallo.’

Geordie nodded at him briefly.

‘Good afternoon, Lucas.’

They stared at one another: hostilities had already resumed. ‘Good trip?’

‘Yes, thanks. I’ve come for Clio.’

‘Right. I’ll call her—’

There was no need: ‘Darling, Darling – ’ she threw herself into Geordie’s arms; he hugged her tight, kissed her dark curls.

‘Did you miss me?’

‘So, so much.’

‘I missed you. Coming out with your old daddy?’

‘Yes please!’

‘Go and ask Nanny to get you into your hat and coat.’

She ran upstairs.

‘She misses you,’ said Lucas.

‘Well, I’m glad somebody does. How’s your mother?’

‘Fine,’ said Lucas. ‘Much better, I’d say.’

He knew this was completely untrue; but he refused to give Geordie the satisfaction of thinking anything else.

‘Good,’ said Geordie. ‘Ah – here she is. My best girl. Tell your mother I’ll bring her back in the morning. OK?’

‘OK.’

Adele was upset that she had missed Geordie. She had been out shopping and had got held up in traffic. She phoned him later that evening.

‘I’m sorry I missed you. Everything all right?’

‘Perfectly all right.’

‘Could we – could we meet, do you think? For lunch or – or tea?’

‘If you like.’ His tone was the opposite of warm. ‘I’ll see you when I get back, won’t I? Won’t that do?’

‘I meant not here. You know. Let’s have tea, Geordie. At Browns, perhaps? About four? It’s nice and quiet there.’

‘Yes – all right. Now Clio and I have a date with Pooh and Piglet. Sorry.’Bye, Adele.’

‘’Bye, Geordie.’

She wanted to talk to him; to explain that Lucas was going up to Oxford next year. To ask him if he would consider coming home then. She really thought he might.

She had supper alone with Lucas that night; Noni was away, in Paris. Lucas was changing: it was wonderful. He had grown up, just in the past few weeks. He seemed to be moving, at last, from sulky adolescent to someone more talkative, easier, even at times quite cheerful. He was happy too; he actually talked to her about his new passion, the debating society at school, where he was clearly becoming a star; it seemed very odd to her, broody, silent Lucas. Although of course he had always been articulate when it had suited him, swift with the right – or rather the wrong – words, the withering put-down, the tart observation. And more surprising, his social life seemed to be developing; he seemed to have friends of both sexes, was suddenly in demand for parties; girls obviously liked him and she could see why. He was going to be very sexy, with his dark, brooding looks, his unmistakable French style. He was, in fact, exactly like Luc. Except, she hoped, nicer . . .

She told him her plan; she felt she must, and she didn’t want him to think he was being pushed aside – again.

‘It’s just that you won’t be here,’ she said earnestly, ‘and so you won’t have to live with one another. It’ll be quite different, don’t you see?’

He sighed. ‘While I’m away, I suppose. Yes. But I’ll be back, won’t I, in the vacations? I honestly think, Mother, if this is what you want, and if he agrees, I should find a flat. Geordie and I could never live together. Not now.’

‘But Lucas—’