Spearfield's Daughter (36 page)

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't be so jubilant,” said Alain. “I'm waving the damned flag too much. But Billie Jean was good, wasn't she?”

Have I been like Billie Jean? Cleo wondered. For four years now she had been an achiever. But once she had been as carefree as Evonne, had laughed and looked on tomorrow as another day distinct from today: life then had been a dream, but not an ambitious one. She was still an achiever, still aiming for the title; but what title? Certainly not Lady Cruze. Editor of the
Examiner?
Yes, but Jack would not allow that for another ten years, if ever. She was on the Centre Court of Fleet Street with no racquet and no balls . . . That, of course, was the trouble. She would have had no problem if she had had balls.

“Cleo?”

“What? Oh sorry. I—I was thinking I might do a piece on Evonne.”

“Why not on the winner? Or are you being chauvinistic?” Then he pressed her hand. “I'm sorry, I'm rubbing it in.”

“Are you going to do a piece on Billie Jean?” She glanced up and saw a television cameraman, looking for reaction now the action on court was over, aiming his camera at her. Her first reaction was to smile: but she wasn't on
Scope
now.

“No, we have our own man here somewhere. I'm on vacation, like I told you. I go over to Germany tomorrow, to Heidelberg, to spend a few days with my uncle and aunt. Then I'm going down to Italy. I haven't been there since I was a kid, with my mother. Would you like to come with me?”

She saw the question was serious, but she managed to laugh it off. “My editor wouldn't give me the time off.” Neither would Jack, the boss.

They made their way through the crowd to the car park, not waiting to see the men's doubles. People recognized her and gave her hesitant friendly smiles, as if afraid of being rebuffed for their intrusion; she smiled back, liking the attention. She had geared the pace of her stride to that of his limp. Instinctively she walked on his stick side, as if to ward off people who might bump against him and whip the stick from under him. He had looked so handsome and young and alive when sitting beside her in the car, at lunch and in the tennis stadium. But now he was a young man with so much of his life behind him and the handsome
brow
was furrowed as if he felt vulnerable in the crowd.

“Dinner?” he said.

“Yes.” She almost said
Of course,
as if it were the most natural thing that they should finish the day in such a way. She had been surprised at how much she had enjoyed his company; she could not remember having given him a single thought since she had seen him last. But he made no demands on her, he was not possessive, he was just attentive and charming. And young. “There's a place called the White Tower—if we mention my name we might get in—”

“Your choice. I chose the restaurant in New York. How will eight o'clock do? This—” he tapped his leg “—gets a bit tired when I've been on it all day. I'll have a bath and a nap.”

They got out of the car and stood beside each other for a moment. She looked at him, grateful for the day, then she made one of her old affectionate gestures and touched him on the cheek. “It's been a lovely day.”

He smiled, kissed the back of her hand. “I'll pick you up at eight.”

Then he limped across to the Stafford. She watched him go, then went up to her flat. She opened the front door and went in and at once felt there was someone else there in the flat. It was a most peculiar feeling, like hearing a silent whisper in one's head.

“Jack?”

There was no answer and, when she went through the other rooms, no sign of anyone. She went back to the front door to check for marks, to see if someone had somehow forced their way in; there were no marks at all. She closed the door, locking it; then went through the flat again, checking if anything was missing; but nothing was. Finally she rang down to the hall porter.

“Mr. Bligh, has Lord Cruze returned?”

“Not as I know, miss. I was away for a coupla hours this afternoon, I just this minute got back—”

“Is anyone else in the building?”

“No, miss. Everyone's gone away for the weekend. You're the only one home.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bligh.”

She put down the phone, then dialled the penthouse number. She let the phone ring, but there
was
no answer. She replaced it, then dialled St. Aidan's House.

“Lord Cruze's residence.”

“Who's that?”

“It's the coachman. There's no one else here—”

“Tim, this is Miss Spearfield. Is Lord Cruze there?”

“No, miss. He's in America, isn't he?” His puzzlement was plain even over the phone. “I come up here today to do some work on the carriages, His Lordship wants to drive ‘em next weekend—”

She hung up, annoyed at herself for her unease. It was guilt she had felt, not a presence in the flat. She had wondered why Sid or Mrs. Cromwell hadn't answered the phone either in the penthouse flat or down at St. Aidan's House. Then she remembered that Sid had told her, when she had given him the day off, that he and the missus would go out to Chalfont St. Aidan and visit their son and daughter-in-law. They would stay at the big house tonight and come back to London tomorrow afternoon, if that was all right with her. His Lordship, Sid had said, would be in Monday and he'd be out at Heathrow to pick him up. All that had been in the back of her mind, like loose change in a purse, when she had come in the front door. But something, conscience or fear of Jack's finding out she had been with Alain, had warned her that she was not to take advantage of being unobserved.

She bathed, lay on her bed for a couple of hours, then got up and dressed. She made herself up even more carefully than she had this morning, chose her dress with an eye to what it would do for her figure; she was not going out tonight amongst older people, she would not be expected to be modest about what she had to show. The dress was the one she had worn to her first dinner party as hostess for Jack; she had not dressed for a date with such anticipation in far too long. It struck her that she had never had the opportunity to dress like this for a dinner with Tom.

Alain had kept the Daimler and the driver. He was waiting beside the car as the hall porter opened the front doors for Cleo. As she came down the steps to him he whistled softly. “As I used to say in my uncouth college days—wow-
eee
!”

Bligh had come down the steps to help them both into the car. He was an ex-army sergeant who had once known his way round a lot of women but was now confined to barracks by a commanding wife. Looking at Miss Spearfield he wished he was a young recruit again, a rich one. “Have a nice evening, miss.
You'
ve got your front door key? I go off this evening at ten.”

“Yes, thank you, Bligh.”

As they drove away Alain said, “You have a conquest back there. Hasn't he seen you dressed up like this before?”

If Bligh had, he'd kept his enthusiasm from showing. But then, dressed up, she had always been going out with His Lordship.

The White Tower was crowded, mostly, it seemed, with American film people. She recognized several whom she had interviewed and nodded to the wife of a director on whom she had based a column. The wife, with the wife of a writer, had founded the “You, too, Club” (“Will you come to dinner next week, Mr. X? Oh, and you, too, Mrs. X”); Cleo had written the column with some relish, working off the last of her resentment at being overshadowed. It had brought a flood of mail, all from women; and a sour question from Jack as to whether she now thought she was a spokesman (he wouldn't say spokeswoman or spokesperson) for some radical feminist group. The film director's wife gave her a wink and a wide smile, but it was difficult to tell whether she was still pleased about the column or whether she was complimenting Cleo on having a new, younger man for the evening. It occurred to Cleo that though all the other diners in the restaurant probably knew the Roux or Brisson name, none of them recognized Alain. He was heir to more money and lasting influence than any of them, but none of them knew him.

It was an enjoyable evening. Alain was charming and entertaining and discreetly revealing about the Brisson family; he was loyal to his mother, but he knew everyone was interested in her. Cleo, forgetting she was a columnist, listened avidly and with enjoyment; it was a pleasure to hear about another parish. She found her old affectionate gestures creeping back; she had, at Jack's jealous insistence, stopped touching other people. But twice during the evening she put a hand on Alain's to emphasize a point; the second time he turned his hand over under hers and she let her fingers entwine in his. When they walked out of the restaurant they were hand in hand.

Going home in the car she knew she would let him stay with her tonight if he suggested it. She had bathed in the freedom of the evening; there had been no bickering, no demanding, no jealousy. And she had been excited by the fact that he was
young:
despite his crippled leg he was in his animal prime, he was ripe with sexuality. She wanted to go to bed with him.

She
had put Jack out of her mind, no mean feat. But . . . “One thing I like about you, you haven't talked about other girls. You don't boast of your conquests, do you?”

“I try not to. What ever happens between me and a girl is something just between us.”

Good. Then Tom wouldn't know . . . “You haven't mentioned that girl, the blonde in New York—Joan someone-or-other?”

“Joan Temple. She's married and has a baby.” He had let her hand go as they had got into the car, but now he took it again. “No strings.”

She could take that any way she wanted: he had no strings tying him or there would be no strings attached to whatever happened tonight. She chose to take it the latter way. He would be gone tomorrow, to Heidelberg and his uncle and aunt, and she could make it her one and only fling since she had met Jack. A one night stand, good enough for a woman if it was good enough for a man.

In the narrow street between the hotel and the apartment building he dismissed the car and took her up the steps to the front doors. “I better see you up to your flat, if the porter's gone off duty.”

Going up in the lift he kissed her hand but made no attempt to embrace her. They were both confident now of what was going to happen, there was no need to rush things. But when she opened the front door of her flat he dropped his walking stick, put his arms round her and pulled her to him. She put her arms round his neck and pressed his face almost savagely against hers.

Then the light in the living-room was switched on.

VII

Jack Cruze had arrived in Charleston impatient to get his business done and be on the plane again for home. Perhaps because of his impatience he managed to convince himself that he was not suffering from jet lag; he got down to business immediately on arrival. He called Cleo late that evening and, as usual, woke her up in the early hours of the morning. As usual he was profuse in his apologies, but he knew he could not have waited another couple of hours to speak to her. He finished his business two days ahead of schedule, declined an invitation by his American associates to spend the weekend in the Carolina country; he decided he would not call Cleo but would surprise her by arriving home early. He did not realize that jealousy influenced him in not giving her any warning. He had no reason to suspect that she might see
another
man, but he wanted to be certain. He wore a hair-shirt with no more style than he did something from Turnbull and Asser.

He flew up from Charleston to New York, stayed the night there and flew out on an early morning flight for London. He arrived at Heathrow to find no Sid Cromwell though he had asked the airline to contact Sid and instruct him to be at the airport. He caught a taxi, the first time he had ridden in one in more years than he could remember, and his mood, which had grown worse across the Atlantic, was not improved by the garrulity of the taxi driver. When he arrived at St. James's Place he was tired to the point of exhaustion, deeply irritable and prey to thoughts as yet not clearly defined. He wanted to find Cleo waiting for him with open arms, then everything would be fine.

There was no Bligh on duty in the lobby; he had to let himself in with his own key. He dumped his bag in the lift and went up to Cleo's floor. There was no answer to his ring on her front door, so he found his key to the door and opened it. He went in, calling her name almost like a child coming home; but the flat was empty. He could feel rage welling up inside him, the unreasonable fury of someone who expected everything to be exactly as he desired it: the welcome mat out, the bed turned down, Cleo in place. He stamped out of the flat, slamming the door, and went up to the penthouse. His mood worsened even further when he found there was no Sid or Mrs. Cromwell there, that he was alone.

He took some aspirin for the headache that had taken hold of him after he had slammed out of Cleo's flat, lay down on his bed without turning back the silk coverlet and tried to fall asleep; but couldn't. He got up, wandered about the big bedroom, going to the window and looking out into Green Park, as if he might see Cleo walking there, feeling as lonely and neglected as he felt.

He turned back, saw the television set and switched it on. He had no interest in sport other than his horse shows; but Wimbledon was as much a social event as a sporting one; who knows, with that Goolagong girl playing today, perhaps Cleo had gone down to Wimbledon to wave her Aussie flag or do a piece on the aboriginal girl. If she was down there, it might please her if he could talk with her about the women's final, especially if Goolagong won.

But Goolagong hadn't won; the match was over. The camera was roving over the spectators; amongst the crowd he saw several men from the City and their wives. Then the camera paused, Cleo looked directly into it, straight at
him.
Then she turned away, smiled at the handsome young man who sat beside her
holding
her hand. The camera moved on, but Jack saw only a blur of colour, a screen full of distorted images, a writhing mangle of twisting lines like a coloured X-ray of guts in agony. He switched the set off with such fury that the knob came off in his hand.